Page 5 of The Art of Exiley

Michael leaves a jangle of coins for each busker before we move on. I like that. I like a lot of things about him.

When we’re not talking, there’s a comfortable quiet between us that buzzes with possibility. I watch his hand, which swings beside mine. It’s constantly animated, stretching, tapping, emphasizing his words. If I shift just a little, our hands would inevitably brush against each other the next time he swings his arm. I imagine the thrill of the contact, but I don’t step closer.

We arrive at the restaurant, and it’s crowded with people enjoying their meals, nursing glasses of wine and plates of decadent carbohydrates. The room is small and echoes with the sounds of live piano. Really good piano. I breathe in the smells of crusty bread, simmering sauces, and melting wax.

Michael is familiar with the necessary choreography to get us a cozy, candlelit table with a bench facing the music. He slides in next to me and asks me if I want anything to eat or just a drink.

“Just a glass of red wine,” I say, trying to sound like the type of girl who might actually have a preference between red and white grape water. It must work well enough because no one asks to see my ID.

While we wait for our drinks, Michael asks, “What instrument do you play?”

“How do you know I play an instrument?”

“I can tell,” he says. “I have a sixth sense when it comes to pretty musicians.” Grin. Dimple. Eyebrow raise. His eyebrows have more expression than my entire face. “Also, you’re tapping your fingers along with the music in a very telling way.”

My cheeks warm. “I play guitar, but I’m hardly a musician. I’m really bad at it.” Despite growing up surrounded by multiple musicians, this is true. I’m even worse at the other instruments I’ve dabbled with. I try to hold off the descending wave of mediocrity and focus instead on the part where he called me pretty.

“I play guitar too,” he says.

“Yeah, I had a feeling.” His hand is resting on the table next to mine, and deciding to be bold, I trace the callouses along the tips of his fingers. The kind earned by the intimacy of stringed instruments.

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’m… not bad at it.”

“I bet.” Who knew I had a thing for Adam’s apples? I very much do.

My fingertips are still touching his, and he gently twines our fingers together. His hand is strong and warm, and everywhere our skin touches feels sensitive, like the nerves are directly connected to my tightening belly.

The waiter arrives with our wine, and Michael raises his glass while keeping one hand linked with mine. “To seeing the true potential despite the flaws.” We clink our glasses. In the candlelight, his brown eyes look almost amber from beneath his thick, long lashes. His thumb is tracing circles on my palm, spreading heat along my skin. My breathing starts to go wonky.

It feels a little too intense, so I pull my hand away. I also instinctively work to calm the tingling sensation in my hands. The tingling is something that often happens when I’m nervous or excited, but I don’t want to worry about that right now, even though it has everything to do with why I’m in Florence in the first place.

I take a sip of wine. It’s tart and, honestly, not very tasty. But definitely better than the craft beer that Kor likes (and that I pretend to like to impress him). I take another sip and feel it warm my empty stomach and my excited nerves.

“You seem really familiar with the area,” I say to Michael. “Do you live here?”

“No. I live quite far away.” He doesn’t elaborate, and his expression tells me I have reason to be curious.

“Where’s far away?”

“I doubt you’ve heard of it,” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Why is he being cagey?

The gemstone in his earring glitters in the candlelight, and I feel a fizzing in my blood, a return of that nagging feeling from earlier. He approached me first. He won’t tell me where he’s from. He knows more about Renaissance history than the average college guy.

No. I’m being silly. He asked me out because I shamelessly flirted with him. Do I really find it so hard to believe someone would want to go out with me without ulterior motives?

“What about you? Where are you from?” Michael asks, diverting the attention away from himself.

I shake off the feeling that this is anything other than what it is. “New York City,” I respond, and take another sip of wine. “How did you know about this place?” Maybe it’s the alcohol in my blood that encourages me toshift closer to be heard over the rising noise in the room, so close our thighs press together.

Michael leans even closer to answer. His breath tickles my ear. “I’ve been coming here for the pianist. We’re considering recruiting him to the school where I work.” His nose is so close that it brushes against my cheek. But I don’t respond to the physical touch because I’m confused by what he’s said.

Recruiting for a school? It’s too much of a coincidence.

But also, if he’s not a college student, how old is this guy?

I’d assumed around nineteen. The fact that he was clearly older than me had felt exciting, but how much older is he actually? I try not to stare as I reassess. Full head of dark hair. Crinkles around his eyes, but only because he’s smiling. There’s certainly a maturity about him that I hadn’t noted before. Suddenly, he seems kind of ageless, and I feel panicky. How old does he think I am? Will it matter? I really don’t want to ruin this.

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