When In Rome...Lose Control: Cynthia's Story Read online

  He just shook his head, smiling that little smile he had, the one that made a dimple sink into his cheek. He was just cute enough to make flirting fun, to make her feel like someday, when they’d had all their fun and dated everyone they wanted to date, maybe they’d end up together. And he was a good enough friend that she didn’t want to ruin things, in case they didn’t work out. She’d made that mistake once, and once was enough.

  In high school, she’d developed a long, slow crush on a guy in her AP classes. They’d been school friends, not best friends, but still. When they’d hooked up—the first time for both of them—she’d been sure he liked her back. But afterwards, he’d suddenly found it impossible to meet her eye. She’d tried to talk to him for a few days, but he practically ran when he saw her coming. When she finally cornered him, he made a dozen lame excuses as to why they couldn’t date. After that, she’d been too humiliated to speak to him again. Unfortunately, Springdale High was small enough that she’d had a dozen classes with him for the next two years, each one as painfully awkward as the last.

  She and Nick were much better friends, but then, that would make it that much worse. When she’d started dating in college, she’d made sure the guys all had two things in common—she didn’t have to see them every day, or ever, if she didn’t want to, and she wouldn’t be broken hearted if they dumped her. Not that her high school crush had broken her heart. But he’d definitely taught her not to mix dating with friendship.

  In the future, maybe she could have more with Nick, but what was the rush? Unlike Maggie, she wasn’t anywhere near wanting to get married. Nick was the perfect friend to see the world with. One day, if they did get married, they’d have all these memories together. And if they didn’t, they’d still be friends, and they could reminisce when they got their families together for New Year’s, or whenever old married couples got together. For now, she wanted to be a young, single girl and not worry about those things.

  That afternoon, they had lunch with the girls, and Kristina told them about her boy drama, which turned out to be just a text from her ex. It seemed a bit excessive to send a 911 text—or several—but Cynthia hadn’t been friends with Maggie and Kristina long enough to know if that was the norm for her. They’d only been hanging out the last semester or so. After lunch, they went shopping and made plans to see Milan the next day. It wasn’t on Cynthia’s planner, but impromptu sightseeing was even better than the planned kind. And Rory ended up joining them, along with her friend who’d been in Italy for a few months.

  The next day, they went to Milan where they did more shopping, ate at a pizza place, and walked around looking at the city. It was the only day they’d go there, so they spent the entire day in the city, lingering until evening. They sat at a fountain in a plaza and ate gelato as the sun went down. The city felt ancient, the golden sun of late afternoon glancing off the stained glass windows of a church on one side of the plaza, the cobblestones that made up the plaza seeming to emanate their own warm glow as the sun sank lower and lower over the buildings.

  “How you doing?” Nick asked, scooting over to sit close, his arm brushing hers.

  “A little homesick,” she admitted. “My mom would love this.”

  “She’s here in spirit,” Nick said, slipping an arm around her shoulders and giving her a quick squeeze before retreating to his own space. She wished he’d leave his arm around her. She looked around at all her friends, all of them alone, too, and it made her feel more alone instead of less so. She snuggled up to Nick, and he looked at her in surprise, then gave her that adorable smile and slid his arm back around her shoulders, where it belonged.

  “Thanks,” she said, her fingers closing around the globe necklace her mom had given her at the airport. “You always know what to say.”

  “Hardly,” he said with a little snort of breath.

  Cynthia sighed and closed her eyes, letting the last of the sun’s light warm her face before it slipped away. She leaned her cheek on Nick’s strong shoulder, and he pulled her a little closer. As she sank into a peaceful reverie, his fingers brushed her cheek. Her eyes flew open and she sat back, laughing a little. He was looking at her in a way that unsettled her. And he’d touched her face. Had he been about to kiss her?

  She stood and tugged her belt straight. “Y’all ready to head back?” she asked. She could feel Nick still looking at her, but she didn’t return his gaze. He’d just crossed the delicate but firm line between flirting and serious, violating some unspoken agreement between them. For it to work, he could dance right up to the line, but never step across. And if he messed it up now, the whole trip would be awkward. She couldn’t believe he’d done that, and so early in the trip, where if she said something, it could ruin the next five weeks for both of them.

  On the bus ride home, she sat with Kristina and listened to her gush about her new Italian guy. That’s what Cynthia wanted—the exhilarating, terrifying rush of new love, of getting to know a perfect stranger, being swept off her feet and not being able to think or talk about anything else. By the time they got back to Rome, Kristina’s excitement had charged her again, and she was gleaming with anticipation for the next time they’d go out dancing and she could spend more time with Armani’s friends and choose one for her summer fling.

  Chapter Four

  When Cynthia was leaving class on Monday, she saw a text from her mom, which was weird, because her mom always emailed. They had agreed that it would be too expensive to change her phone to an international plan like all her friends had done. But there was the text, ominously brief and vague.

  Call me.

  No explanation, no time frame. A weird feeling came over Cynthia as she stood holding her phone. What if her mom was hurt? What if she’d fallen and broken her leg or something, and was stuck in her apartment? But no, that was silly. Her mom would call an ambulance, not her daughter. Maybe she’d been in an accident, though. Maybe she was already at the hospital.

  Maggie offered her phone, and Cynthia snatched it out of her hand in her anxiety. She didn’t stop to apologize, just dialed in her mom’s number, which she knew by heart, though she didn’t know a single other person’s phone number.

  “Hello?” her mother asked.

  “Mom, it’s me,” Cynthia said. “I’m calling from Maggie’s phone.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” her mom said.

  “Are you okay? I’m freaking out.”

  “I’m fine,” her mother said quickly. “But, I don’t know how to say this. Something’s happened.”

  “Oh my God, I knew it,” Cynthia said. “What happened? How bad are you hurt?”

  “Not me, sweetie. Your father.”

  “Oh.” A short silence fell while Cynthia absorbed this new information. She knew her relief was wrong, but there it was. Her mother was safe, and she was glad, as selfish as that was.

  “I’m sorry,” her mom said.

  “How bad is it this time?”

  “He…he didn’t make it.”

  “Wait, what? He’s dead?” She’d imagined something less severe, less permanent. Like he’d OD’d again, or gotten stabbed in a knife fight or gotten arrested after another fist fight. These things happened to men like her father. Tough guys who were always getting a tooth knocked out here and a bone broken there. But in a way, his resilience made him even more indestructible. Sure, he might wind up in jail for a night or a year, but he always came home. Sure, he might end up in the hospital for a night or rehab for a month, but he always came back. Sure, they might have a broken relationship, but there was always time to repair it.

  “Say something,” her mother said. “Are you still there?”

  “I don’t know,” Cynthia said. “What happened?”

  “He was working on his car,” her mother said. “It…fell on him.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  Cynthia’s head was bursting with thoughts and questions, but she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
Her hearing seemed to fade in and out as her mother explained.

  Silence rang in Cynthia’s ears suddenly. “Huh?” she asked.

  “I know it’s a lot to take in,” her mother said. “But if you could let me know what you want to do…”

  “Do? Oh—right.” Cynthia’s friends were clustered on the sidewalk a little way off, glancing over at her now and then. “What should I do?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” her mom said. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. You’re going to have to make this decision on your own. Think about your options, okay? And email me tomorrow.”

  Cynthia could not make this decision. Not now, and maybe not in one night. She didn’t want to have to make it. It was worse than when her mother made her decide whether to keep her dad in her life. Back then, there was always time for him to change, time for him to apologize, time for her to forgive. There was always time for her to see him later, to hope that he’d clean up and act like a dad. Now, there was no time left. He hadn’t cleaned up, or acted like a dad, or apologized for being a bad one. And she’d never forgiven him.

  “What happened?” someone asked—maybe Maggie, maybe Kristina—when she rejoined her friends.

  She handed the phone to Maggie. “My dad died.”

  “Oh my God,” Kristina said.

  “Yeah.”

  Maggie asked if she wanted to come over and talk about it, but she shook her head.

  Kristina asked if she wanted to come over and get her mind off things, which sounded a little better. But all she really wanted was to be alone. She had a lot of very big decisions to make in a very short amount of time. After assuring them she was okay and saying goodbye, she turned and started off towards her flat, which was within walking distance. Nick caught up with her a few seconds later.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Really.”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t have to walk me home.”

  “I know,” he said again. “It’s on my way. But I’ll hang back if you want to be alone.”

  “Whatever,” she said with a shrug. “Either way. I don’t care.”

  He walked beside her for a minute, but then she felt like he expected her to make conversation, or tell him what happened. She picked up her pace, and when she slowed at a corner, she saw that he’d dropped back to let her walk alone. Once she saw that he’d left her alone, she wanted him to be there, not leaving her alone.

  He caught up just as the light changed. “Go on,” he said. “I’ll wait for the next light.”

  “No, it’s okay,” she said. “Walk with me.”

  They crossed and continued in silence until they turned onto her street. “Want me to come in?” Nick asked when she stopped in front of the building.

  “Yes,” she said. “And no. I don’t know.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Then I’ll walk home, and you can email me if you want me to come back. How’s that?”

  “Okay. And thanks.” She gave him a quick, one-armed hug and turned to go inside.

  The flat was bright and empty, like usual. Cynthia stood at the island in the kitchen, the sunlight slanting in the window and falling on the clean surface. No note, no trinkets or dishes or bills or basket of fruit, like at her mom’s. She set down her bag, walked to her room, and sat on the bed. After less than a minute, she stood and paced around her room. Then she sat again, then stood and went back to the kitchen. She went to the door, turned and went back to her room, then to the door again. She stepped outside and looked in both directions.

  A cat sat on the sidewalk half a block away, watching her. Beyond it, she could see the form of a man walking away. She pulled the door closed, locked it, and jogged to catch up with Nick.

  “Hey,” she called, out of breath, when she was half a block away. He stopped and turned, waiting until she caught up. “Thanks,” she said.

  “No worries.”

  They passed the little café where they’d had breakfast, then the Roman version of a convenience store, which was similar to the American version but opened onto the street from the side of a building instead of standing alone. It lacked gas pumps out front, but the contents were similar—sodas, chips, chocolate and other junk food, and drinks.

  “Hold on,” Cynthia said, grabbing Nick’s elbow. “Let’s back up a few steps.”

  He followed her into the store, where she selected a liter bottle of beer and one of peach Bellini. “Thirsty?” Nick asked.

  “A little bit.”

  “We’re going to drink all that?”

  “We? Who said anything about you? This is for me.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Don’t judge,” she said. “Your dad’s still alive.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Want anything?”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Yes, you should,” she said, selecting another bottle of beer. “Don’t make me drink alone.”

  “Okay.” He reached for his wallet, but she hip-checked him and slid her money across the counter.

  “I’m paying,” she said. “That way I’ll feel okay about forcing you to drink. I know you don’t drink.”

  He shrugged. “When in Rome.”

  Outside, Cynthia twisted the cap off the bottle of Bellini and took a swig. If Maggie was there, she’d say Cynthia looked like a tourist, which was just another way of saying she looked trashy. She didn’t like when Kristina drank on the street, either. But Maggie wasn’t there, and Cynthia didn’t care if she looked like a trashy tourist. By the time they reached Nick’s place, the alcohol had already made her feel warm and fuzzy inside. The sun had sunk behind the buildings, and cars and mopeds zoomed by. The usual noise of honking and voices and engines filled the air, comforting in its new familiarity.

  “Want to go inside?” Nick asked, looking at her in a way she didn’t like, a tentative way.

  “Stop feeling sorry for me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You don’t feel sorry for me?”

  “Nope. Not even a little bit.”

  She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but after a few seconds, she followed him inside. He led her upstairs without stopping to see his host family first, though Cynthia thought she heard movement in the kitchen. In his room, he closed the door and crossed the room to pull back a floor-to-ceiling linen curtain, cream colored with peach flowers.

  Behind the curtain lay a large, old window and a narrow wooden door with a knob hanging at an odd, loose angle and layers of paint peeling to reveal several different shades beneath. Nick ignored the door, and instead, gripped the bottom of the window and gave a viscous yank that Cynthia was sure would shatter the old glass pane.

  With a loud protest, the window slid open. Nick ducked outside onto a balcony about eight feet long and two feet deep with an iron railing around it. He held the curtain aside while Cynthia stepped out, then let it fall back behind her.

  “Sweet setup,” she said. “I wish I had something like this.”

  “I don’t think I’m really supposed to come out here,” Nick said. “The window was painted shut.”

  “You think this will hold us?” she asked, tapping at the concrete balcony, which sounded alarmingly hollow, with her heel.

  “I’ve only been out here by myself, but I think it’s okay,” he said. “I wouldn’t throw a party out here, but for two people, sure.”

  “I don’t think you could fit a party out here.” She took a swig of the cold, fruity Bellini and leaned her elbow on the railing to peer down to the street below. “I bet we see a cat in the next five minutes.”

  “Alright,” he said. “What are we betting?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, lowering her chin and looking up at him through her lashes. “What do you want to bet?”

  He smiled a little. “Whatever you want.”

  “A kiss,” she said. “Winner picks the spot it lands on.”

  He paused for a second and then said, “Okay.” He sounded more wary than excited
by the prospect. Annoyed, she bent to snatch the bag with the two beers from inside his window, nearly toppling on her face in the process. She grasped the sill and shoved herself back outside, flipping her hair back as she stood. It whipped across Nick’s face, but he only blinked and took a step back. The reflection of the blue evening in his glasses hid any expression in his eyes. She didn’t get it, why he was acting weird and not flirting with her. He did it all the time when it was meaningless, and now, when she really needed it, he was being too serious.

  “What’s your problem?” she asked, shoving a beer at him.

  “No problem,” he said, bracing the cap on the railing and hitting the top with the heel of his hand. The top popped off and beer foamed out, dribbling over his fingers and onto the balcony.

  Cynthia laughed, a little more spitefully than she’d meant to. “Like a pro,” she said instead of apologizing.

  “I’m sorry about your dad,” he said.

  “Whatever,” she said. “We haven’t talked in months. He’s a shitty father, anyway.”

  “I’m still sorry.”

  She swung herself down to a sitting position and slid her feet through the railing, one at a time, and let them hang free. The building was so close to the street that she felt like they were suspended over the cars passing below. “Let’s just look for cats, okay?”

  Nick slouched into the corner of the railing, his elbow resting on the edge, and they waited.

  “Stupid cats,” she said after a few minutes. “There’s like a hundred of them everywhere you turn, until you’re looking for them.”

  Nick took a swallow of beer.

  Cynthia chugged some Bellini.

  “If you see one, you’re not going to tell me, are you?” she asked. “That way, you’ll win.”

  Nick took another swallow of beer.

  Cynthia finished off the Bellini and set the bottle down against the wall, swaying a bit as she leaned back. “It’s been five minutes. I guess you win.”

  Nick didn’t move. “Okay.”

  “So, what do you want? The kiss of your dreams is here. Come and get it.”

  “Rain check.”