Free Roman Crazy by Alice Clayton, Nina Bocci Page A

ruefully. “How funny is that?”
    And what you never told anyone, what you will never tell anyone, is how for a split second you thought, you hoped, you prayed that it was Marcello’s . . .
    â€œAnyway,” I said, blowing my nose and running my hands through my hair, “enough of that. You know all my secrets, one day maybe I’ll know half of yours.”
    â€œOh honey, I wish I had secrets.” Daisy chuckled, gathering the coffee cups and pastry bags, taking my cue that the heavy stuff was over for now.
    â€œListen, get showered and dressed. We’ll grab an early lunch and spend the day out and about in Rome like two crazy kids.”
    I nodded, letting her ruffle my hair a bit as she made her way back into the kitchen. I was here, he was here, that part wasn’t changing. But what I could change was the way I smelled. I needed a shower.
    I padded into a surprisingly modern, stark white bathroom. It was floor-to-ceiling tile that glowed from the sunlight pouring in from all directions. This was not a bathroom that you wanted to use when you were nursing a hangover or suffering from jet lag and emotional baggage. No, this was the “kick you in the face with beaming Italian sunshine” until you were awake enough to function.
    â€œStupid complicated European showers,” I muttered to myself, cataloging the myriad of knobs and buttons. After a few minutes of naked tinkering, I stepped into the steam/hot water/massage jet combo and let the water wash away the exhaustion in my bones. But for all the jet lag and late nights and emotive outpourings, I felt oddly . . . refreshed?
    It was good to talk about this, exorcise the demons a bit as it were. Next time I saw Marcello, I’d be ready for it.
    Daisy was chatting on the phone when I stepped into thekitchen, my hair air drying for the first time in ages. I pulled up a seat at the counter, picking up the notepad from the night before and looking at the sketch I’d done.
    Not bad. Not too bad at all, actually.
    I was just turning the page and settling in to start a second sketch when a loud knock sounded on the front door.
    Daisy hung up the phone as she sprinted silently down the hall toward the front door, and tiptoed back wide-eyed. “It’s Marcello!” she whispered.
    Another knock came, this one harder, angrier. “I know you are home. I saw you at the peeking hole.”
    Only Marcello could make a phrase like “peeking hole” work for him. I could literally feel his voice through five inches of ancient wood and not-so-ancient steel, could feel it slip across me like brandy. But this wasn’t going to be smooth. It wouldn’t be the reunion I imagined.
    â€œI came to talk to Avery.”
    Averrry. How did I ever think I would get over the way he pronounced my name.
    Daisy’s head whipped back and forth between the door and me as I considered.
    â€œLet him in,” I said, heart racing. I’d had nine years to think about what I would say to him. How to apologize, explain. In hindsight I should have written it all down because now, faced with the opportunity to make peace, I couldn’t focus on it.
    â€œTell him I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
----
    I PULLED MY DAMP HAIR into a high ponytail, slicking everything back with a little bit of pomade to keep the curls from getting too curly. I dressed quickly, choosing a smooth whitebutton-down shirt and a red-and-pink-striped skirt, not too tight but not matronly, either.
    I could feel heat blooming in my cheeks, and when I took a quick glance in the mirror, I could see bright eyes and rosy lips struggling to contain little nerve-filled breaths. Get it together, Avery.
    I was getting coffee with Marcello and I needed to calm way the hell down. But my heart was bursting from my chest and running wild.
    Stop. Full stop.
    My heart joined back up with my chest as I stood in front of the nightstand, where