“Great.” Lucy felt like ripping her list into little pieces. “And what does Ellen recommend we do tomorrow?”
“She mentioned Santa Croce,” Charlene said.
Lucy stared at her blankly.
“It’s a medieval church, with all sorts of important art, plus the tombs of lots of famous Italians. Michelangelo, for one.”
“Famous dead Italians?” Lucy said.
If Charlene heard the sarcasm in her voice, she didn’t let on. “You know, Ellen is really helpful. She’s a good connection to have. Wouldn’t it be great to write for Wanderlust? Then you could come back to Europe for free.”
Remembering the B she’d gotten in her high school creative writing class, Lucy shrugged. Somehow she didn’t think Wanderlust would be breaking her door down with plane tickets and cash anytime soon.
“They accept photographs, too,” Charlene said.
Lucy turned away to hide her impatience. Charlene’s photos always came out better than hers. “You should submit something.”
“You should, too,” Charlene said, but Lucy could tell she was just being polite.
After her shower, Lucy settled back onto her bed and stared up at the ceiling. It wasn’t even dark out yet. From the piazza just beyond the window, voices wafted up, calling to one another in rapid Italian. Listening to them, feeling the seconds ebb away, Lucy once again felt restless. My vacation is almost over, she thought. I traded away my future as an actor for it, and soon it will be in the past. She reached over to the nightstand for her copy of Wanderlust, managing to knock it to the floor with a noisy thwap.
Charlene sighed. “How can you not be tired?”
“I honestly don’t know.” Then, as though the idea had just occurred to her, she added, “Maybe I should go out for another walk? So you can get some peace and quiet.”
“You wouldn’t mind?” Charlene asked.
“Not at all.” And as though she’d been granted a leave from prison, Lucy dressed quickly, ducked out into the hallway, and hurried down the stairs, not knowing where she was going but wanting to get there as soon as possible.
The lobby was quiet. On her way out, Lucy caught sight of someone familiar behind the check-in desk. It was Nello’s roommate, still with his earbuds in, restlessly tapping the desktop as if it were a piano keyboard. When he caught sight of her his fingers froze and he looked at her expectantly, as though he hoped she might say hello. Should she?
Lucy recalled how unfriendly he’d been just a few hours earlier. Too bad he’s such a jerk, she thought, taking note again of his dark-lashed eyes and glossy hair. Flustered, she looked down at the map in her hands. Before things could get any more awkward, she darted out through the glass double doors into the night.
III
The next morning, after the best night’s sleep they’d had in weeks, Lucy and Charlene felt a lot less cranky. They lingered over breakfast in the Bertolini’s dining room—croissants, Nutella, and cup after cup of coffee with warm milk—then headed up Via de’ Tornabuoni, toward Santa Croce and their first full day of sightseeing in Florence. The morning air cool on her skin, Lucy felt hopeful and energized, even as she struggled to keep pace with her long-legged friend.
“So what did you do last night after I passed out?” Charlene asked when they paused on a street corner, waiting for the light to change. Her pink T-shirt picked up the hint of sunburn on the bridge of her nose.
“Not much,” Lucy said. “I just kind of wandered.” Being out in Florence again had made her feel calmer. She’d returned to the Arno, crisscrossed its bridges, and gazed into store windows, admiring the displays of handmade paper and leather jackets. Every so often, when her feet began to ache, she would find a place to sit and watch the world pass by—the tourists with their complicated cameras, the families, the young couples hanging on to each other’s hands.
When it arrived, the sunset—orange with streaks of red—was so beautiful it made her heart ache. She found herself longing for someone, anyone, to watch it with. After dark she’d wandered back to the Bertolini, hoping to find fellow travelers to hang out with, but the common area was empty and the front desk had shut down for the night. Later, as she listened in the dark to Charlene’s steady breathing, she couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere nearby, something exciting was happening without her.
“There’s one thing I’d absolutely love to do tonight,” she told Charlene. “Let’s find a nightclub and go dancing.”
Charlene didn’t answer.
“I know clubbing’s not your thing,” Lucy added. They’d had this conversation before, more than once. Charlene hated loud music and having to shout in order to make small talk. She didn’t like dancing, or crowds, or being around drunk people. But Lucy, who had never even been to a club, couldn’t help wanting to try it at least once. And when would she ever get another chance to go to a real European nightclub? Probably never. “It would just be one time. We can leave right away if you hate it.”
“I already know I’ll hate it,” Charlene said.
“We might even meet some guys. Wouldn’t that be nice?” For a second, Lucy thought Charlene would have to agree with her, at least on this one small count. Along the way they’d met and hung out with so many cute guys that they’d come up with a name for the experience: vacation flirtation. And Charlene had seemed to enjoy flirting every bit as much as Lucy had.
So Lucy was shocked to see Charlene grimace. “I’m really not in the mood.”
“Since when?”
Charlene didn’t respond.
Then Lucy remembered the last time she’d seen a genuine smile on her friend’s face: the day before yesterday. The two of them had been wandering the streets of Munich with Simon, an easygoing, jokey Brit, Charlene’s most recent vacation flirtation. In fact, he’d been more of a full-fledged romance, or so it had seemed from the outside. Lucy, whose own flirtations had never advanced even so far as a first kiss, had been a little jealous, but also happy to see her friend having so much fun.
Lucy and Charlene had met Simon at the Tent, a hostel made up of white circus tents strung together by party lights. When they arrived, they found a huge crackling bonfire surrounded by backpackers. One strummed a guitar, playing an old Cat Stevens song, while the others sang along. Lucy’s heart had warmed at the sight. Staying at the Tent had been her idea. She’d read about the place online; travelers who had stayed there raved about how funky and colorful it was. Though funky wasn’t exactly Charlene’s style, Lucy somehow had convinced her to give the place a try. As they scouted out a quiet spot in the main tent, Charlene was ominously quiet. She doesn’t like it, Lucy thought. She’ll have a miserable time and it will be all my fault.
But just as they were spreading their bedrolls out, a tall, redheaded guy on the next mat over turned to introduce himself. “I’m Simon,” he’d said, holding out a big, warm hand for each of them to shake. “Welcome to the Tent.”
“Are you the official greeting committee?” Charlene had asked with a sultry smile. Given Charlene’s usual businesslike manner, it had surprised Lucy to learn what a good flirt she could be when she felt like it. With her long legs and sleek blond hair, she turned heads everywhere they went, a fact Lucy tried hard not to resent.
“At your service.” Simon had scooched his bedroll closer to theirs, and from that point on he’d been their sightseeing buddy. The next morning he’d taken them to Marienplatz to see the famous glockenspiel strike the hour. They stood in the crowd, oohing and aahing while the bell tower’s life-size knights jousted, and he’d seemed to enjoy it as much as they did, even though he’d already seen the show more than once. While he was friendly with both of them, by lunchtime it was pretty clear that he and Charlene were clicking.
“You two go have lunch together,” Lucy said when Simon went off to buy them each a water. “I don’t mind seeing Munich by myself.”
“What?” Charlene asked, her eyes sparkling in a way Lucy hadn’t seen before. “I would never d
esert you.”
“I wouldn’t feel deserted,” Lucy had replied, but Charlene waved her off. Simon squired the two of them all over Munich and then to dinner, and though he and Charlene tried to include her in their conversation, Lucy felt more and more like a third wheel. That night at the Tent, she excused herself and wandered over to the campfire sing-along. When she got back, she found Simon’s bedroll parked side by side with Charlene’s, the two of them cuddling under a single blanket.
“Simon wants us to have more time together,” Charlene confessed to Lucy the next morning as they waited in line for a shower.
“But we’re leaving for Italy tomorrow night.”
“That’s what I told him,” Charlene said.
“I know! He could come with us to Florence,” Lucy offered after a moment’s consideration. “How romantic would that be?”
“No.” Charlene looked uncomfortable. “He wants us to be alone together.”
“Oh,” Lucy said.
“He’s leaving tomorrow for Mittenwald, where some friends of his have a house. They’re out of the country and they said he could use it.” She delivered this information quickly, as though it were somehow embarrassing.
“Oh,” Lucy said again. She thought a moment. “You said yes, I hope.”
Charlene’s nostrils flared. “Of course not.”
“But you like him.” Lucy gaped at her friend. “This is your chance to have a real vacation romance!”
“We’ve only just met,” Charlene said. “I hardly know him.”
“That’s what a vacation romance is,” Lucy said.
“Besides, what kind of friend would I be if I just left you?”
Lucy shuffled her feet, her flip-flops squeaking on the bathhouse floor. “I would be fine,” she said. “We could meet up later in Rome. Or even at the airport.”
Charlene didn’t reply.
“In your shoes, I would go,” Lucy said.
“You’re just saying that,” Charlene said. “I know for a fact you wouldn’t.”
“But I absolutely would.”
Charlene’s mouth twisted. “Well, I’m not going to ditch you. Especially not for some guy I’ll never see again after we fly home.”
“You might see him again,” Lucy said. “You never know. Maybe he’ll come to Philadelphia someday. Or you could do a semester in London.”
“Oh, Lucy.” Charlene’s tone implied that Lucy was being naïve and impractical. And Lucy, whose father often accused her of being both, looked away, annoyed. I tried, she thought as she showered in water that could have been a lot warmer. The rest of that day, Lucy tagged along after Simon and Charlene, looking politely away as they held hands, and even as they made out in the English Garden. Get a room, you two, she was tempted to say, but she figured Charlene probably wouldn’t appreciate the joke.
The next morning at the train station, Lucy guarded Simon’s luggage as he and Charlene shared a long good-bye kiss. After the train pulled away, Simon waving out the window like a hero in a black-and-white movie, Charlene refused to talk any more about him. Instead, she spent the long walk back to the Tent hatching her plan to book a private room at the Bertolini.
Remembering all this, Lucy slowed to a stop on the crowded sidewalk. “Are you upset about Simon?”
“What?” Charlene looked shocked. “No.”
“Because you’ve been…” Lucy searched for an inoffensive word. “Different. Ever since he left for Mittenwald.”
“Different?” Charlene asked, hands on her hips.
Bitchy, Lucy thought. “Less happy,” she said.
“I’ve been sleep deprived,” Charlene said. “And homesick.”
“You’ve been homesick?” Lucy asked. Charlene had never seemed homesick before. “Are you sure this isn’t about Simon?”
Charlene’s nostrils quivered. “Stop trying to turn something little into some kind of big deal.”
“I wasn’t,” Lucy said. “I just thought…” But she couldn’t seem to finish the thought. “In your shoes…”
“You’ve never been in my shoes,” Charlene said. Then, without warning, she stomped off, faster than Lucy could follow.
And Lucy, who had meant to be nice, stood for a long moment in the middle of the sidewalk while people flowed around her. By the time she reached the corner, Charlene had vanished, taking the street map with her.
Does she expect me to run after her? Lucy thought. I never even wanted to go to Santa Croce in the first place. For the first time on her trip, Lucy felt a bit homesick herself.
IV
Because she couldn’t stand alone on a street corner forever, Lucy picked a direction at random and took it. I might as well do whatever makes me happy, she told herself, though happy wasn’t exactly the word for how she was feeling. Each time she reached a corner, she looked both ways and chose whichever direction looked more inviting. On Via del Corso, she paused before a boutique window of haute couture jumpsuits and imagined Charlene pacing in front of Santa Croce, looking at her watch and wondering when Lucy was going to catch up.
Before long, Lucy found herself in a piazza she hadn’t seen before, with a massive stone archway on one side. Cafés lined the other sides. She lingered, watching a child run with a balloon, scattering pigeons into flight. A glint of mirrors caught her eye—the decorations on an oddly silent carousel. Its wooden horses were almost empty. Lucy fumbled for her camera. The piazza swirled, all light and heat and motion, on her screen. I bet I’m having more fun than Charlene, she told herself glumly.
Somewhere in the crowd, a street musician was singing and playing an acoustic guitar—a song Lucy vaguely recognized but couldn’t name. She wandered in the direction of the music, taking snapshots as she went. As she approached, the song ended and another began—one she’d heard just a few weeks ago, back home on the radio in Philadelphia.
Lucy smiled for the first time that morning and moved in closer, stepping through the shifting crowd. Street musicians—buskers, Simon had called them—were one of the things she liked most about Europe. She had been drawn to the old man with the violin who had played on the Champs-Élysées in Paris, and to the Bolivian panpipe players and cellists she’d heard on the streets of Munich. How many times had she dug in her pocket for change only to have Charlene tug at her arm?
“They’re begging,” Charlene would say.
“They’re working.” And Lucy would toss a twenty- or fifty-cent piece in the violin case or nearby hat, even though Charlene had made her feel foolish for enjoying the show.
Today, though, Charlene wasn’t there to spoil her fun, so Lucy drew closer to the source of the music. A smattering of people surrounded the young man with the guitar. She maneuvered her way through the crowd, hiding out near the back, then slipping a bit closer, her camera at the ready.
The singer had a warm, deep voice, and Lucy had to hold herself back from singing along. The song ended and she was reaching into her pocket for loose change when the couple in front of her picked up their daypacks and slipped away. Nudging forward into their vacated place, Lucy lifted her camera. She got a shot or two as the musician bent to gather up a five-euro note somebody had flung at his feet. Dark, longish hair obscured his face. Just as she emerged from behind the camera, he straightened and caught her eye.
Shockingly, it was someone she knew. How could that be, in a city where she knew hardly anyone? From his expression, she could tell he recognized her, too. It was Jesse—Nello’s roommate. He looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him.
“You,” she said. She didn’t mean to be rude, but that was the first word that popped into her mind.
“You,” he replied. “How’s your new room?”
Was this a reproach? She wasn’t sure. “I like it,” she said.
“Good.” Then he smiled—a wary smile, but not at all sarcastic. He might not be her favorite person in the world, but bumping into him like this when she’d been arguing with Charlene made him feel, oddly enough, like a
n old friend.
Lucy dimpled in return. “The view’s great,” she added. “Thank you for trading with us.” Bystanders were watching them now. Somehow she’d become part of Jesse’s act.
“You’re all by yourself?” Jesse scanned the crowd. “Where’s your friend?”
“I lost her.” But this wasn’t the whole truth. “Or maybe she ditched me. I seem to be driving her crazy. Actually, it’s mutual.”
Jesse cocked his head to one side and looked at her intently, as though hoping she would say more. With his dark, long-lashed eyes and Roman nose, he really did look Italian; it hadn’t been as stupid a mistake on Lucy’s part as she’d feared.
Feeling shy, she changed the subject. “You’re a street musician? I thought you worked at the hostel.” Around them, the crowd was losing interest and moving away. “I’m sorry. I should let you play.”
But he seemed in no hurry to go back to work. “I busk for fun. Not that the extra money isn’t useful.” He strummed his guitar and the chord shimmered through the square. “But I can take a break and help you find your friend.”
Lucy felt the niceness of this offer spread through her like warmth. Had she read him wrong? “I’d rather stay lost,” she said. “Please play another song.”
So he did, a Nico Rathburn tune that just happened to be one of Lucy’s favorites, and the crowd assembled again, a few of them coming up close to drop coins in Jesse’s gig bag. When the song was over and the people started to disperse, Jesse began packing up his guitar. “Let’s get out of here.” He pocketed his earnings and slung the gig bag over his shoulder. “This heat is killing me. How about a gelato?”
Gelato was yet another thing Lucy adored about Europe. Here in Florence, every other storefront seemed to be a gelateria, with colorful mountains of ice cream—melon, coconut, strawberry, dark chocolate, hazelnut, pistachio, lemon—glistening inside glass cases, the perfect antidote to the torpor of late July. Lucy could have eaten it for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert. “That would be wonderful.”