Page 1 of The Art of Exiley

1

It figures that when I’m finally chosen for something, it’s to be kidnapped.

I’m trapped in a box. My knees are pulled to my chest, my whole left side numb from lying here for so long. My head throbs from the blow that knocked me out earlier, and metal gloves restrain my hands behind my back, painfully burning my skin. The burning subsides when I relax, but that’s difficult under the circumstances. If I ever get out of here—please, please let me get out of here—I expect to find my palms burned and blistered like over-grilled cheese.

A sob escapes, and in the cramped space, there’s no room for my breath to go except back to me, warm and cloying against my cheek. Strands of my wavy brown hair stick to my face and tickle my eyes, forcing me to keep them shut.

Maybe if I’d received some training before this ill-fated trip, I’d know what to do. Instead, I’m utterly helpless.

I have no idea what’s going to happen to me.

The allegro of my heart beats faster, and my throat tightens. My palms prickle with a familiar warmth.No.

Breathe. Don’t panic.

I had a glass of wine before I was taken, which, at first, helped subdue my hysteria. But now it’s worn off and traveled from my head to my bladder, where it sits with an uncomfortable, building pressure. I won’t be able to hold it in for much longer.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Think of puppies and guys with dimples.

I was with a guy with dimples when I was captured. A guy who is clearly not who he seemed to be.

Tsss.I gasp as the glove scorches the flesh of my palm near the base of my thumb.

Don’t think about him.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Don’t panic.

Who knows how many hours earlier…

When I was planning my trip to Italy, I daydreamed about falling for an Italian, so this should be no surprise. However, I hadn’t expected him to be over five hundred years old. I also hadn’t expected to cry. Yet here come the tears, blurring my vision as I look up at him.

David.

The veins in his hand pulse with tension. I can almost feel him breathe, can almost see the blood orchestrating the life under his skin of cold, hard marble as he prepares to face his much stronger foe. I’ve heard his expression described as determined, but as his gaze bores into me now, it seems more… unsure, self-conscious.

Same, babe. Same.

I can’t believe I almost skipped coming to the Accademia Gallery whereMichelangelo’sDavidstands ready to sweep unsuspecting tourists off their feet.

I’ve seen enough naked male bodies (only one and a half up close and personal, but who’s counting) to realize how incredibly lifelike he is. Though I haven’t ever seen, uh, anyone uncircumcised, so I can’t comment on that particular bit of artistry. Not that I’m looking.

But the fact that a person could hew this man out of stone absolutely boggles my mind.

My dad often quotes that “Man was created in the image of God.” Having a Jewish father, an agnostic mother, and a Catholic grandfather, I’ve always found the concept of “god” to be pretty abstract. But for the first time, I maybe understand what that quote means. The ability to create something as beautiful asDavid, to craft flesh and bone from mere marble, is surely some kind of divinity.

But this realization of the heights of human potential kinda sucks.

Because how do I usemypotential?

This question settles over me, and for a moment I hate myself. For every unfinished painting, every half-written song, every abandoned story. Every attempt that was never quite good enough. Even this trip, which is almost over, and I have yet to accomplish what I was sent to do. I’d come knowing it was a long shot, finding one man in all of Florence, but I’d hoped to finally prove myself to my family. And the door’s about to close on my one and only chance to do so.

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