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8. Where Do We Go From Here?
Someone’s shaking my shoulder. I shoot upright.
Babe leaps away from my bed with a gasp and a hand to her heart.
I watch as her dark hair resettles around her face. “Jiminy Cricket, you
scared me!”
I squint, taking stock of the room. Sahra’s laughing as she runs a
brush through her hair in front of the mirror.
Rome. Pilot and I kissed
last night.
He’s not in his bed.
A yawn muffles my response. “You scared me.”
“Did you forget to set your alarm?” Babe asks.
“I must have. Where’s Pilot?”
“Shower,” Sahra answers. “We planned to leave in fifteen
minutes.”
I scramble out of bed.
Babe hangs back with me as we walk to the Colosseum. Today, she’s
dressed in a bright red peacoat (Babe owns four different-colored
peacoats) with a sash at the waist and matching red lipstick. I feel like
the living dead, and next to her, I must look like it. She sidles closer
and loops her arm through mine. “What happened last night?”
“Nothing, don’t worry … I couldn’t sleep, and we walked around.”
“You were out so late!”
“Babe, I don’t really feel like talking right now,” I mumble.
“Okay,” she sighs. She unloops her arm and quickens her pace to
catch up to the others.
My shoulders roll forward. Great, I’m eroding the fragile base of
friendship we’ve formed thus far. I yank my hair up off my neck and
pull it up into a puffy high ponytail.
The morning blurs. We go to the Colosseum. Pilot wanders around
looking behind artifacts and under balustrades for the button like some
sort of amateur Sherlock Holmes. I follow lazily. I find myself drafting
and redrafting a breakup letter to 2011 Melvin in my head:
Dear
Melvin: We haven’t met yet, but when we do, maybe don’t ask me out.
XO Shane. Dear Melvin: We’re not together yet, but in January 2017
I’m breaking up with you. Sorry sorry sorry! This is so hard. XO
Shane.
We move on to the Roman forum. Pilot quietly inspects everything
we pass. I glance about and move on. Babe provides a constant stream
of oohs and ahs. Sahra ventures off, taking pictures of things, always
slightly separated from the group. I haven’t taken any pictures.
This is not like the first time.
Are we ruining the Rome trip?
Well, it won’t be ruined once we reset. My chest feels hollow. As
we near the end of the trail, Babe pulls me aside onto one of the
surrounding grassy areas.
“Shane, seriously, tell me what happened last night. You’re clearly
not okay, and Pilot’s acting like a mute. You need to stop moping.
We’re in Rome!”
I look at the ground, ashamed. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just let me help. What happened?” She takes my
shoulders, her eyes roving over me like they’re going to locate some
unseen wound that’s causing my pain.
I try to twist my expression into something less dreary. “We
walked around and talked all night,” I tell her again.
She folds her arms over her peacoat and eyes me wearily. “Then
why do you look like your dog just died?”
I blow out a resigned breath. “We kissed last night.”
Her arms drop. “
You kissed?
” she exclaims, way too loud. My eyes
bulge.
“Babe!” I hiss.
I whip my head around. Pilot’s inspecting the base of an ancient
Roman temple, and Sahra’s taking a picture of the same Roman temple
from a different point of view.
“Sorry! But holy crap on a cracker! You said nothing happened!”
she hisses back.
“Well, I was afraid of how you’d react,” I say pointedly.
“Who kissed who?”
“He kissed me, and then we were just kissing.”
“Is he breaking up with Amy?”
“Not that I know of.”
Babe looks at me with a sad expression and wraps me in a hug.
“I’m sorry, Shane.” I hug her back. She pulls away to look me in the
eye. “That sucks. But pick yourself up, you’re strong. Stop moping.
How many times do you get to go to Rome? Try to enjoy yourself!”
I soften, nodding. “It’s just the combo of this with the sleep
deprivation. I need a latte or something.”
“Then we’ll get you a latte. Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine! Pilot
has to figure out what the hell he’s doing.”
So do I.
We end up at the same empty Italian restaurant for lunch. Babe orders
a pitcher of wine for the table. I order a cappuccino. When Babe
shoots me an encouraging smile across the table, I can’t help but grin
back at her. Nowadays, we only really talk via phone call—I forgot
how nice it is to be around her positive energy. It’s contagious.
After a minute Pilot “drops his fork.” I roll my eyes as he swoops
under the red tablecloth to search the floor. He comes up empty-
handed.
The waitress returns to take our lunch order bearing gifts—my
cappuccino and the wine. I order ravioli again before tentatively taking
a sip of the hot drink. I have to dump in a good three packets of sugar,
but once I get some caffeine in me, I start to feel more alive.
Babe tells us a story I’ve never heard before about her friend who
had an internship at Disney World. Said friend worked the Haunted
Mansion ride. Apparently a lot of people get on the ride and dump
their loved one’s ashes halfway through it over that balcony that
overlooks the ghosts dancing in the ballroom. When that happens,
everything has to be shut down, cleaned, and re-dusted, with clean,
non-dead-human dust.
“That’s so weird! I would never think that would be a thing.” I
snort.
Babe laughs, and takes another sip of her wine. “Happens all the
time.”
“They want to haunt the ride forever.” Sahra smiles.
“Guys, that’s actually in my will, so…” Pilot comments. I scoff
and Babe cracks up.
When the time comes, a swarm of waiters surround the table. Like
a group of dancers, as one, they carefully place hot plates of food in
front of us.
The ravioli is delightful. I stab a second one, leaning over my plate
and positioning my head sideways to bite into it. When I do, my teeth
crash over something hard. Pain shoots through my jaw, and my free
hand flies up to cover my mouth.
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