Page 106 of The Pairing

“You were right,” I say. “I have a dream, and get so obsessively swept up in it that I can’t see anything else. I didn’t see you. I was treating your life as a problem to be solved, planning for the version of you in my head who wanted what I thought was best, and I was so sure I was right, I forgot I’d never even met that person. That’s the fucked-up part. I never loved the Theo who would have gone along for the ride. I’ve only ever loved you.”

I’ve done it again, forgotten to use the past tense when I say I love them. I wonder if Theo will notice this time.

“Yeah, that. ..” Theo says, their gaze far away. For a moment, I think I’ve been caught out, but then they say through a small, sad laugh, “Thatisfucked up.”

I laugh too, can’t help it. It comes out a sigh.

“If I haven’t said it,” I say, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done anything without you.”

Theo doesn’t say anything, but it’s a soft silence. They nod and turn their eyes back to the windshield, which gradually reveals the distant outskirts of Rome. Squat roadside bars, stucco apartments, pointy cypress trees. I watch them roll by, a strange feeling within my chest like the moment a bubbling pan of sugar resolves into caramel. Like relief, like a turning.

After half an hour, Theo lays their hand on mine. Half an hour after that, when we’ve made it to the city, they finally speak.

“I should have checked the bus schedule again this morning,” they say. “My bad.”

The bus is so far from my mind, this surprises a full-throated laugh out of me.

“I could have checked too,” I say.

Theo squeezes my hand.

“And to be fair,” they say as the truck trundles between Flaminio’s leafy pink and yellow houses, “thereweredays I wished I could just magically disappear all my problems and restart.”

“I think everyone probably wants that sometimes.”

“Now and then I still do,” they say. “But if I start life over, I want it to be mine.”

I nod. “I know.”

Signora Lucia brings us to a bus stop on the edge of a piazza, across from the market where the tour group should be having lunch. We tell her “Grazie mille, grazie mille” over and over until she waves us off, and then we’re running.

When we were young, Theo would get so angry when we raced each other. We’re both fast, and Theo has always had power and defiance on their side, but I have longer strides and better reflexes. They were always one step behind.

Now, as we run across the piazza, I fall back. Theo advances at a thunderous clip, as if they could be unsheathing a sword instead of pulling their phone from their hip pack, hot Roman sun flashing off their hair like laurels on a gladiator. They’re so gorgeous from this new angle.

They glance over their shoulder to find me one step behind them, and something blooms on their face. They turn away before I can name it.

Fabrizio scoops us up in breathless relief outside Antico Forno Roscioli as the group finishes lunch. The blessed Calums have saved us a few squares of crusty pizza topped with dollops of pesto and half of a sour cherry crostata, which we eat in big, messy bites washed down with the dregs of Stig’s lukewarm Peroni. It was close, but we made it.

Six at a time, we’re divided into groups, passed off to a grinning driver with a shiny helmet dangling from their fingers, and led away from the market to join our Vespa fleets. Theo and I are among the last to be assigned, but no driver appears. Instead, Fabrizio gives us a vigorous smile and says, “Amici, you come with me!”

Around the corner, we’re awaited by a group of drivers and a line of vintage Vespas in a rainbow of pastels like a box of assorted Parisian macarons. A handsome middle-aged man wearing fingerless riding gloves shouts a joyous greeting to Fabrizio and kisses him hard on the side of his golden face. I’m beginning to suspect there’s someone in love with Fabrizio in every city on this tour.

“This is Angelo!” Fabrizio tells us. “When I first come to Roma, he gave me my first job driving on this Vespa tour when I was only eighteen. I learn everything I know from him.” He turns to Angelo. “And I was your favorite driver, no?”

“Sì,” Angelo says. “All the girls want to take the tour when they see you. Very good for business.”

“And now,” Fabrizio says, “when my tours visit Roma, I bring them to you. And as a special treat, you let me drive like the old days, sì?”

Each rider pairs with a driver—two honeymooners with twosturdy older men almost identical to Lars, Stig with a tiny woman who wears a lot of nose rings and has to stand on her seat to jam the helmet onto his head, Dakota with Angelo. I count the scooters and come up one short. All that remains for Theo and me is a single canary-yellow Vespa with a matching sidecar.

“Fabrizio, no,” Theo says as they realize what’s about to happen.

“Fabrizio, sì!” Fabrizio replies, holding out a helmet for each of us. “One of you will ride in the sidecar, and one of you will sit behind me. Like this!”

He points to Dakota straddling the Vespa seat behind Angelo, her thighs pressed against his and her arms around his middle. One of us will be doing that with Fabrizio while the other squats in the sidecar like a picture-book dog with goggles on.

Theo plonks their helmet onto their head and turns to me. “Should we flip a coin?”

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