Chapter Twenty-Seven Caroline

We are at the Vatican, my senses under full-scale assault. Art, people, colors, patterns, words, smiles that feel like tiny darts to my injured heart. Our tour guide has so many words, so many smiles, and I can tell she wants me to reciprocate them.

I stray back. I don’t have words for her, let alone smiles.

The floors swirl in mosaics, the walls crammed with beauty. On another day I would snap photos for the Gram, but I can’t be bothered. Posting things, adding filters, arranging a pleasing grid—all of it seems trite. Like the dumbest, least meaningful thing a person could do.

Different languages chatter on by. Bodies shove mine.

I slip, falter, steady myself. No one notices.

Max is ahead, chattering with our guide, with Gabriele and Chiara close at his heels. Both Rory and Nate decided not to join our tour—small blessings. I still can’t believe… I’m still so overcome with shame that Rory knows. And anger at Nate, especially over what he said to me on the hike, when Rory and Max were wrapped up in their intense conversation. Nate and I went ahead and revealed our mutual fears about whether Ginevra Ex could have put our affair in the book. Then Nate admitted that even though he loves Rory, even though he does truly want to be with Rory, our night together meant something to him. He admitted he’d always harbored a bit of a crush on me. I made it perfectly clear to him: It meant nothing—less than nothing—to me!

So, yes, I’m quite happy Nate and Rory opted out of today. I considered it myself, but I’ve felt so strange, so unreal, like a ghost in my life, that I worried more about what I might do if I roamed Rome alone.

Max hasn’t spoken to me. Not a word since I admitted I kissed Nate. I am a ghost in more lives than just my own.

Gabriele glances back at me, his eyes creased in concern, asking if I’m okay. I nod. I try to smile. I fail.

The fervor of this place adds to the feeling of unruliness thrumming in my veins. Like I could wander away and decide to jump off a bridge. Or push someone off.

Someone in particular.

And I’m not sure which option is more appealing.

I’ve been to Rome three times before, each on my own. I am a city girl, really, ironic given that I’ve never lived anywhere other than suburban Michigan. I contemplated it when I was younger—the usual suspects of New York, London. Even Chicago. But I got a job at Nordstrom after college, and I liked it. I liked styling, and I liked blogging and posting to Instagram. I liked the convenience of strip malls, the manicurist and Starbucks barista who knew my nail preferences (square with a hint of oval) and coffee order (quadruple-shot iced Americano with almond milk and one pump of sugar-free caramel). I enjoyed the almost fluorescent greenery of my hometown, running along the lake, and reliable traditions, like the Dream Cruise in summer, when vintage cars parade down Woodward and I gather with friends to watch and drink beers.

I suppose I’ve always liked being comfortable. But it’s a paradox, because I’ve also always wanted to escape. So I used to solo travel, to Lebanon, to Bahrain, to Georgia. And if I needed to pass through Europe, I’d finagle a stopover in Rome. I prefer it to Amsterdam, to Madrid, to Paris.

My preference starts with the Italians themselves, especially the southern ones. Romans, versus the more uptight Milanese. Southern Italians are messy, but rooted in the ancient. Their streets aren’t sparkling clean; any spare surface is riddled with graffiti. And yet around every corner is a hulking two-thousand-year-old pillar. The people are loud and boisterous. I am not loud and boisterous, so it’s funny that I gravitate to them, but I do. I admire their verve, perhaps I envy it. I like that Rome is gritty and its history unparalleled, along with the most fantastic art, architecture, fashion. Sure, Paris has Chanel flats and classic tweed jackets, but Italy has excess. Gucci and family dynasties. Mafia. Intrigue.

Paris is pretentious, Amsterdam, seedy. Rome is a bit barbaric, it is true—you can almost see the blood spilled across the Forum, imagine the emperors stomping around Palatine Hill. The city doesn’t pretend to be refined.

And in the Colosseum, on our schedule for the afternoon, you can almost hear the roar of the crowds. The stampedes. The frenzy.

I would do practically anything to see the ruins of a Roman temple. To me it goes along with loving beautiful, unusual things. I covet a panther ring as much as obscure Roman ruins. It’s more than beauty and rarity, though. If I had to pin it down, it’s the chase. God, how I fucking love the chase. For me, satisfaction lies more in the process of achieving something than the having of it.

But today, as I trudge through the Raphael Rooms, I can’t muster any excitement for the chase.

“Caroline, you are okay?” Gabriele lingers back to fetch me.

“Fine.” Strange for me, who leaps to make others comfortable, that I can’t produce a more emotive reassurance.

“We are almost at the Sistine Chapel.” He says it with a smile, well-intentioned, surely. Like I can possibly enjoy it. Like my eyes can take in beauty, like I deserve to stand in the vicinity of Michelangelo’s genius.

I stop—bodies weave around me, assaulting me with their awful perfume and BO.

Unexpectedly, I hear myself say, “Did you know Michelangelo was so miserable painting the Sistine Chapel that he wrote a poem about his misery?”

Gabriele starts. I can tell his jovial face doesn’t know how to assimilate my darkness.

“Sorry.” I spot a bench, sink down. “I need a little rest. I’ll wait out here.”

“You sure?” Clearly he wants to pitch me on the fresco of God’s finger reaching toward Adam. How it’s just a few more steps. I’m almost there.

Almost thereis the crux of it. I’ve had it so often in life—almosts. Nearlys. Just around the corners…

None of it matters. None of it counts. What counts is what is here and now.

I’m tired down to my bones. My cells have no zing, no charge.

I give up. Raise the white flag. Hands in the air. Surrender.

“I’m sure.”

Gabriele nods, then gives me a sympathetic smile and returns to the group, slipping his arm around his daughter’s waist. I watch their backs all file into the chapel.

Max doesn’t turn around. Not even once.

I’m still in a daze after my rest outside, and I follow the group to lunch. Honking, people crossing the street as traffic flows, drivers swerving an inch from bodies. Swearing, from both sides. Whoever has the right of way is decidedly unclear. Suddenly I’m jostled by the crowd. I fling forward, nearly swan dive into cement.

I manage to right myself and forge on, my vision glazed, not paying attention to lights or signals.

“Caroline!” A screech, then I feel Gabriele’s grip on my arm. “Caroline, didn’t you see that car?”

“Oh.” I peel my sweaty hair off my forehead.

“It almost hit you.”

“Oh. Well! If it’s your time, it’s your time.” I realize I sound manic.

Gabriele looks at me peculiarly, doesn’t respond.

We lunch at a spot that’s supposedly the best. At this point I expect nothing less of the illustrious Ginevra Ex. Our waiter, Giuseppe, hands us laminated menus in a three-ring binder and a burgundy leather cover—so many pages it’s like reading a book, pictures and words swimming in my vision. I close the menu, ask Gabriele to order for me. He does. Platters of pizza appear, pastas. Rigatoni alla gricia. Then a dish with pork—Gabriele doesn’t know I keep kosher. I tear bread, swirl it in olive oil, swallow bites of pasta from my fork, not tasting, just eating to avoid Max’s gaze. To avoid the guide’s harmless questions. When I don’t answer, blatantly ignore her, she resorts to flattery. Your ring! Che stupendo.

I fumble with words, saying something but nothing, then excuse myself to the restroom before the guide can elaborate, pin me down for more. It’s obvious she wants a good rating at the end of this day—that she views me as the one potential holdout. Ginevra probably gives her good business, refers her, has paid her bazillions. I wish I could say: Leave me alone, and I’ll sing your praises until the end.

When I emerge from the stall, Gabriele’s daughter is at the communal restroom sink, looking in the mirror, smoothing her frizzy red hair. I smile at her, rummaging for her name.

“Chiara!” I exclaim as I remember it all of the sudden, ashamed that I’ve been touring with her all day and have been so lost inside my own problems that I haven’t made an effort at conversation. Kids intimidate me, though—so much personality. So much conviction! And they can see right through anything false. “Are you having fun today?” I ask.

Chiara frowns. “I live in Rome. It’s not like I haven’t seen the Vatican before.”

“Fair enough. Well, we’ll be on the train again soon enough.” I apply pale pink lip gloss, then press my lips together. I spot Chiara looking over longingly. “Do you want to try some?”

“Papa wouldn’t like it.”

“Ah. Too young for makeup.” My parents never cared—I was lucky if my dad grunted my name, let alone gave a thought to my welfare, and whether makeup would contribute to it.

“Not too young! He lets me have makeup, within reason. He wouldn’t want me to share your germs. He’s a neat freak.” She sighs.

“Oh, I see,” I say, nearly laughing. “Well, I think I have a fresh one in here.” I rummage in my bag, indeed find a spare for when mine runs out. “Here, you can have this.”

“Really?” She snatches it, cradles it to her chest. “Oh, wow. Oh, thank you!” She applies the gloss and appraises herself in the mirror, tilting her head one way and another.

“You look beautiful. The pink really complements your outfit.” She’s wearing a pink denim dress.

“Che figo!” Chiara gives me a great, wide, genuine smile. “That means cool.”

“Che figo!” I say, and follow her back to our table.

Then, my mood lifted, I can almost enjoy our dessert that Giuseppe delivers: something called tozzetti that look like biscotti. We make declarations about best meals and returning soon. Gabriele pays the bill on behalf of the author. We leave, walk the cobblestoned streets toward Trevi Fountain. Back in the thick heat, with everything swirling in my head, my mood plummets again. Every time I’ve been to Rome, I’ve thrown a coin into the fountain’s turquoise depths and imagined for a moment that my life was as cinematic and charmed as Audrey Hepburn’s in Roman Holiday. Believed, drunk the Kool-Aid, that maybe wishes do come true.

But I’ve never been to Rome in July on what is resolutely the worst day of my life. The city boils with tourists; and not a lingering cell within me, a solitary atom, can get behind wishes coming true. I squeeze my fists tightly at my side. Is everything in my head? I almost don’t trust myself to maintain perspective anymore. Suddenly I wish fervently that I could poof—disappear. I want off this ride… off the fucking train… off this life.…

Gabriele and Chiara have parted from us, back to check on their apartment, I think is what Gabriele said. See their dog, water plants, wielding ciaos that felt like slaps.

Max throws a coin into the fountain over his shoulder. He closes his eyes briefly, and I allow myself to stare at his long dark lashes that kiss his skin. I blink away a tear. It’s all changed.… It’s all spiraling out of control.…

When Max opens his eyes, he looks right at me, jaw square. “You gonna make a wish?”

“He speaks,” I say with a half smile.

He doesn’t smile back.

“We’re on a short schedule. We need to get to the Colosseum. And Rory texted a second ago. She’s gonna meet us there.”

Great. I know I should be happy about Rory joining, seize the opportunity for more apologies, but the truth is, I need a little space. From Rory and also from the intensifying guilt I feel in her presence. I wish I could zap myself away—away from this fountain, and away from that godawful train, where the walls are closing in on me.

“So don’t you want to make a wish before we go?” Max is practically shouting, but still his voice is faint over the gushing waters.

“I guess.” I open my wallet, rummage for a coin. Max is watching me. Our guide is watching me, too.

A wish comes. I send it helplessly to God along with the coin, flicking my wrist toward the water. It travels far, almost to the ivory statues presiding over the fountain. I find I am a little bit pleased with myself.

“What did you wish for?” Max asks as we turn to leave, weaving through a group of American tourists, easily identifiable from the blinding white of their sneakers and their T-shirts plastered with the words Italy and Rome.

“Anything good?” Max’s voice isn’t kind but also isn’t angry—just neutral, bland, like vegetable broth. Even though I know there is nothing vegetable broth about his feelings now, but for now, out in the open, he keeps them tucked away.

I think about telling him my wish, really putting everything on the table, initiating the frank conversation we need to finally have. But then I chicken out.

Instead I say quietly, “I wished for something that probably not even God has the capacity to fix.”