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When the rain starts back up, I duck into one of the shops and use Sebastian’s money to buy an umbrella. Back outside, I watch people rush by, some with giant umbrellas, some on bikes, and tourists dragging their oversize suitcases along uneven, rain-soaked streets. I listen to their complaints about the weather and I think they should be grateful. They’re free. How we take simple freedoms for granted. How I did.
A car drives too fast to make the traffic light, splashing water on my legs. I look up, mentally curse the driver, and realize why there are so many people with suitcases here.
I’m at the Verona train station.
When the light changes, I cross the street, avoiding the bigger puddles, and run under the cover of the overhanging roof of the station, shaking out my umbrella and closing it before walking inside. It’s busy here and loud with people waiting out of the rain.
I reach into my pocket, feeling the stack of bills, and read the schedule boards. There’s a train leaving for Rome in thirty minutes, and a ticket will cost me €65.
I walk toward the counter. I even get in line. But there’s a part of me that wonders what I’m doing. What I will do. Where will I go? Home? How? With what money? What passport? Besides, my parents won’t want me back. Given what I’ve learned, I wouldn’t put it past them to return me to the Scafoni family.
The line moves, and it’s my turn. I take out my wad of borrowed bills. “Rome, please. One-way.”
What am I doing?
The woman says something I don’t understand between the noise around me, my own thoughts, and her accent, but she points to the screen displaying the amount I owe.
I push my money into the little tray under the glass. A few minutes later, she spins it around. I take my change and my ticket and step out of the line. Someone bumps into me, or truly, I bump into them because I’m not paying attention.
“I’m sorry.”
The man barely gives me a sideways glance and carries on talking into his cell phone, rushing to his train.
I head to the turnstiles. I’m just following those ahead of me. I have no identification. No passport. No nothing. Just a little more than €20 in my pocket and my train ticket.
A crowd of people rushes past me. They’re panicked, like they’re about to miss their train, and I step aside to let them pass.
I have half an hour, so I walk across the station to the coffee shop and order an espresso at the bar. I stand with the locals and take the tiny cup of thick black liquid and sip it. It’s too strong. I try again but put the cup down and look at the check under the cup for what I owe. I reach into my pocket and pull out the handful of coins from the umbrella purchase. I’m rifling through them, turning each one over to see what’s what when an arm slides around my waist.
I shift my gaze to the fingers that curl around me, and I’m not sure if I’m surprised.
I look up at him.
He’s not looking at me.
Before I’ve made sense of my coins, Sebastian drops three on the counter and picks up the train ticket next to my coffee cup. I watch him read it and realize that drumbeat is my heart pumping blood loudly in my ears. He reads the ticket, crumples it in his fist, and shoves it into his jacket pocket.
When he finally looks at me, his eyes are dark. He doesn’t speak, not a word, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about him, it’s that when he’s truly angry, he’s quiet. He’s thinking. Planning the best mode of attack.
“Finish your coffee.”
“I-I’m finished.”
He picks up my tiny espresso cup, hands it to me. My hands shake when I take it from him. I don’t think he blinks while I force down the too dark coffee.
When I’m finished, he nods, takes the cup, and puts it back onto its saucer.
I expect we’ll leave right away, but we don’t. We stand at the bar, my back to it while he faces it, his arm now around my front, fingers still gripping my waist. He’s watching me, and I’m watching the people move around us, most rushing, some strolling, stopping for coffee, sitting at a table to eat something.
The noise of the station fades into the background, the announcements, the rain, the chatter. Sebastian takes a deep breath in, and I turn to him.
“I don’t understand you,” he says.
I stare back at him. I want to ask what he doesn’t understand. I want to ask how he found me. I want to ask how angry he is.
No, not that last one. I can see that. It’s in the tightening of his chiseled jaw. In the hardening of his full lips.
