Page 23 of The Roman Holiday Rule

Throw a coin in, Lexi. Now. No matter the cost. No matter who’s watching. Mark my words, you’ll be glad you let go.

It’s both more and less than I’d hoped for. She forgot to mention what she’d wished for, but the rest is a piece of her and Dad’s story I’ve never heard before. The fuzzy edges of who my dad was become a little more defined.

She talked about him all the time, but this whole part, the falling in love in Rome, she kept secret. Whenever it came up, or I begged to hear, she’d press her lips together, shake her head, eyes dancing, and say, “I’ll tell you when we get there.” Their Italian story was like a buried treasure she couldn’t wait to play mapmaker for. Like I needed more reason to get to Italy.

The fact that she found a way to tell me in Rome, even after she’s gone, is a like a jeweled crown, heavy but glorious.

I read the letter again. It’s almost as if she’d predicted my present coin conundrum.

I look up from the paper. The old man is standing right where I left him, gazing at the fountain.

Do it now.If this man is right—that I should have used my coin, not Julie’s (though how did he know it wasn’t mine?), and that I threw it in the wrong way—then I haven’t yet done what the letter says.

I sigh, tuck the paper back in my bag and approach the old man. If Mom wants me to toss a coin in now, no matter the cost, I’ll do it. This is Italy, her story, her way.

“I’m ready.”

He nods like he’d expected me to change my mind. I unclasp my necklace and pull the chain out through the lira’s hole. I let the coin sit in my open palm, the sunshine bathing it with light.

He braids his fingers over his wide stomach. “Now, what do you wish for?”

Can I really give up my mom’s coin?

I’ve waited a year and come all this way to read her letters. I have to take her advice.

I bite my lip, hesitating, but he’s so eager. Italy has entranced me, and I’m jet-lagged. There’s literally no worse combination for making decisions.

“I wish to find—” My words freeze, but my mouth remains open wide. Weaving through the crowds is a tall head I recognize with only the slightest glimpse. Mark.

The coin in my hand grows hot.

Here I am in the most touristy-obvious place possible making a wish like I believe in magic. I should be gone before he sees me and reams me out for adding to the mass of tourists blocking the view.

Wrenching my gaze from the sight of his clean-shaved jawline, I turn to the old man. “I wish to have my luggage found,” I say in a breathless rush, tossing the coin in. That wish doesn’t sound crazy or require me to explain about my mother to this stranger.

The old man grins and claps. “Not the most romantic or exciting wish, but still fun. Come back tomorrow for your second wish.”

I face the fountain. My mother’s lira sits under the clear water, an arm’s reach away, but gone forever. I turn back to thank the old man for the lesson. He was strange and pushy, yet he cares for this fountain, and I loved meeting him. But the crowds have thickened, and I don’t catch sight of him anywhere.

A tall shadow behind me blocks the sunlight. I shiver.

“No surprise finding you here.”

I take my time turning to face Mark. “You’re here too, so what’s that about?”

“I’m meeting someone. Their choice of location.”

So he consorts with people who don’t mind tourist sites. Perks of being in his inner circle, you get to bend his rules.

Instead of searching the faces around him, his eyes catch on my bare necklace.

The crowds press us closer together until I’m inches from his face.

I’ve wasted the coin on a panic-wish forluggage, of all things—and now I’ve lost a kind, comforting gentleman and have Mark instead. Way more fascinating to stare at.

Way more agitating.

My breaths are short and shallow, and he’s studying me with a weight in his expression that mirrors my own regret. We can’t seem to break eye contact.