As Far as You'll Take Me Read online

  The shops on the Ponte Vecchio are unlike anything I’ve ever seen. They’re all old-looking jewelry shops, and the shine of gold and silver catches my eye as we walk through the bridge. Dani stops to look into the window of a shop, and I get out my phone to take a few photos of the bridge.

  “Did you know these all used to be butcher shops in the 1500s?” I ask.

  “I did not, but I was hoping we’d get a lesson from you,” Dani says with a laugh. “Wasn’t sure if his bad mood would ruin our whole tourist experience.”

  “So you noticed.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, it’s clear. Anyway, butchers. Neat.”

  “Apparently the grand duke would cross this bridge a lot and didn’t appreciate the, um, smells,” I continue. “So he put a stop to that.”

  “I don’t think I blame him.”

  The rest of our sightseeing plans quickly devolved into eating and drinking at the Italian (obviously) restaurant by our Airbnb. We ordered based on the words we could figure out and ended up with a feast complete with a five-euro jug of their finest house wine. I took a small glass and nursed it the whole evening.

  But back in our room, we’re out of distractions. There’s nowhere else to go, and I feel stuck with him in this bed. It hasn’t been a great day. But a part of me, a huge part of me, wants to be able to curl into him at the end of the day. Or to hold him close to my body and pretend we didn’t just go through a ton of annoying shit.

  He comes back from the bathroom and strips quickly to his briefs. He’s got the same smoldering glare that’s been on his face all day, but it takes on a new manifestation when he looks at me. His chest and abs are covered with coarse hair. The last time I saw him, he must have trimmed. Because now, everything seems wild.

  And I can definitely see his package, bulging out of his tight briefs. He wants me to see him. See all of him. And I’m not sure why. We’ve been anything but consistent lately, and the allure of being in Italy can’t override that. But I want to be close to him.

  He crawls into bed slowly.

  It’s weird, seeing someone confidently crawl on hands and knees, in front of another person. It’s a nightmare for me, with my still-flabby stomach. There literally couldn’t be a less flattering position.

  So I stay with my back on the bed. Sucking in my gut, for some reason. Not like he’s going to see—

  He kisses me.

  His body’s over mine, his … everything pressing into mine. I feel him through my shorts like I feel his tongue pressing into my mouth. We’ve never kissed like this. The passion’s too much—I pull him into me, and hold him close, but he fights away. He points to my shirt.

  I hesitate.

  It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for, but I’m not ready. My BMI is in the normal range but too close to overweight and the flab’s still there and I—

  He kisses me again, and reaches down to the base of my shirt. Why’s the fucking light on? He pulls the shirt slowly, tugging it to slide up my fat back, and in a moment it’s up over my stomach.

  I’m exposed. Well, sort of.

  He presses his hairy belly into mine, just lightly, and his body heat radiates through me.

  He’s pulling my shirt over my head. I can’t breathe.

  This doesn’t make up for anything.

  His lips are down to my neck now, and I’ve never felt anything like it. Feelings pulse—literally pulse—through me. From my neck, down my shoulders, teasing my back, and disappearing into the sheets. I pull his face off me. He looks at me.

  Then he looks down. At my chest, my chubby self, the growing lump in my shorts.

  “Wow,” he says. “You look good.”

  This is it.

  My goal. The moment I’ve been working toward. And it’s supposed to make me feel better.

  Because, the crash diets worked. The passing out, the naps, the depressing smile, it was all supposed to be worth it in this moment. My confidence should be roaring, urging me to press my body into his without any qualms.

  My shoulders should be pinned back.

  My smile should be huge.

  My back should be straight.

  But it’s not.

  He’s down at the foot of the bed, and his hands are on my shorts, pulling them down. I gasp—it’s too fast. We’re in a fucking fight, this can’t be my first time, and his hands are on me, all over me, but I can’t do this. I can’t, even if it’s what I thought I wanted for months.

  I’m exposed, as exposed as possible. He’s so close to me I could hit him on the chin if I flexed the right way, but it’s not … it’s not right.

  I grab his hands. “This isn’t how I—I want this to happen.”

  “But I’m your boyfriend,” he says.

  “That’s the thing,” I reply, pulling up my shorts, draping an arm casually over my stomach. “That’s the first time you’ve used that term since we got back from Brighton. When I use it, you almost physically react. This whole time, you wouldn’t even look into my eyes. Are you sorry? Can we talk about it?”

  He rolls over to his side. “That’s what this is. This is how adults make up.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” I snap.

  “You can’t blue-ball me like this. I was about to break through my briefs.”

  I turn away from him. My shoulders tense up, as I realize how weird I feel.

  “We don’t have to talk through everything,” he says. “There are other ways to work through our problems.”

  I shake my head. “Maybe.” And maybe he’s right. What would I know? But I’m freaked. This is my first time, and it’s all I can do not to think of my exposed side right now. Love handles galore. “I don’t want my first time doing, well, any of this to be with someone who pressures me and calls it a form of apology.”

  “Jesus, Marty. You’ve got some issues, you know that?”

  It’s clear that I have a lot of issues right now. I know that. But I also know none of them are going to be fixed by hooking up with him right now.

  “It’s not worth it,” he says. He stands, abruptly, pulls on his jeans, and storms out. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

  So I hold my pillow tightly, listening to the shouts from the busy street outside, and beg for sleep to come.

  THIRTY-TWO

  When we step on the bus from Florence to Siena, there are only two pairs of side-by-side seats together. Ajay grabs one, and Pierce forces himself in the second.

  I look back to Dani. “I guess we’ll take the other one.”

  We put our stuffed backpacks up above our seats, and sit. I’m still on edge from last night—a lack of sleep and two double shots of espresso from an Italian espresso bar will do that for you.

  Pierce hasn’t said much, and I wonder if I should go apologize.

  “Issues?” Dani says. When I turn, I see she was looking at me eye Pierce and Ajay’s seats. She’s smiling.

  “I guess you could say that,” I say. “It’s becoming clear I have no idea what happens in relationships.”

  She pauses. It’s a thoughtful pause. Or it’s a worrisome pause.

  “Pierce doesn’t either. Fuck, me and Ajay are going on three months, and I still have no idea what’s going on.”

  It makes me laugh. I savor that moment, because it’s been far too long since I’ve smiled.

  The bus takes off toward Siena, and the view changes drastically once we leave Florence. Winding hills and ancient villas with clay-tiled roofs flank us, the greenery doubles, and it all feels calmer. People go about their days here, their normal lives, not knowing how freaking amazing it is to live in a place like this.

  “Can you imagine being, like, a farmer here?” I say. “You come out, check on your crops, and take this stunning view for granted every day.”

  “I get that. Malta is a little bit of Italy, a weirder kind of Italy. It’s like a few of the rejects came to the island and started building houses on top of each other. You have the beautiful, resort-level buildings and areas
devolving into slums, but the views are amazing.”

  “Do you miss it there?”

  “Yes and no. I don’t think I can get a job back home, so I hope to get one here. And Malta’s so overpopulated it’s probably for the best.”

  I smile. “I’d like to go to Malta. Do you speak Italian there?”

  “Most people in the city speak English; everyone else speaks Maltese. It’s a mix of Italian and Arabic. It’s cute.”

  I pick the hints of Arabic from her voice, the lilt in her speech, the shhhh hiding in every consonant.

  “How’s your composing going?” I ask. “Still working on a few pieces?”

  “Haven’t had much time, but I think I’ve got one piece I’m happy with.” She pauses. “That reminds me—let’s busk in the town center in Siena. Pierce doesn’t want to, and Ajay didn’t bring his electric piano.”

  “I can’t imagine why he didn’t bring a piano on the plane.” I laugh. “But, um, sure.”

  After feeling a little left out back when Dani played on the streets of Cardiff, I decided to bring my oboe. The thought of playing in front of so many people again, in a new city, is terrifying. But I’m ready to push myself out of my comfort zone. Not because anyone’s making me, but because I want to.

  “We can just alternate our memorized pieces. Whatever you’ve been working on for auditions should be fine. I’m going to have Ajay record mine, so he can do yours too if you’re still working on a portfolio.”

  “Why doesn’t Pierce want to?”

  “We used to do it a lot earlier in the summer.” She shakes her head. “But I don’t know, Marty. He’s the master of self-sabotage.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Siena has the beauty of Florence, the hills of Kentucky, and the square footage of a two-bedroom apartment. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but it’s small. Within an hour, we’ve done a citywide tour de gelato, and I’ve already got my postcard. There’s not much else to do here but explore and walk around, so we do those things.

  We walk along the Fortezza Medicea, a fort dating back to the 1500s. It’s old, not Cardiff Castle old, but it’ll do. The structure is a large rectangle of clay brick, elevated up a zillion stairs.

  “Bored,” Ajay says.

  “I’m with you,” Pierce says.

  I walk out, toward the center of the plaza. “You can’t really feel the history here, compared to the rest of the town, but it’s a beautiful space. And look at all of these people jogging.”

  “You want to be running right now?” Ajay says.

  I laugh. “Not even a little bit. But good to know I have the option.”

  Pierce continues his sulking through another espresso shop. I pray his mood turns, quickly, because the next stop is one that’s been on my bucket list since I first got the guidebook to Tuscany. The Siena Duomo.

  I’m used to winding paths, from London parks to Kentucky roads; everything winds out with no real origin. Siena’s different. The feeling’s the same, but we zigzag through harsh brick turns, narrow alleys. It’s all angular and disorienting—in a good way. Too often London has felt like home home with its open spaces and cloudy skies.

  We maneuver through the angles, corner by corner, and it all comes into view. Wood doors framed with ornate stone carvings, trailing up traditional peaks found in cathedrals. In the top, near the center of the building, there’s a large pane of stained glass that sparkles with multicolored light. I’m frozen here. It feels like a back alley on one side, and it looks like the holiest place in Catholicland on the other.

  It’s not technically my religion, but it’s close enough. And it really feels like I am about to have one literal come-to-Jesus moment. But I’m ready for it.

  I break off from the group and find myself walking the stairs.

  “Did you want to go in?” Ajay asks. “I think I will.”

  “It’s seven euro—if that doesn’t stop you, then I’m in.”

  He nods. “The Catholic side of my family would kill me if I didn’t go inside one duomo while we’re in Italy. The Hindu side? They probably wouldn’t mind if I skipped it.”

  With a glance back to Pierce, I file into the building. It’s like we’re on two separate trips. But maybe Dani can make him a bit perkier before we continue.

  Ajay takes the lead, and we quickly get our tickets and file through the line.

  I haven’t been in a church like this since my parents took me to St. Patrick’s in NYC, and even so—this is way bigger than St. Patrick’s. The green-and-white marble columns hold up the building. There’s so much to focus on, the dark wooden pews or the massive gold-plated organ, but the columns catch my eye.

  It’s so quiet in here.

  I hold a euro between my fingers and hesitate by the votives. St. Patrick’s comes back to me. I’ve always been raised Christian, and my mom’s always been all in on it. The megachurches are her happy place, the more opulent, the better. She’d go every day if she could. My dad’s family is a mix of religious and not, but my mom’s clearly pulled him allllll the way to the dark side. It’s hard to tell how much that means to him.

  For Mom, Christianity replaced the family she had been separated from. And I guess religion has that way of connecting you with people. And right now, I feel oddly connected to them.

  I think I remember how this works.

  I drop a coin in the donations box; Ajay follows suit. I take a wick, light it, and transfer it to a candle. After dropping the wick, I bring my hands to my forehead, chest, then left and right shoulders.

  “Do you really believe all this?” I ask him as we slowly walk down aisles, into more rooms with ornate altars.

  “You know what I like about you?” Ajay laughs. “This is, maybe, the second time we’ve ever talked, one-on-one, and you’re asking me the hard-hitting questions.”

  I shrug. “No better place to ask this question.”

  “I do, I think. There’s so much I don’t know, and I admit that, but I’ve not come across anything that made me stop believing in something. Oh, and I like the pope. That a good enough answer?”

  “Works for me. It’s hard to be in this place and not believe in something.”

  He looks up at a gold-plated cross, set over an altar. “I get that.”

  Outside again, we move quickly to the piazza. I try to get Pierce’s attention by coming close to him. He shies away every time. He’s cold, even though the sun is hot this July day. I’m defeated. I hold my oboe case tight in my hands, and I’m looking forward to playing pieces with Dani, but there’s a knot in my chest that won’t go away.

  It should be Pierce out here with me, but maybe there’s a new friendship in Dani and Ajay that I can make, so when Pierce and I are better, we’ll all be closer. Maybe.

  The Siena town center is positioned around a tall clock tower, with the facade that looks like a castle. It’s bright red, in stark contrast to the darkening sky. People sit around it, all over the varied levels of seating in the open space, and loud laugher comes from the patios of restaurants around the perimeter. It’s a summer day in Italy. And my boyfriend’s being a wanker.

  Dani’s already got her flute out, and she’s warming up. She overturns a knit cap for passersby and starts running through scales and arpeggios. Her fingers flit over the keys almost magically.

  I put a new reed in my mouth to wet it. The tone won’t be great, but it’ll be good enough for this. I think I’ve learned to just play. Perform. Live it.

  “This is going to be such a great shot,” Ajay says.

  Dani’s quickly in performance mode. She takes a deep breath, raises the flute to her lips with the grace of a queen, and launches into the music. I’ve no doubt why she’s here. I’m rapt—I’ve never heard a flutist this good. It intimidates me, it makes me want to be better, it challenges me. I want to cheer when she finishes, but the clink of change in her hat does that for me.

  “Count it,” I say. “I’m going to double that.”

  I stick my tongue out as
I fit the reed into my oboe. Ajay keeps recording. Pierce is watching. He seems embarrassed, and I wonder if it’s because Dani’s performance was on point, or something else. Is it me?

  But when I play, those insecurities melt. I play my go-to audition piece, a staple of mine. Something I could play all night, all day, warmed up or not. My lips, fingers know what to do, and I pour all my energy into the piece.

  I open my eyes to see the camera, and I smile. People are coming up to drop money in the hat—not much, but a few euros. Probably nowhere near what Dani got, but this is her element. She knows how to capture an audience like this in a way I can only hope to learn over time.

  Pierce comes up, drops a euro in the hat, and turns to leave. No wink, no smile.

  I don’t let it trip me up. I finish my piece with enthusiasm and emotion and everything I have. I killed it.

  Ajay applauds, causing others in the crowd to do so as well. Most of them still ignore me, which does not offend me in the least. Since Ajay’s got footage of both of us, he leaves too, and I’m alone with Dani.

  She plays another piece—aggressive, quick, but still melodic and powerful. Effortless. Her cheeks turn red, and I feel the vulnerability creep through her fingers. I’ve never heard the piece, but it’s contemporary and new, like nothing I’ve ever heard before. But I’ve felt this passion before. The pull of the melodic hook, the lightness in my body.

  It’s her piece. It’s so distinctly Dani, light and airy, fast and articulate, sweet and serene. It captures mood like film scores should.

  I want to counter with “Gabriel’s Oboe,” but she’s heard it. And I want to shock her. There’s a piece I worked on last year, and memorized, but I’ve never performed it. I run through the fingerings as she finishes up.

  She plays the final cadence, and I go. My trills are sharp, the bright runs up the scale are impeccable, the phrases connecting them are off, but only enough to make Dani chuckle. I play the piece faster than I’ve ever done, closer to the tempo it was written (by someone who must really hate oboes). And when I’m done, I’m panting, and fall back to take a seat on the ground.