Free A Little Too Far by Lisa Desrochers

just got here yesterday.”
    “We’ll have to remedy that. Are you free tomorrow?”
    I’ve been dying to see the Vatican Museums. It’s on the top of my to-do list, but this feels more than a little weird. “I have orientation at John Cabot until four.”
    “Perfect.”
    “Listen. It’s really nice of you, playing the welcome wagon and all, but this is supposed to be my penance, not social hour, so . . .”
    He nods. “Fine. Meet me at six tomorrow evening at the obelisk in St. Peter’s Square. We’ll talk about the project then.”
    “The project is in St. Peter’s?” I ask warily.
    He stands and turns toward the entry, opening the front door in a not-so-subtle cue that we’re done here. He levels me in his steady gaze as I stand. “Don’t be late.”
    When I get back to my humble apartment with a bag of groceries, on which I just spent a small fortune, I unpack them into the kitchen. I grab my backpack and take it onto the patio, where I sit on the lounge and pull out my orientation stuff. There’s a badge with my name and Notre Dame student ID picture on it that arrived with my key the week before I left, and an orientation schedule, a map of the lecture buildings, and a staff directory that I printed out from the e-mail they sent.
    And my class schedule. Just thinking about my class schedule makes me tingle all over. I read through the list again:
    AH 223 The Art and Architecture of Imperial Rome
    AH 243 Roman Funerary Art: Honoring the Dead in Ancient Rome (On-site)
    AH 296 Italian High Renaissance Art (On-site; Mandatory trip to Florence)
    AH 339 Venetian Art (On-site; Mandatory trip to Venice)
    And the crowning jewel:
    AH 376 Michelangelo
    At the same instant that my phone vibrates, so does the floor beneath my feet as music starts cranking out of the bar downstairs. I wipe the drool off my chin before I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the text.
    Sam.
    Hey, gurl! Waiting for hot Italian boy pics. You be slacking.
    I set my orientation stuff down and stand, wandering toward the ledge over the street at the edge of the roof. I lean on it and look down at the milling people outside the bar. 18 yo kid wanted to sleep with me last night.
    Ah! Fresh meat. Did u do it?
    I roll my eyes, and just as I do, the same boy steps out of the bar. He grins when he looks up and sees me. “Ti amo,” he calls up to me, holding out an arm.
    Fucked his brains out. I text back, stepping away from the ledge.
    U slut!
    *eye roll* I text back.
    So, you are my fave person.
    ?
    You left your mother-of-pearl hair clip in Katie’s car and she didn’t find it till she was packing up to drive back to school yesterday.
    So, that’s where that went. I forgot I’d pulled it out when I was moping in Katie’s backseat over Rick. But . . . Why does that make me your fave person?
    Someone had to return it to your house.
    ?
    And your smokin hot stepbrother answered the door.
    My gut tightens the second I read it, and I feel sick. I can’t answer. I can’t even begin to form a thought that isn’t, “Stay the hell away from him!”
    Don’t you want to know what happened? she asks after a minute.
    No. No I don’t. What happened?
    Went to Lightly Toasted for a drink.
    You’d think Lightly Toasted would be a breakfast joint where you’d get coffee, right? You’d be wrong. It refers to the phase of drunkenness between “I just showed up, so pour me a beer,” and “I’m passed out on the floor, so don’t step on me.” The place is dimly lit and full of sofas and love seats covered with throw pillows in all the dark nooks and crannies. I’ve learned not to look too closely at what goes on in those nooks and crannies.
    And? I type with a shaking hand.
    What? You think I’d jump his bones right there in the bar?
    Yes.
    I’m playing this one low-key. Talking, flirting, and a little touching, but that’s it. Luring him in with the demure act.\
    I lean my elbows on the ledge and hang my head, blowing out a laugh,