Page 28 of The Roman Holiday Rule

“Okay, nothing special.” Julie shrugs. “Not jealous yet.”

“That’s because you’re not eating this.” I fork another bite offettuccine into my mouth, humming with pleasure again, like I have with every single bite. Up until now, al dente was a cute cultural anecdote, not a way of living. Whatever I’ve been eating for years labeled as pasta was ... not.

I catch her up on the flights, yesterday’s reception, and today’s events, lingering over my final bites. Not only to savor the buttery noodles and garlicky tomato sauce, but savoring the fact that Mark is waiting.

(Let’s not analyze if that delicious bubble of anticipation meansha, I’m making him wait, ormmm, I’ll see him again.My pasta coma is confusing all my body signals.)

“So you’re heading back to your hotel for the evening because this guy needs his suitcase?”

“I needmysuitcase, Julie. All those outfits are coordinated with the ten-day forecast and my scheduled activities.” And my festival skirt is irreplaceable. Vintage, from my mom’s time in Rome.

“Dire,” she deadpans, and I laugh, because she would not be fine without her whole arsenal of fashion choices.

“Speaking of clothes, how’s the shopping trip going?”

She fills me in and gushes with anticipation at the Broadway show she’s got lined up for this evening, then we disconnect. I’m glad we closed the office this week, or I’d be tempted to help her remotely with the workload. Instead, our conversation has left me even more focused on following through with my plans here, more determined to power through this Mark-suitcase wrinkle.

I walk the two blocks back to my historic hotel building. Sure enough, a suitcase that isn’t mine sits on the far side of the lobby near the receptionist’s desk. I dial Mark’s number, giving the suitcase a light kick with my shoe, and he answers on the first ring.

“Is your luggage a tan hard case with a wonky wheel?” Honestly, it must be his because that’s pretty much how I’d describe him. Like man, like suitcase. (I’m using the wonky wheel as a metaphor for his weird sense of hu—for his unwelcome opinions.)

He lets out a long breath. “Yeah, that’s the one. I’ll come by withyours. Unless you want to do the switch in a dark alley like a spaghetti Western?”

See? Wonky wheel. He wants the helpless tourist scared out of her mind. Possibly lost. Whatever it’ll take to make me run home to Boston.

After he tells me he’s on his way, I google his address since I still remember it from the luggage forms. It’s only three blocks from here, and he said earlier this was urgent, so I wait with it downstairs, settling on the couch since the bar-restaurant off the lobby closes early on Sunday evenings.

Sixty-one minutes later, my neck starts to heat, and I clench my teeth. I’m wasting my evening when he could have been here in five minutes—it’s not the point that I’m exhausted and content to be scrolling my phone in the deserted lobby. He probably thinks a tourist stuck in her hotel is one less tourist making a mess in his city.

Finally, he opens the hotel door. I stand, glaring across the space at him. He must feel my annoyance from his side of the room because he whistles the opening measures of the soundtrack toThe Good, the Bad and the Ugly. We face off, eyes narrowed.

He pushes my wheeled suitcase across the wood floor toward me, like this is a hostage exchange at an abandoned mine. So I shove his suitcase to him.

I hold my breath—the suitcases are barreling along, set to pass about a foot apart. At the last second, the crooked wheel sticks, throwing it off course. His suitcase tackles mine, bringing them both to the floor in a heap.

On accident, my exhale comes out as a laugh. We meet at the crime scene in the middle of the lobby.

“Thanks for bringing it over,” I say. It’s a type of conversational hustle. Start positive, then zing. “Did you get lost?”

“No.” The word lingers.

“Was the suitcase too heavy to manage?”

“No, why?” He frowns.

“Just trying to work out why it took you over an hour to walk three blocks.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You memorized my address?” His voice is carefully neutral, but there’s an intense question in his eyes.

“You took my phone number. And you’re deflecting.” I fold my arms.

“I was at dinner across town.” He’s looking at me, as focused as he was at the airport, and his stormy expression does something uncomfortable to my stomach. “I left before dessert.” He pulls a small package wrapped in wax paper out of his bag and passes it to me. “My grandma sent you one of her homemade cannoli Siciliani.”

A sigh slips out until I’m drained of annoyance, leaving me empty. Cannoli are my favorite dessert. Mom and I ordered them in Boston’s North End every month when I was a kid.

I stare at the wrapped cannolo, precious, fragile, and sweet. I will have to eat it alone. This moment is what I was most afraid of in coming to Italy, why I tried to plan my time here within an inch of its life. But there’s no way to prepare for the crippling loneliness and loss when it hits in the form of a single cannolo.

Mom’s letters left a piece of her with me, kept her memory alive in every second I wondered what she had to say to me. What am I going to doafterItaly, when all the letters are opened, when she’s still gone and there’s nothing left?