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“Kim-ly?”
“Yeah.”
“Mal, I’m sogonefor her. She’s so cute. Out of my league.”
I nod. “Yeah, a bit.” She punches me on the arm, and we both laugh in what feels like not just amusement but also relief. And then I blurt out: “Will you stay for the championship?”
“Dude. You think I came to Italy for a heart-to-heart and now I’m turning around?”
“You have school.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I can’t ask you to take off two weeks for me.”
“That’s fine. Since I’m offering.”
I close my eyes, feeling my chest swell. “I love you. And I’m sorry. And I missed you.” I’m tearing up again. It’s like crying once tore down what used to be a very architectonically sound dam: in the past month I’ve sobbed while watchingMy Girl, after Darcy’s teacher told me that my sister is gifted, when Sabrina won her derby meet. I’m a crier now. Maybe I always was.
“I missed you, too.”
“Easton, I . . .” I sniffle. “I’m never going to win this stupid championship.”
“Maybe not. But it doesn’t matter. You’re doing the thing you always wanted the most, surrounded by people you love, while sharing a room with yours truly— who, by the way, recently redeveloped sleep terrors. Lucky you.” She twines her fingers with mine, like she used to when we were little. “Mal. Youalreadywon.”
We fall asleep like that: my hand in hers, and our hair tangled together across the pillows.
I SPEND THE NEXT MORNING BEING A TOURIST WITH EASTON,and it feels like taking our friendship for a joyride.
It starts a little rocky: we ask the concierge directions for the Trevi Fountain and are met with a scandalized look and the revelation that it’s actually in Rome, some five hundred kilometerssouth. But it moves up when we manage to make our way to Piazza San Marco, get pecked by a horde of pigeons, end up furiously scrubbing bird shit from our clothes.
After the second person asks me for an autograph, we buy two pairs of cheap, heart- shaped sunglasses and spend fortyfive minutes browsing for a murrina for Kim-ly. We ask the shop owner, “What’s most suited for someone whose favorite singersongwriter is Taylor Swift and whose favorite director is Ari Aster?” and are left to our own devices when he pretends not to understand English. We eat three breakfasts. “Like the Hobbits,” we keep saying, sinking our teeth into baci di dama and bignes and frittelle. It’s not really that funny of a joke, but just being together again is intoxicating, and we giggle over it for two whole bridges.
Look at us.
Who would have thought.
Not me.
We’re attempting a selfie on the Ponte di Rialto when Kim-ly texts a simpleHey, how’s Italy?
The bridge is packed with tourists trying to get a good view, but we spend twenty minutes taking space on the banister, formulating the perfect response.
“Don’t sendthat— add that you miss her,” I insist, trying to steal Easton’s phone.
“Too clingy.”
“She sent you aheart.”
“Agreenheart, which meansnothing.”
“Oh my God.” I laugh. “You’re an idiot. I love it.”
“Shut up.” Her cheeks are rosy, not just from the cold. “By the way, when are we talking about Sawyer?”
“Never.” I glance away, taking in once again the pretty houses packed together and the stunning view of the Gran Canal.
“Ha.”
