Page 111 of The Pairing

I drift to the entrance hall, to the glossy marble sculpture of a topless woman reclining in a bed of flowing linens, apple in hand. I remember studying this one.Venus Victrix,the scandalous likeness of Pauline Bonaparte sculpted when her brother Napoleon married her off to a Borghese. She’s an interesting woman—one of the great luminaries of being slutty and French, and for that I admire her—but I’m still thinking of Theo. Of last night.

In my head, I retrace our steps since we first touched in Cinque Terre. The edge in Theo’s voice in Pisa when they agreed to keep hooking up, like they were throwing themself off some perilous ledge. The unknown emotion they fought in the grotto in Florence and their grip on my hair in the alley. The morning after in Chianti, that brash, invulnerable grin and their naked body in daylight, how they tried to protect themself with sex and jokes and then collapsed into me when they couldn’t anymore. The way they pulled me into their room and their bed last night. The bottle in their bag.

The truth is, I haven’t wanted to seriously consider what it all could mean. I’ve been so willing to believe that Theo would never want me back, because as long as I have nothing to hope for, Ihave nothing to lose. They can’t leave me again if I don’t expect them to stay.

But I’m beginning to think it could be possible. That there’s a chance Theo could still love me.

Theo might love me. Theo mightlove me.

The tour is almost over, and if there’s a chance Theo feels like I do, I can’t let them go home not knowing.

If Theo loves me, then—then that’s it for me. I want it all. I want to be with them for the rest of our lives, whatever that looks like, however they ask. I’d get it right this time, plan it out so they don’t have to give anything up to fit our lives together. I’ll never ask them to follow me anywhere again. I don’t expect them to leave California, and I definitely wouldn’t expect them to move to Paris. How could I, after everything? When it hasn’t even made me happy?

When it—

I stare at Pauline and repeat the thought, testing its weight.

It hasn’t made me happy.

I wish I could ask Pauline’s opinion. Does Paris make me happy? Did coming to Rome makeherhappy?

Of course it didn’t. She was happy in France, rouging her nipples and making love to men who weren’t her well-bred husbands, getting caught with her skirts up behind screens. She posed nude for this, the statue commissioned to announce her as a wife to Roman society, simply for the delicious thrill, and her husband hid it away in a crate in the attic.

I don’t think my life in Paris took my wonder from me, but I do sometimes feel like it’s stored in a crate in the attic. I could take it down. I could ship it somewhere else—somewhere Theo would like to be. They could help me pry off the lid. They’re so much better with tools.

Tonight, I tell myself, taking a deep breath. Tonight, after dinner, I’ll take Theo out for a drink, and I’ll tell them how I feel. I’ll ask them if they feel the same. And if they do, I’ll tell them I’ll gowherever they want.

“Theo,” I say, “I have a very important question for you.”

It’s night, and we’re in Trastevere with our bellies full of pasta, at a tiny café table in a pocket-sized alley, perusing the wine list under a curtain of ivy. Mostly, Theo’s perusing the wine list, and I’m reading the names of unfamiliar Italian appellations out loud just to hear Theo correct my pronunciation.

Theo lifts their stare from the menu, brows frozen in a studious furrow.

“Okay.”

“If you were a wine grape,” I say, “which grape would you be?”

They relax with a laugh. “Really? That’s your question.”

“You keep saying that every grape has its own characteristics and personality,” I say, “so, which one is most like you?”

They think about it. “I feel like I have to be a California white.”

“Well, you are a California white.”

“Very original joke from the southern French white.”

“Merci beaucoup.”

“And le fuck you too,” Theo says cheerfully. “I might be a Viognier.”

“I have to tell you, that sounds French.”

“It is, originally, but it’s grown in California too. Full-bodied, rich texture. It might sound weird, but it makes a kind of oily wine? And I think that suits me. Something with weight, that likes to sit there and hang out for a long time.”

“I can see that. What does it taste like?”

“Peach, mostly, but I also get tangerine and honeysuckle with it, and a lot of other florals. Which feels like me, I guess.”

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