Page 74 of The Roman Holiday Rule

Finally.

We’ve touched over the last week, but mostly impersonal handshakes or accidents. This is nothing like that. This is possession. Belonging. Warmth. And a very intimate type of communication. It requires matching our rhythm and staying close. It makes us a pair.

I glance up at him. The corner of his mouth lifts, and now he’s gently rubbing my wrist with his thumb. I might have trouble keeping pace with him if my spine doesn’t firm up and grow a backbone.

I take back what I said earlier. Melting is very nice too.

The game is dead. We walk and talk for hours. (Don’t roll your eyes. Clichés are still worth at least a half point.) He tells me all about the palazzo he’s hoping to renovate, and how much he wants to get his dad to visit and reconcile with his grandfather, and I tell him stories about Julie and I starting our business, my impressions of Italy, and only a brief mention of Mom’s illness. Nothing super deep, but everything we say has the sound of promise in it, like dropping a pebble in a cave you’re about to explore.

It’s on the verge of my tongue so many times to tell him who my mom is, but I hold back and keep to my plan to tell him after the vernissage. As much as it doesn’t make sense—grief never does—I want to keep Mom and Mark separate for a bit longer. Part of me is afraid that mixing them will negate this trip, like making Mom a third wheel when it was supposed to be a mother-daughter week, even though it kills me to know they’ll never meet.

We part ways outside the restaurant where I’m meeting Julie for dinner. Mark has work to do since he took the whole afternoon off to be with me, and tomorrow he has some event all evening. We don’t discuss when we’ll see each other again, but our eyes make plans, and that’s enough for now.

After I’m seated at a wooden table in a quaint, brick courtyard shaded with potted palms and flowering bushes, I shoot a message off to the Ninth King of Rome.

Sorry, change of plans. We decided to have the contest live at the Roma Festival.

He writes me back immediately.

Bummer. I was looking forward to seeing that play out.

I invite him to stop by the museum where the bet photos will be if he’s in the city during the festival—he does claim to be the king of Rome, after all—and put in his vote.

Maybe I will. Either way, keep me in the loop.

I breathe in the apricot-sweet smell of oleander flowers, waiting for Julie, alone with my thoughts for the first time today.

Despite my resolutions, I ditched the Vatican tour, again. I took no pictures of famous spots. Mark and I went nowhere in particular and did nothing but laugh and share. On my spreadsheet, it’d look like a waste of time in Rome, but I felt so engaged and alive.

This is not the Italy I imagined. I am not walking around mourning or decoding Mom’s letters or finding the temple.

This Italy is better, and I don’t know what to think about that.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, but she’s not here to hear it.

Forty-One

Mark

Unfortunately,a guy has to work, even if he chafes at every wasted hour not spent with a hypothetical tourist during her limited time in Rome.

On Friday afternoon, I leave the office early to pick up my car. My friend texted this morning that they were leaving Positano, and we agreed to meet at my apartment at noon for the transfer.

Halfway home while I’m waiting at a crosswalk, a text rumbles my phone. I used to not be so phone-obsessed, but the possibility that Lexington might have written has me yanking it from my pocket like it’s on fire.

Car broke down outside of Naples. Looking for a mechanic. Sorry.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead. Trying to find an available mechanic in Naples on a Friday afternoon midsummer? Sounds like the setup for a bad joke.

Arranging alternate transportation to my aunt and uncle’s house is going to be a problem. The light turns, and I stride across the street.Am I moving faster? Am I scrambling in any way? No. Being stuck in Rome doesn’t sound that bad.

I’ll give you one guess why.

But Nonnareallywants me there. And it does happen to be a party in my honor. So I better do my best to work this out.

Walking faster now, I call Luca.

He answers with, “You don’t have your car, do you?”