Roman Crazy (17 page)

Everything she told me was interesting, sure, but sometimes you just wanted to wander and lose yourself.

And this was how Marcello played tour guide. We lost ourselves in the city, wandering wherever we wished, with me asking occasional questions and him answering, more often than not with a story accompanying. I took everything in, tried to take mental pictures at every turn, willing myself to remember so that I could re-create it later on. Even the roofs of the surrounding buildings were something I never wanted to forget. Slate gray, brick red, some were tile, some were shingle, nothing matched so everything matched. And the doors were something else that I found myself enamored of here. Santorini blue, vermillion, and evergreen—this world was saturated with color.

We eventually headed down toward the Tiber, where we walked along the tree-lined sidewalk and enjoyed the breeze coming off the river.

“Left, right, or straight?” he asked when we came upon a magnificent stone bridge filled with foot traffic.

I stood in front of one of the ornately carved pillars to read the marker: Ponte Vittorio Emanuele II. It was something that I was growing to adore about the city. Everything had a name and not just Blah Blah Street or Someone Circle. Beautiful, historic names that I butchered with my pronunciation, but I loved hearing him teach me what I was doing wrong.

“Say it again?” I asked, pointing up to the bridge's oxidized plaque.

“Ponte Vittorio Emanuele.” He embellished the syllables for
my benefit. Either because he genuinely wanted me to learn how to say it properly, or more likely, because he knew his accent made me swoony.

“Why angels?” I pointed to the top of the great stone plinth where an angel held a shield and raised a sword proudly.

“These are for victory. They are named for Victoria, Roman goddess for triumph in battle. You will find them all over the city; jewelry, money, architecture. At one time she was worshipped on one of the Seven Hills.”

In that moment, it didn't matter what he was talking about, I just wanted him to keep talking, and I told him as much.

And just as I requested, Marcello explained why each bridge was named what it was, and how the streets that intersected all had something to do with the bridge and the town. Each little nook had its own bit of history. It was fascinating and intoxicating listening to him.

We continued along the Tiber, the streets tree lined and crowded with couples, families, runners, tourists, and locals alike, out and about enjoying their city. Another strong breeze whipped through, giving me the perfect opportunity to lean into him for warmth. He casually slung his arm over my shoulders as he told me we were about to pass Circus Maximus.

“Oh, you mean like
Gladiator
? I love that movie.” I sighed.

“You are teasing me?”

“No! You've seen it, right? Russell Crowe kicking ass in the Colosseum? So hot.”

He harrumphed. “Historically inaccurate.”

I laughed, poking his side when he scowled. “Don't be jealous. Russell has nothing on you. Show me more of your Rome.”

He did just that. We continued to wander, making decisions about where to go on a whim, wherever we wanted to go.

When I mentioned feeling a bit hungry, he bought me a bag full of little fried fish tossed with lemon and salt. Delicious.

I wasn't warmed by just the beautiful weather, but by him; how could I not be? His bolder-than-life presence, the confidence that didn't fade a day in the years since we were together. When he caught me staring, his chest puffed up in such a self-satisfied way I couldn't help but smile.

All afternoon he'd been careful not to get too close to me. Only an occasional shoulder brush or maybe his hand in the small of back to steer me around something, but always a respectable arm's length. A few times I'd feel his hand accidentally brush mine, and then it would flex and get tucked into his pocket.

As the light began changing to something more akin to candle glow, it became harder and harder to ignore the powerful draw that was still between us. That string was still there tethering me, us, to the memories of Barcelona.

I felt an invisible hand at my back nudging me toward him. It was like the walls behind us were pushing us together. I wouldn't be backing away as I had last night.

“Marcello?” I asked, reaching out to touch his forearm. I loved the feeling of the muscles tensing. His hand flexed into a fist before laying across mine. This was the first time he purposely touched me, and even though it was innocent, nothing about it felt that way.

He was struggling. His eyebrows bunched and his eyes went to my hand on his arm, studying it. The right side of his mouth quirked up, and I was desperate to know what he was thinking about in that second.

He nodded, swallowed hard, and then
he
took a step back this time.

“Let us walk a bit more. I want you to see something before it gets too dark,” he said, pointing in the direction of the less-crowded cross street.

“Tell me how many stamps you have in your passport,” he asked suddenly as we rounded a corner.

“Stamps?”

“You had so many plans for traveling the world—you couldn't wait to fill all those blank pages up with stamps. So tell me all about the places you've been since you left Spain. I've been talking for hours now, it's your turn.”

I remembered the conversation. We were in bed—where most of our deep conversations took place—and I used his torso as a map of the world. Each kiss I placed on his body was a country I planned to visit. To explore their lives, the culture. The art.

“Oh. Well . . .” I stalled to snap a photo of the sunset behind the ancient amphitheater. It'd make for a beautiful sketch later.

“Avery, you are avoiding the question, yes? Tell me.”

I sighed and leaned against a bus stop. “I've traveled. A lot. An incredible amount really. Let's see . . . Hawaii, Grand Cayman, Maldives, Belize, the Seychelles.” I ticked the sandy-beach vacations off my fingers. Let's not forget the dozens of golfing vacations or trips to Vegas, Miami, Los Angeles.

As I went on about the gorgeous blue waters and stunning resorts, the wind picked up. Unbidden, he slid an arm around my shoulder, tucking me into his side to shelter me from the suddenly strong breeze. Once I was done prattling on about the limbo contest I'd won in Grand Cayman, he looked down at me thoughtfully.

“May I ask you something?”

“Of course.” Church bells dinged in the distance. Eight o'clock. We'd been walking for hours.

“These trips. They do not sound like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“These are places that someone else chose, yes?”

“Yes,” I admitted, contemplating if I should explain Daniel and truly what was going on back home. I opened my mouth at least three times, trying to get the words out, but I just couldn't figure out how to tell him. How to open that box again of what had happened, all those years ago, when I left him and went home.

He waited, patient and quiet to see if I'd elaborate, watching as I struggled and finally putting me out of my misery. “Avery, it is okay. You tell me what you can, when you can, yes?”

“Soon, we'll talk about my life in Boston.”

Appeased, he kept us walking forward. “So you never went anywhere that you liked?”

“Once.” I took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. “Spain was somewhere that I liked. Spending hours on a sketch of Sagrada. Swimming in the same sea as Dalí had, all those years ago. Getting lost in the Gothic Quarters.” I dropped my gaze. “You.”

He lifted my chin. “That sounds like the Avery I remember.”

He hurried me along a pedestrian walkway, past the busy intersection filled with honks, screaming traffic, and a few near misses with Vespa drivers. We were walking and chasing the dying sunlight just over a giant dome in the distance. I began walking faster, eager to see whatever it was he was taking me to.

And I was speechless.

“Holy Christ—” I blurted, but Marcello wrapped one arm around my waist and slipped his other hand gently across my lips.

“Not that. Not here,” he whispered, leaving me to wonder what he was referring to, the kiss or the cursing.

“That is incredible,” I whispered, spinning three sixty to see light-colored stone wall that rose high above us.

He'd brought us to St. Peter's Square.

I was never very religious. We went to church when I was a kid, because it's what you did for the social aspect. Same reason I went with Daniel. You dressed in your best and brunched with the worst. Nothing about it had to do with the church.

Here you felt . . . I don't know . . . I won't pretend it was some sort of divine presence—or maybe it was. Whatever was happening made me feel
something.
It was the art in my bones, the history I'd studied for so long hunched over long wooden library desks in the fading light. Seeing it in person was something altogether different. Magnificent.

“Come.” He nudged me, holding out his arm for me to take. Such an old-fashioned gesture, but for him, it fit. He led us to a gap in the queue rope where a flood of people were streaming through and I stopped, mouth agape, with a nearly crippling need to sketch it.

I didn't know where to look first. The tall, noble pillars that circled the wall above us. The huge majestic statues lining the top like sentries guarding their little city. We walked around the square, my phone filled with photo after photo. I spun, trying to memorize every inch of it, but there was too much. As if he knew what I was thinking, Marcello placed his hand on my back and guided me to one of the black folding chairs.

“You know the way here now, so you can come back. Bring your chalks or pencils, make it your own.”

He was beaming, handsome, and my heart flipped.

“I feel like I could sit here for weeks and not capture a fraction of the beauty of this place.”

“I hope to see them when you have finished. I've missed your work.”

We didn't chat at all once we left St. Peter's. By the time we reached home, night had swallowed up the city in a magnificent navy hue. I was lost in thought, contemplating all the things I'd seen on our walk, and all the places I'd still yet to visit. Walking with him tonight really drove home how compact this city was. You could see a dozen landmarks in just a few miles.

On our way home, Marcello seemed to be getting text after text on his phone. He apologized several times, and I tried not to think about who might be blowing up his phone. We'd yet to talk about Simone, the woman he'd been sitting with (and kissing) the night I'd arrived in Rome. Was she still in the picture? How serious were they? Should he be out on the town with me? With my heart full of joy and my head full of questions, we climbed the stairs to the apartment.

I turned, and Marcello was right behind me. Close enough that I could feel the fabric of his shirt on my bare arms. So many of our early dates in Spain had ended this way, him looking over my shoulder at my door, wondering whether he'd be invited in. I thought about Daisy's note. He technically wasn't a boy . . . would I ask him inside?

“Today, well today was perfect,” I said. “Thank you for showing me some of your Rome.”

“This makes me happy, to know you liked seeing my city.”

I knew he was telling the truth. He'd always liked to make me happy, to find out what I liked, and what I loved. Emboldened, I looked up at him. “I'm thinking right now of something I'd like.”

His eyes changed instantly, smoldering. “Maybe a kiss?”

I held my breath, turning my lips up in silent answer.

He cupped my face and lowered his mouth to each of my cheeks.

“I was thinking somewhere else,” I admitted, licking my lips when his eyes flickered to my mouth.

“I'm afraid if I kiss you the way I want to, I won't stop.”

I nodded, not quite agreeing, but unable to say the words that would give him the okay, the “let's make this real again.”

“Good night, Avery.” Marcello held my eyes as he walked down the steps.

I thought back to each time today when he almost or I almost. When we were crushed together in the crowd outside the Colosseum. When he wrapped his arm around me as we walked along the Tiber. And the night before, when he'd picked me up as though I weighed nothing to lift me over the velvet rope and I almost let him kiss me the way I was desperate for him to.

And I hadn't let him.

“Marcello,” I whispered, not loud enough that I thought he'd hear me.

Oh, but he did. And in three strides he was back up the stairs.

He was on me before I could barely take a breath, his body flattening mine into the brick wall. His mouth hot, hungry, and demanding against my neck, along my shoulder, and up to my ear, where he whispered, “Give me your lips.”

I wanted nothing more than to pull him into the shadows and have my wicked way with him.

Why can't you?
a voice whispered in my head.
You deserve this
.

I put my hand under his chin to stare into those beautiful eyes before I took those beautiful lips. Oh my goodness, his lips. Soft and strong, they felt the same, they tasted the same. He
kissed me crazy once, then twice, then what felt like a thousand times, and still not enough.

“I didn't realize how much I missed you. Missed your mouth,” he purred, frantically angling me up the stairs.

“Marcello,” I sighed, my lips tangled with his. There was nothing in the world like kissing this man. And I wanted more than ever to kiss him for hours without a care in the world, reacquaint myself with every contour and plane of his exquisite mouth.

But this reunion was anything but relaxed. This was nine years,
nine years,
of going without this kind of passion.

With a thud, my back hit Daisy's front door. We fumbled against each other, laughing and still kissing, as he held both of my hands above my head in one of his. His other hand quickly untucked the hem of my shirt, slipping beneath with ease. I gasped into his mouth as his fingers danced along my rib cage. I needed this, oh, God I needed him! I needed his hands on my body more, now, in this instant. My gasp turned quickly into a groan, spurring on his movements as his fingers slid underneath the edge of my bra, smooth and rough, and I loved it.