I said, “In South Sudan, that’s a lullaby.”
The sadness on Zach’s face showed me a lot about him. He stopped eating, and so did I. And then, without our realizing that the full moon had been eclipsed by clouds, the sky opened up, dropping heavy rain on the awning.
Waiters poured out of the restaurant and began moving the tables and customers away from the loud and slashing rain. Zach said, “What do you say we get outta here?”
I stood up, and we ducked into the trattoria. And I remembered when I was in the camp, the heat radiating in waves off everything, and there wasn’t enough clean water for drinking. And I had asked God to make it rain.
He does things in His own time.
Chapter 29
WE WERE on Zach’s shiny red Vespa, tearing up the ancient roads and boulevards of modern-day Rome. My arms were around his waist, I was pressing hard against his back, and the hot air was just about blowing my eyelashes off.
Zach turned his head to look at me, and I shouted at him, “Eyes on the road!”
I had been in Rome for two weeks, and after my self-enforced week of lockdown in the Hewitts’ apartment, I now had a very engaging play pal who had wheels and a lot of free time.
As it turned out, Zach knew Rome but didn’t speak much Italian. I knew Italian well but didn’t know Rome at all.
Perfect combo.
Every day at about ten, after Zach had checked in with the Times, he picked me up at the Hewitts’, and we went for a ride. Since our first self-guided tour, I’d seen a lot of Rome at sixty miles an hour: the Pantheon and Trevi Fountain, the Colosseum and the remains of the Circus Maximus. But I’d avoided Vatican City. I just wasn’t ready to confront the hub of the Roman Catholic Church.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Right now, we had the wind in our faces. The river rolled on to our left, and we were weaving through crazy traffic on Lungotevere Raffaello Sanzio. A couple of turns later, we were on Via del Moro, and we followed it along cute cobblestoned streets flanked by Italian-ice-colored buildings. We made our way to the center of Trastevere, the picture-perfect Piazza di Santa Maria.
Zach parked the scooter at the northwest side of the enclosed plaza, shut down the engine, and removed his helmet. He looked wild. His hair was matted down, his goggles had left white circles around his eyes, and his grin was almost maniacal.
Call me crazy, but he looked pretty hot.
I saw that he wanted to kiss me, but I smiled and handed him my helmet. Then I stretched out my hand, and he helped me off the Vespa.
The Caffè di Marzio was further perfection. We were shown seats at a small table under the awning with a full-on view of the fountain and the clock tower across the square. We ordered lunch from Giovanni, a young man with a mustache and Amo Angelina tattooed on his biceps, and he returned to our table with a bottle of Sangiovese.
We were sitting shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, and by the time the pasta arrived, we had each put down a glass of wine and were working on a second. Heat lightning flashed back and forth between us—which was both fun and unnerving.
He said, “You know you have a two-part laugh?”
“I have what?”
“Yeah. You start way up here with a giggle, and then it drops to a belly laugh. That just kills me, Red.”
I became self-conscious. I didn’t know what to say.
But Zach wasn’t going to let my silence drag on. He was a reporter, after all, and he could handle a little glitch in the repartee. He topped up my wineglass and said, “You know, you haven’t told me your plans. Like, where are you headed from here?”
I pictured the interior of the O.R. at Kind Hands. I knew every windowless inch of it. There was no view of the future.
Zach said into the lengthening silence, “Let me put that another way. Are you planning to stay in Rome?”
I said, “I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do next. I might take myself on a world tour.”
Why leave Rome? Why leave Zach?
He was smart and funny, and he was honestly trying to get to know me even as I pushed him away.
He said, “Oh. That sounds like fun.”
Clearly, that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He leaned in and reached for his glass. His knee touched mine, and the electricity just shot through me.
I was this close to leaning against his shoulder and tucking my head under his chin. But I didn’t want to start what I knew damn well I couldn’t finish.
Zach said, “You’re a funny girl, Brigid. You won’t tell me where you’re going or where you’ve been.”
I wanted to give him something.
I said, “I really should tell you what it was like in South Sudan.”
Chapter 30