I am just as exasperated when I answer, “You said it yourself—this train is going to Naples. We go where it goes.”
“Is it worth even trying to get more information out of you?” he asks.
He’s learning—this isn’t like old times, when I’d fill him in on all my plans and scheming, even when I knew he’d be less than thrilled or try to talk me out of things. We’re not in this together.
I don’t offer a response, which is a response on its own. I should be satisfied when he turns around and stops trying to speak to me. I should feel content. I’m getting to go where I want, so I shouldn’t care what West does with his day. But his anxiety is palpable, even through the barrier of sturdy-fabric-upholstered public transit furniture. It almost makes me feel anxious for the first time about today’s mission, which in turn makes me resent West’s presence even more.
Why couldn’t he let me bluster on into this possibly absurd, somewhat half-baked plan without thinking it through any further? One thing is clear—I can’t let him in on the truth of what I’m up to. Not unless I want him to bring it all crashing down before it even really begins.
Hopefully he’ll turn around and take the train back once he sees me safely to Naples. I pretend that’s already a reality as the train rumbles on and I watch the scenery pass by out my window, through a few more stops and different groups of people getting on and off at each station. It seems like a mix of commuters and tourists, lots of different languages filling the air around me, and I enjoy both people-watching and listening. Before I know it, we are pulling into a busy station in the heart of the city.
“This is my stop,” I tell West, emphasis on themy. But he doesn’t take the hint, getting to his feet and following me out the sliding doors. To my dismay, he continues following in silence as I continue toward my destination.
The Museo Archeologico is supposed to be less than a ten-minute walk from here. West waits approximately three of these minutes before his questions begin anew.
“Do you know where we’re heading now?” he asks. “Like, beyond where you’re trying to go, have you actually looked up a route and are we on it?”
I roll my eyes. “No, West, I’ve never been to an unfamiliar city before. I figure we just navigate them by vibes, right? It’d be nice if there was some kind of app that could give me directions when I have a place I want to go, or even, like, a book that shows a whole city on paper. Or printed onto a sphere, like the shape of the Earth!”
“ ‘Yes’ would have been a complete answer,” West mutters back.
“So is ‘no,’ which is what I would have answered had you asked if I even want you here. Feel free to take it into consideration now.”
He sighs heavily. “Unfortunately for both of us, I’m stuck with you now. I can’t just remove myself.”
“Oh, you’re so noble,” I tease in an exaggerated swooning voice. “My hero.”
“More like a reluctant accomplice,” he corrects me. “Though it might surprise you, I’d really hate myself if anything was to happen to you after I left. Not to mention Dr. Alex and my dad hating me, but the self-loathing would be the worst. So selfishly, I’ll stay, just in case the presence of an extra human at your side causes any shady characters to think twice before taking you as a hostage or something. Although they probably wouldn’t make it five minutes before deciding they’d rather pay someone else to take you off their hands.”
“Gosh, why did we ever stop being friends?” I act like I’mreally baffled by the thought. “You’re just so kind to me. Super supportive. I feel much safer having you at my side.”
“Real friends are honest with you even when it’s not what you want to hear,” West says, and when my head jerks his way, he winces, immediately realizing the three-year-old grenade he’s clumsily stepped on.
“Riiight,” I say, drawing out the word. “Good point. So in hindsight, we were never real friends anyway, were we?”
“Cam,” he starts, but I hold up a hand. Now is not the time. I need to focus on today’s goal. Not unbury my history with this guy, like it’s going to do anything but upset both of us.
“Don’t, West,” I say. “Let’s leave it.”
West stuffs his hands in his pockets, and I see his shoulders hunch out of the corner of my eye.
“Right,” he says, so it’s clear he doesn’t actually agree. “Just as we’ve been doing for the past three years and counting. It’s gone so well so far.”
The last part is quieter, like he doesn’t care if I hear it, or he’s talking more to himself. It almost convinces me to break this awful standoff. Put all our issues on the table instead of keeping us in passive-aggressive purgatory forever. Once and for all.
But this is not the time or place.Focus, Cammie, I remind myself as I march onward, letting the bustling city be our soundtrack while we wind through its streets. I check my phone occasionally to ensure we’re still on the right path, still on track to get to the museum right when it opens. I don’t have an appointment with the person I’m hoping to find, figuringthe element of surprise works well in this case. It seems like an early arrival should increase my odds of catching him at a free moment.
Finally, the beautiful old structure comes into view ahead of us, one of the most popular destinations for tourists visiting Naples—which is itself not the most touristy of Italian cities, from what I’ve read. But what it might lack in flashy tourist hot spots, the guidebooks say it makes up for in authentic Southern Italian culture. I’ve still barely glimpsed that from my brief commute from the airport and our walk today. But I hope to see much more, should my plans play out as intended. I want to try real Neapolitan pizza, see the castles that sit on the waterfront, and, maybe most of all, explore the country’s largest collection of ancient Roman art and artifacts at the National Archaeological Museum.
West and I ascend the stone steps in front of the imposing facade. We haven’t spoken in so long, I’m startled when he says, “Well, this isn’t as bad as I feared.”
“Wow. Glowing review. Be sure to put that on Tripadvisor,” I deadpan.
“Okay, as cagey as you were being, I expected much worse,” West shoots back. “Some kind of underground fight club, or other illegal activity. As you keep gently reminding me, I don’t know your life.”
He doesn’t and he won’t, I think. Still, I have to bite my tongue to keep from spilling the whole plan right here and now, just to clear my good name of his nefarious suspicions.
Though we’ve come to the museum on one of its free entrydays, it isn’t too crowded. I do genuinely want to see the exhibits, but there will be time for that later. I pick up a map at the front desk and study it, locating my probable target. Since it looks like I have no chance of losing West now, I wave him along with me as I start through the first grand exhibit hall featuring some of the museum’s standing collection.
