Page 18 of One True Loves

Luckily, though, Mom steps in and takes my side instead of marveling at her genius child. “This all sounds really enjoyable, baby,” she says, squeezing Etta’s shoulders. “But I would be just as happy to walk around and take it all in. I think all of us would, especially with the jet lag. Maybe you can narrow down your list, help us make a compromise?”

“Perhaps,” Etta huffs.

“Perhaps you better,” I say.

She shakes her head at us, no doubt lamenting what unrefined plebeians she has to put up with, and then buries her face back in her map.

“Thank you,” Mom says with a smile. She grabs Dad’s hand and leans into him, her eyes wide and dreamy as she looks around. “It’s so beautiful, isn’t it? I was worried it wouldn’t live up to my expectations, after imagining being here for so long.But this place really is special.”

It was Mom’s idea to take this trip. She has never been to Europe before—none of us have. But Grandma Lenore told me that when Mom was little, she used to cover her walls with pictures torn out ofSunsetmagazine and maps and old posters that their travel agent neighbor would give her. She talked and talked about all the places she would go. Of course, Grandma and Grandpa couldn’t afford all that when Mom was young, and then there was college and grad school and a mortgage and some kids. But somehow, even with all their bills and impending college tuition, Mom and Dad made this trip happen. And this cruise around the Mediterranean makes it so Mom can see the countries she’s always dreamed about. She probably would have been content backpacking or hopping cheap trains from country to country, but Dad wouldn’t play with that. He won’t even let us go camping, because like he’ll tell you when he goes on one of his rants, “Why am I going to sleep in the dirt and call it vacation?” And honestly, I agree.

Looking at Mom now, I can almost see that little girl looking out into the big world. I hold up my camera that’s hanging around my neck and snap a quick picture of her. The loud flash makes her jump, but then she winks at me.

“I’ve always loved seeing you with that camera,” she says, and it makes me feel warm inside. But then Dad nods at it and says, “That could be a good major, huh? And it’s practical. You could do weddings and family photos on the weekend, to have a steady income.”

And then the warm feeling is gone.

“Sure,” I say. I nudge Etta’s shoulder. “You ready yet?” She peeks over the map at me to roll her eyes. “And where’s Wally?” I ask, turning Mom and Dad. He didn’t meet us in the lobby for the breakfast buffet, but I thought he would turn up by now.

“Oh, he’s not coming,” Mom says, the smile on her face a little strained.

“What?” I ask, immediately irritated.

“He says he’s jet-lagged and was up all night,” Mom explains. “Told us to go on without him.”

“He needs to drink some coffee or something, then!” I say. “This is our only day in Rome, and he’s going to spend it lying around! That’s stupid.”

“Cut him some slack,” Dad says. “He’s had a difficult year. It’s not easy managing your senior year of college, all while studying for the LSAT and completing three separate internships. Your brother has earned the right to be tired.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

I think that’s a stupid reason to miss a once-in-a-lifetime trip that my parents paid basically a million dollars for, but I don’t want to push it in case Dad steers the conversation back to my academics. Maybe Wally’s talking to Kieran, working all this out.

And hey, I’m in Rome! This is probably the most exciting trip I’ll ever go on, and I refuse to let Wally’s annoying attitude ruin it for me.

But approximately thirty-seven hours later (really morelike six, but it just feels like it), I’m a little less excited. We’ve tweaked our necks staring at the ceiling of St. Peter’s Basilica, fought through crowds in the burning-hot sun at the Colosseum, and successfully talked Dad out of buying us all matching “Rome took a pizza my heart” T-shirts. And now I’m about ready to collapse on the Spanish Steps with hazelnut gelato on an IV drip. But I don’t even think I could make it up them because my heels are bloody thanks to these stupid, beautiful gladiator sandals I wore due to my weakness for themes. And my ankles are swollen because cobblestone streets are charming as fuck but I can’t see what their actual purpose is, outside of causing me to roll my ankles.

I’m done.

I’m grateful!

(Unlike Wally!!!)

But I’m done.

Luckily, the last stop of Etta’s condensed, but still way too long, itinerary is the Trevi Fountain. I thought we got here earlier, but it was some other fancy fountain. There are a lot of fancy fountains in Rome.

Less lucky, however, is that this place is super crowded, like everywhere else we’ve been today. I can barely move without catching someone’s selfie stick to the shoulder or grazing someone else’s disgusting sweaty limbs.

How am I ever going to get close enough to seal my romantic future with a coin toss and/or just throw Tessa a bone?

“Oh, we have to take a picture here. I need a new profilepic!” Dad says, pulling out his phone. “You scout a spot, Lenore. You’re our expert photographer.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes at that, and I do what he says, searching for an opening closer to the fountain so you can see that instead of a sea of cargo shorts and Skechers. But instead of a photo spot, my eyes zero in on a boy.

He stands out. First, because there aren’t a lot of Black people around here (my dad’s only given The Nod once today to another family waiting in line to buy water outside the Colosseum). But also because he’s gorgeous. Like so gorgeous that my heart skips a beat. Or at least it would if my body did corny shit like that.

He has high cheekbones, and thick tortoiseshell sunglasses sit on top of his wide nose. His skin is coffee with a dash of cream. And his hair is cut close on the sides, with a jet-black cloud of curls on top, falling into his eyes. He has on tight cutoff shorts, a black button-up with a pattern of silhouettes, and white Jack Purcells.

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