Page 30 of The Roman Holiday Rule

“Saw that.” Luca tilts his head back and finishes off the Fanta.

“A tan hard case with a wonky wheel,” I murmur. That’s what Lexington called it, and I’m pretty sure she meant it to describe both meandthe suitcase.

“Huh?” Luca stops smashing the bottle, and I take it from him.

“Nothing.” I don’t need a repeat of this evening’s cross-examination at dinner. I can’t mention Lexington, as much as I want to unload to Luca how crazy I am about—how crazy she makes me.

“What does wonky mean?”

I twang the taut rubber band and center the squashed Fanta in the middle. “Oh, that’s a good word to learn.” Luca has guessed my goal to make him sound like an ’80’s kid from the ’burbs, but so far, despite telling an American customer he’s as busy as a bee, he manages to stay cool. I’m not giving up. “Off-center. Weird.”

I pull the Fanta back and let it fly from my makeshift slingshot to the corner recycling bin. Bull’s-eye. Measuring spaces and calculating angles is my life skill. Also, it’s a small room and the bottle ricocheted off both walls first.

Yeah. Lexington definitely meant me.

Luca rests his forearms on his knees. “You have that almost-smile on your face. The secret one that means you find something funny you shouldn’t, and you know you can’t laugh.”

He’s right. Lexington and her quirky metaphors can’t be a source of delight for me. A source of angst and frustration, maybe. A force to be reckoned with. A competitor to gain victory over. Nothing more.

To prove it, I pull out my phone and typeI’m going to win our bet. Before I can think twice about my fourth-grade behavior, I hit send.

Restless, I jump from the chair. “Come on, let’s head out.”

Luca looks at me from heavily lidded eyes. “Why? It’s after midnight.”

“To photograph the city.” Get a bet-winning photo. Do something besides sit in my apartment and think about Lexington. “Deserted streets and all that.” I’m coursing with get-Lexington-out-of-my-system energy, and the moon is full. I head to my room and assemble my camera.

When I emerge, the heavy device slung around my neck, Luca has a spare pair of my tennis shoes on, but his arms are crossed, and his head is tilted at the angle that saysyou’re fortunate I like you. Even though he never says no to people (except the time he left a promising career in architecture and wouldn’t explain why), that doesn’t mean he’s always cheerful about it.

I clap his shoulder and shake it. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“In bed,” he mumbles, his body moving like Gumby, smooth and flexible with minimal movement, but he follows me out into the sparkling night.

“You’re the one who showed up here instead of going home.” There’s too much light pollution to see the stars, but the moon is bright and the streets are empty. It’s the slow, honest hour.

Luca follows me, pausing each time I stop for a photograph. When I take a picture at the hotel near the Fontana delle Rane, his eyebrows raise past his hairline.

Yes, fine, historically I’ve made a stink about the overabundance of hotels. “This is an old, reconstructed villa with amazing lines and classic atmosphere.” It also happens to be where Lexington is staying.

At least the tree-lined street is calm and quiet with its row of tiny parked cars like soldiers guarding the sleeping residents. Some places seem fine by day and turn seedy at night.

Luca still doesn’t look convinced that I’m checking out the hotel for artistic reasons.

“If tourists have to be somewhere in the city, I’d rather they be sleeping than wandering around.” Weak excuse, Mark. Very weak.

“I’d ratheryousleep,” Luca mutters.

I make a point to take some shots of the frog statues spitting into the fountain in the center of the traffic circle. They’re a lot creepier at night.

My phone chirps. I let the message burn a hole in my pocket. No way am I looking at it right now because I can guess who is also up because of jet lag.

But Luca heard the notification. “Who is texting you at one in the morning? Is it an American?”

The way he draws the word out, insinuating there’s a love interest there, has me flinching, which I cover by taking a random shot I can delete later.

“No idea.” I keep a pace ahead of my cousin, my face in shadows.

The moon is bold and barefaced, like my lie. I catch it lingering between buildings at the top of a narrow street. While I adjust my lens, Luca reaches for my phone in my pocket.