Free A Little Too Far by Lisa Desrochers Page A

but there’s no humor in it. Mostly just relief. You? Demure? I type, but then I lift my head and see the boy is still down in the street . . . peeing into the alcove of my doorway. He shakes himself off and zips, then looks up. When he sees me watching, he smiles and blows me a kiss.
    Great.
    I look back at my phone. Don’t knock the hard-to-get act. It works.
    Good luck with that. Someone just peed in my doorway so gotta go. Keep me posted, I type. And I want her to. But I also don’t.
    I swipe to Trent’s text from this morning. He went out with Sam, but then he was lying in bed thinking about me? I still don’t know how to read that: between the lines or at face value. I haven’t responded, and I’m feeling like I should. I shouldn’t just ignore him. Or maybe that’s exactly what I should do. Finally, I type in, Went to church today. Confessed everything. Hoping not to burn in hell, and hit SEND before I can change my mind.

 
    Chapter Six
    O RIENTATION STARTS AT nine, so I stumble around Rome—or at least my little corner of Rome—and find an adorable café for espresso and pastries beforehand. I point at the pastry case and direct the balding man behind the counter to something that looks like a chocolate chip croissant. He hands it and the espresso to me, and when I settle into a table in the corner and sip, I find out Italians like their espresso something akin to rocket fuel. The caffeine from this cup alone could power the next space mission. When I bite into the croissant, it’s not chocolate, but it’s sweet, and I moan a little as it melts in my mouth.
    “I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I say out loud once I’ve devoured the whole thing.
    “If you really want to suck up, bring one of those for Professor Nance,” a girl’s voice behind me says, and I turn to see a petite girl sitting at the table there, staring full on at me with neon green eyes and sipping her espresso.
    “Excuse me?”
    She twists the pink tip of a strand of her short black hair around her index finger. “You’re heading over to the orientation, right?”
    Just when I’m starting to think this girl must be clairvoyant (maybe those are X-ray contacts that can see through a person’s skull into their thoughts) she nudges my backpack with her foot. I look down and see the John Cabot badge that I clipped on the zipper tab this morning, so I wouldn’t lose it.
    “Do you go there?” I ask.
    “Not yet. I’m a newbie too. But my sister came here last year and said Professor Nance plays favorites. His favorites are apparently the ones who bring him puddings.”
    I was trying to decide if the accent was British or Australian, and the “puddings” gives it away. “You’re British?”
    She bobs a quick nod. “From York. You?”
    “America.”
    “That bit I knew from your accent,” she says. “Where in America?”
    “California. Not too far from San Francisco.”
    “I’ve been to San Francisco. Nice place.”
    I shrug. “It’s okay, I guess.”
    Her iPhone starts to vibrate, jingling against her spoon, and she untwists her finger from her hair and picks it up. She reads something on the screen, barks out a laugh, then puts down her cup and starts typing with her thumbs. “She also just said to watch out for Claudio, Professor Nance’s TA. Shagged half her class last semester and gave them all crabs.” She grins up at me and wiggles her eyebrows. “Just in case you were thinking of sampling the local cuisine.”
    I’ve had plenty of “cuisine” lately. I’m not looking for any more. “Good to know.”
    She puts her phone down and sips her espresso. “What are you studying?”
    “Art history.”
    “Ah, then you’ve come to the right place. But it means you’ll miss out on the immense pleasure of Professor Nance and his crabby TA.”
    I’m sipping my espresso as she says it, and when I laugh, it geysers up my nose, burning the whole way. I cough so hard that I swear I dislodge a lung.
    “Sorry for