Page 31 of One True Loves

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, my tone sharp. Everything he says feels like a little dig at me, and it’s making my whole body feel tense. Like I have to be ready to fight.

“Shit. I’m sorry,” he says, and he actually looks contrite. It catches me off guard. “I don’t know why things keep coming out wrong when I talk to you.”

“Yeah, I don’t know why either,” I say, but the words have less bite than before.

“It’s just...” He gestures to me. “You seem like someone who makes art, doesn’t just study it. And before you bite my head off, that’s firmly, unambiguously a compliment.” I try to hold in my smile again, but the right side of my mouth is a traitor. “Also I was watching you and you looked bored out of your mind at the Palazzo, with all that art there...”

“You were watching me? Okay, creeper.”

“Not like that,” he sighs. “Whatever.” I can see he’s considering giving up on this conversation. And even though that was all I wanted a moment ago, now I want to keep it going. The jet lag must be making me loopy.

“Maybe I want to study a different type of art. You know, there are plenty of scholars in European art already, and someone needs to study all the other contributions.” But I know that’s not it. I’m parroting the suggestions my parents brought up before. “And Idomake art—painting and illustration andfashion design. I’m good at all of it, too. Really good. I actually just graduated from this exclusive arts high school, and I dipped into most of the conservatories there.” I take a deep breath and decide to take it a little further, be a little more real. After all, I’m never going to see this guy again after this trip. “But I don’t know... I’m not sure what feels right. What my real passion is, for the rest of my life.”

He raises his eyebrows, surprised that I’m choosing to say more than a few sentences to him. “I don’t know if it needs to be all that, though. Maybe you’re making it harder than it has to be? It’s just a major.” My mind flashes to what Wally said yesterday at dinner, and it stings. Maybe this was a mistake.

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Ten-Year Plan.”

“Yeah, I know what I want to do,” he says with a shrug and a sarcastic smile. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“Even if you’re right, you don’t have to be so irritating about it.” I roll my eyes and find myself returning his smile. “You’ve found your passion. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“My passion?” He lets out a laugh with his head back and slaps his knee. “Biology isn’t my passion. I don’t even know if being a doctor will be. My passion is having job stability and being able to pay a mortgage.”

I bite my lip. “Yeah, well, I don’t want to settle for something that just pays the bills. That seems like a depressing way to live my whole life.”

“Hey, not everyone who doesn’t want to pursue art is some unenlightened, repressed pod person.”

I gesture to him like he did to me before. “Ha! Could have fooled me.”

“Well... okay then.” His voice is small, and he looks down at his hands, like he’s offended or something.

And I’m confused. I thought this was hate-fueled (or at least strong-dislike-fueled) banter. Like we can’treallyhurt each other because we’d have to like each other first to even care what the other person is saying. And I definitely can’t hurt him because it’s so clear he doesn’t respect me. But Alex looks wounded by my stupid joke.

Am I just projecting my own shit on him? Making him out to be the villain because I’m stressed out about my drama?

“Anyway, my parents want me to be more like you,” I venture again, unsteadily. “They actually gave me until the end of this trip to figure it out. Pick something to study, a whole damn life path, and stick with it.”

He looks up. “The end ofthistrip?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.” He runs his hand through his curls, and I try not to think about what they feel like. “So are you making any progress?”

“No!” I side-eye him. “It’s day two, man!”

He laughs, and his leg bumps into mine again, just like in the car. I turn away because I definitely can’t take looking him in the eye when that happens, and I see Dr. Lee at the front of the stage, being twirled around by Angelo while my parents, Mr. Lee, and that whole group of lavender-clad tourists clap.

“God, were we switched at birth or some shit?”

He covers his face, his cheeks red. “I mean, you can have her if you want her.”

After the Teatro, Angelo takes us to a café for lunch. We sit outside on the patio, eating plate after plate that Angelo orders with expertise—thick bread studded with plump tomatoes and onions, salad with fried eggplants, and bowls of pasta topped with cheese and sardines. After dessert (cake with dark chocolate and hazelnut), I’m ready to roll out of there, but my parents and the Lees are calling for another glass of wine, laughing and telling Angelo stories about their wild night last night. It feels like Alex, Etta, and I are the parents chaperoning our giddy teenagers.

“You ready to go? I think there’s still time to visit that cathedral before we have to get back on the boat,” Alex says, obviously on the same wavelength as me. Though a quiet church might not be the best place to bring this bunch.

“Why don’t you kids go explore?” Mr. Lee says, watching with amusement as his wife fills his glass to the very top.

“Yes, meet us back here in an hour,” Dad chimes in, as if he wasn’t just nervous about me walking around a theater an hour ago. “It’ll be fun.”

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