Page 57 of One True Loves

I fan them out now in front of Alex. My mom staring up in awe at massive columns. Etta studying her massive guidebook with glee in the Foro while a sea of tourists maneuver around her. Dr. Lee laughing at a dirty picture she saw on the wall in the Lupanare, Pompeii’s brothel—it’s the same head-falling-back laugh that I love from Alex.

“These are really cool,” Alex says, thumbing through them. “I mean, obviously I’m just a passionless pod person here, sotake my opinion with a grain of salt—”

“Oh, he’s got jokes!”

“—but I like seeing the wayyousee the world. It’s very specific, you know, so clearly a product of your mind. I feel like you can tell how... curious you are through your pictures. If that makes any sense. It makes me want to see the rest of your art because I’m sure it’s all the same way.”

There he goes being all unreal and dreamy again. I lean forward to kiss him, soft and tender. We melt into each other as the rest of our gelato melts in our hands.

“Is this what we’re doing for the next hour, until we have to meet up with everyone?” I say, breaking away finally. “Because I would be okay with that.”

“Actually, there’s somewhere I wanted to take you.” He steals one more kiss. “Etta let me read one of her travel guides.”

“Oh, no? Are we going to some tomb? Or to a museum with one of those audio guides? I don’t trust those things! You don’t know what kind of ear dirt the people that used them before had.”

“You know, that was the first option, but I, too, was concerned about the widespread ear dirt problem.” He stands up, pulling me with him with our interlaced hands. “Come on. I think you’re going to like it.”

He checks something on his phone, and then leads me up a street away from the church, past souvenir shops selling Italian flag bandanas and sparkly pizza Christmas ornaments. We reach a corner store, and I think we’re surely going to duck in for thecarbonara-flavored chips Alex mentioned being on the lookout for, but instead we turn down a dark alleyway. There’s no one here, and I think I know where this is heading, so I stop against one of the graffiti-covered walls, pulling his close to me.

“Oh, plot twist, it was a fake-out, and wearegoing to make out until we have to meet up with them,” I say, kissing his neck. “I love it.”

He kisses me back, and a little moan escapes from his throat as he stops, the tips of our noses touching. “No, it’s real, and as much as it pains me to admit, it’s right here.”

He gestures to a little shop nearby, with bright-colored tapestries hanging in the big windows, and I realize with embarrassment that anyone inside could totally see me and Alex making out.

“And what’sitexactly?” I ask.

“Well, this woman is known for doing these huge embroidered self-portraits. They’re really beautiful. You’re gonna love them,” he says. “But there are a whole bunch of these artisan studios, tucked away kinda secret like this, all throughout Naples. I read about them in Etta’s book and mapped out a few. I was thinking you might like to explore a few of them.”

For a second I’m a little stunned because there is honestly nothing I’d like to do more (except make out with Alex, of course). How did he plan something so... me? How does he know what’s so me in such a short time?

“Oh, I would love that,” I say, and he beams, all proud. I want to pinch his cheeks, he’s so cute.

We spend the next hour walking down windy streets and ducking into tiny shops and studios. There’s one place that has a whole wall covered in golden masks, and another woman who makes statement earrings and headpieces out of coral. We’re in a ceramic shop, admiring a display of hanging, shiny balloons in a pastel rainbow of colors, when Alex squeezes my hand and rests his chin on my shoulder.

“Maybe this could be you someday,” he whispers. “With a shop like this, a workplace in the back.”

I shrug. “They’re different than me.”

He looks confused. “They’re artists. You’re an artist.”

“Yeah, I know I am. I’ve always been. It’s not like I need someone to validate that for me.”

He nods. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“But they’re artists in a different way,” I continue. “Like... established. They have a specialty. They have... I don’t know,a long-term lease, probably.Their whole lives are committed to this one thing, and as my parents have made so glaringly clear, I’m lacking in the commitment area.”

“You’ve been making art since you were a kid. That seems pretty committed to me. You’ll get here,” he says, gesturing around the whimsical store. “And even if it’s not just one thing, maybe that’syourthing, you know? And that’s a completely valid way of being, too, no matter what your parents say.”

And there he goes again, saying just the right thing and making my heart grow three sizes, like I’m the Grinch of love or something.

I pat his back, cup his face and move it from side to side, examining his neck.

“What are you doing?” he asks, looking alarmed.

“Just checking for the power button, maybe some screws in your neck, like my guy Frankenstein.”

“And why are you doing that? Also, I’m pretty sure it was the doctor who was called Frankenstein.”

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