“Because we’re Catholic, and the church had a problem with it, blah blah blah.”
“Are you guys super-religious?”
“I mean, I’m not.”
I pause for a second, curiosity rising. “Are you?”
“Nah, I mean, my family’s Jewish. I do Hanukkah.”
I nod, understanding. “So no awesome indie rock-themed bar mitzvah for you?”
He smirks. “Well…”
“Oh my god, you had an indie rock-themed bar mitzvah?” My mouth turns up in a tiny, closed-
lipped smile.
“More punk rock.” He grins.
I snort, turning away to watch the restaurant door. Off in the distance, I can make out the
Colosseum. Pilot follows my gaze.
“So, if you could go back in time, would you want stop by there and watch a gladiator match?”
he asks.
Trying to distract me.
I click my tongue. “I
guess so,” I answer. “Would you?”
“Uh, obviously,” he answers in a silly voice.
I smother a smile, storyteller mode switching on. “What if you only had three points you could
choose to go back to? Would this be one of the three? And you can’t do things like kill Hitler; you
can only sit in on events and stuff. Maybe you can put in your two cents at said events.”
Pilot frowns for a moment.
“That’s a tough one.” He stares into the distance. “I think first, I’d have to hit up one those epic
concerts your favorite band used to put on back in the day.”
I smile. “Taylor Swift or…?”
He makes a
pfft
half-laugh sound. “I’d have to check out the Beatles … and—I feel like I gotta
think out these second two.”
“I think I’d want to be in the room when they wrote the Constitution.” I ponder. “Maybe dressed
as a guy, so I could insert my two cents and they’d listen to me.”
Pilot shoots me a surprised grin. I return my attention back to the restaurant door. Silence
stretches for a few moments. My panicked twitchiness returns.
“So, I guess we
should go meet Sahra and Babe,” Pilot says.
I turn to look him in the eyes. “Yeah, you go ahead. I’m going to stay here and wait.”
He tilts his head forward. “Shane, it doesn’t open till three.”
“Yeah, you go, and I’ll stay here.”
“You think I’m just going to leave you here huddled on the curb by yourself?”
I look away from his face, feeling guilty. “Just go meet up with them. I’m fine!”
I wonder what the protocol actually is for losing your passport in a foreign country. Why wasn’t
this in
So You’re Going to Study Abroad
?
“Let’s
go grab some food, and then we’ll track down Sahra and Babe,” he suggests.
My eyebrows furrow again. I do my best to keep my voice level. “Pilot, I don’t have any money.
I have nothing; I have to stay and wait for my purse.”
His eyebrows descend as he
responds with all seriousness, “Oh, is it meeting you out here?”
A breath huffs through my lips, and I fiddle with my numbers bracelet, spinning it around on my
wrist. The idea of carrying the added guilt of ruining Rome for both me and Pilot is too much.
Losing a passport is a trip ruiner.
“What does your bracelet mean?” he asks.
“It’s a
Lost
thing. You’d have to watch it.” I dismiss his next distraction attempt and instantly
feel shitty about it.
“I lost my wallet once—” he tries again.
I interrupt him. “This isn’t the same, Pies.”
“Excuse me, can I tell my insightful story?” He raises his eyebrows. I deflate,
caving in on
myself and staring at the ground.
“So, I was in Florida with my roommates, freshman year spring break, and we took a cab to the
beach.”
I’m distracted momentarily, imagining Pilot all shirtless on the beach. I raise my gaze and watch
him talk.
“When we got there, we set up camp near the water, and then I realized my wallet wasn’t in my
pocket.”
I raise my eyebrows sarcastically.
He continues. “It was our only beach day there, and I spent about an hour retracing my steps all
over the sand before heading back to where my buddies were. I had to borrow one of their phones to
try and get ahold of the cab company. I gave them my hotel info and my friend’s number so that if
they found it, they could return it. Then I spent the day stressed out, pacing around and worrying.”
“Uh-huh.” I narrow my eyes.
He smiles. “And then I got a call around four that a driver had found a wallet and dropped it off
at my hotel.
When we went back, it was there.”
I study him skeptically for a moment. “What’s your point?” I say, trying to sound aloof.
“It’s not worth the stress of stressing. We’re here for two days. You can’t spend one of them
sitting on the curb of a restaurant for six hours.”
“But what if—”
“Let’s go get a gelato.” He stands and offers me a hand.
“What? It’s, like, nine in the morning,” I say from the curb.
“And?”
“And I don’t
have any money,” I add gloomily.
“I’ve got this one.”
I twist back to frown at the trattoria behind me.
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