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“Glad we’re at an understanding.” I smile, tilting my head.
“So, obviously, you’ll go in disguise. I think you already have one, so that’s good. You can fake your identity and enroll in the right year, but I don’t recommend you faking documents and previous education history. We’ll get you to start on November 4, it’s a Monday, so that will work. Does that sound good?” He plans. That’s less than a week away, so I guess that works. I can have everything ready by then.
“Yes, that works. Can I go now?” I say, taking my jacket off the back of the chair.
“Go. The team and I will finalize the details and I’ll be in touch. Sleep well.”
I stand up, putting both hands through the sleeves of the jacket.
“You don’t have to remind me.” I say, then leave the office.
I walk outside, the breeze hitting me suddenly. I spot my car at what seems like a thousand steps away.God, my car could never be further.I just want to get home. If anyone calls me or tells me to do something, I’m going to faint. No, I’m going to smack them in the head, then I’m going to faint. At least that’s what I plan. I’m halfway to my car when I hear a voice behind me.
“Hey fiore mio.”
I turn around to see a guy leaning on his car, pushing off it and walking closer. His figure gives me a sense of familiarity.
“I expected to find you here. Miss me, or should I have waited longer?”
I remember that voice. It might differ slightly, but I’d recognize that deep tone anywhere. He walks into the sunlight, giving me the ability to see his features. His black messy hair sits slightly above his eyebrows, and his dark green eyes appear to make his face glisten. He’s wearing a brown knitted turtleneck with black pants, accompanied by a belt. His beige coat hangs from his arm, and he stands with both hands in his pockets as he grins. A smile grows on my face, igniting all my nonexistent energy.
“Lorenzo!”
Chapter 2 – Ottantatré
Val
“It’s so nice to see you again!” I exclaim. Lorenzo Russo is the son of Amara Manual, the owner of Artsy, a fancy fashion designer company in Portland, and Pierre Russo, who founded the company ‘Capital Zero’, a bank holding company. Lorenzo is also my greatest—and only—best friend.
“I know. Two years has felt like forever,” he responds, his face beaming. Lorenzo has been my friend for five years. His parents divorced when he was little, and his mother took custody of him, taking him to Portland with her, while his dad stayed in Los Angeles. He works as an assistant with his mother, as both a clothes designer and a model. He doesn’t have a good relationship with his father, but he visits every now and then.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” I ask.
“I wanted to surprise you. It didn’t look like you were going to come to Portland any time soon, anyway,” he explains.
“I know. I really tried to find time, but I’m so busy these days. I barely have time to sleep,” I mention, shifting in my seat.
“I figured that much considering you looked dead yesterday,” he reminds me. I barely even remember yesterday because of how tired I was. I thought I’d been dreaming when I first saw him approach me at my car. It wasn’t until I got his text, asking me to meet him here, that I realized it was real.
“Sorry about that. You didn’t exactly have the best timing. I swore I was going to punch you in the face until I figured out it was you calling me. Anyone else would’ve gotten a black eye.”
He laughs, lifting his right leg and folding it up on the chair as he leans back.
The cafe we’re sitting in is rather small, which is better because it means less people. Brown and beige table sets scatter the small space. Next to the entrance is the cashier, divided by a wooden block. The walls and ceiling are all painted in an off-white color, painted lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling by a cable. The place is rather calm, and there’s only us and two other people sitting at another table inside. However, the drinks are great, so it’s my go-to cafe when I need somewhere to go as just Valentina.
A waiter comes over, setting our drinks on the table in front of us. Lorenzo takes a sip of his before asking, “How are you even here? In a café, in the open?”He exaggerates both his tone and his facial features.
“This café isn’t well-known, neither is how to get here. That’s why I said it had to be this one.” I take a sip out of the iced coffee in front of me. “Iced coffee addict,” as Lorenzo once called me.
“I can’t believe you get to say stuff like that now. Like, my best friend is so famous she has to go to secret cafés.” He brags, making me giggle. And it’s all because of him. I never would’ve taken the chance of presenting myself in the media if it weren’t for his disregard for the consent of videoing and publishing worknot owned by him. It was mine, don’t worry. He gave me credit, no one needs to arrest him.
Two years ago, I wasn’t in the best mental state, and I dropped out of school and locked myself at home. Music—writing it, playing it, listening to it—all of it helped me a lot. One of the times, Lorenzo got a video of one of my songs, and posted it online. Now, with Lorenzo’s name, which wasn’t as strong then but still was because of his father, the video was bigger than expected. So, here I am, making more music, except I’m not locked in a room now.
“So, how long are you staying?”
“Until after New Year’s. January 11, to be specific.” He tells me. After the new year? That means two months.
“You’re staying for two months?” I say, surprised. Portland isn’t that far; I didn’t expect him to come for two whole months.
