I nod, the wool of his plaid shirt scratching my face. I can’t make a verbal response without choking on my tears.
“Everything is going to be okay. We’re going to be okay, alright? We’ve got this.”
I nod again absently, fighting the cry about to break lose.
“I love you, Lo.” His voice is softer, pressed against my ear, playing through my head like a catchy tune. My fingers ache from squeezing the fabric of his shirt so tightly.
“I love you more.”
He shakes his head. “Not possible.”
“What are you guys doing today?”
King rolls his shoulders dismissively. “Summer has something planned,” he says, but I understand that he has no intentions of allowing her to try to distract him.
“Estella invited you guys to the restaurant for happy hour.”
King doesn’t say anything, just grips me tighter.
“You remember the name of the company you’re getting a ride from?”
“Yeah, it’s in my bag.”
“And you have your power converters and the euros?”
I nod, my throat closing again. He’s preparing to say goodbye. “I want to hear all about your competition tomorrow.”
King nods, moving his lips to the side of my head and softly kissing me. “I’ll tell you everything.”
“I have to go,” I whisper as my tears become heavier, now running down both cheeks in multiple trails.
King nods, his throat moving as he swallows.
“I love you.”
“I love you,” he repeats back to me.
I look back at King several times as I go through the maze of nylon fences, each glance making my vision more obstructed with tears until I’m being beckoned forward through the metal detectors and can no longer see him. Then I lose it.
THE FLIGHT to Italy is long, punctuated by a change of planes in Newark, where I ignore my growling stomach and pull out my phone to call King.
“Hey, baby.” His voice is soothing, making me smile and tear up again as I wander in the direction of a food sign.
“Guess what?”
“What?”
“Only eighty-five days until I come home.”
King laughs quietly. “I thought you were going to study your Italian keywords on the plane.”
“You’re a way better distraction.”
“I’ll have Mercedes create a countdown.”
“I already miss you.”
“Only eighty-five days, babe. It’s going to go by so fast. You’re going to eat 13 Gobi and paint, making pictures more beautiful than people can imagine, and then you’re going to be home.”
I take a deep breath, fighting to believe his words. “I have to find a restroom and grab some food before my next flight. I’ll try to call you again before I leave. Otherwise, I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“I love you, Lo.”
“I love you more.”
I wander around yet another airport with tear-stained cheeks, ignoring the world as I pick through my lunch.
Me: 4 the first time ever, my plane’s early.
King: UR going 2 love Italy.
Me: Not as much as I love U.
King: Good.
Italy is more beautiful than any of the pictures have portrayed. The architecture, the colors, the people, even the cobblestones have me entranced. I want to sit down and draw everything I see. Being away from those that I care so deeply for makes being here bittersweet, but for the first time since learning about this adventure, I feel motivated and excited for what I will see and experience this summer.
I’m impressed with myself as I navigate my way into the hotel, never having issues with getting through immigration, finding my bags, or even the correct car company to get me to my hotel.
The man at the front desk is thin, his hair long and attention set on something behind the counter that I can’t see. When he hears me, he smiles warmly, revealing with thick lines around his lips and eyes that he’s older than I had assumed upon first glance.
“Bonjourno!” He greets me merrily, his arms lifting as high as his smile.
I can’t help but smile in return as I pull out the documents I received that have all of my confirmation numbers.
“Ah, you’re from America!” he says, his voice rolling over the syllables, making them sound like an art.
“I am.”
“My daughter wants to go to America. She’s in love with your country. You’ll have to learn me new words for me to tell her. Her English is much better than mine.”
“Sure,” I say, smiling at his eagerness.
“Come, I’ll show you your room. It’s good you are staying with us. We have a lift.” I’m relieved to hear this. King made a comment about how few elevators there are in Europe.
We walk through the hotel, tiled in a terracotta colored brick, the walls a soft red-clay color. There are paintings on several of the walls, all famous Italian monuments that I hope to discover while I’m here.
He leads me to a door and then gestures widely for me to enter with the sweep of his hand. The same terracotta bricks are inside, along with a gold-framed bed that’s covered with a comforter in shades of forest green and mustard yellow. There are two nightstands, each adorned with a matching gold lamp, a dresser, and an older TV. The room is cold, ugly, but endearing because of the host that is proudly showing me how the few things inside are operated.
I am left to unpack, but instead I pull out my computer and phone to get set up, and while they power on, I draw.
MY PHONE startles me awake. I reach for it, hoping it’s King even though it’s a ridiculous hour. I wanted to stay up to see how things went, but I fell asleep. I sleep soundly here from the thousands of steps and stairs I take each day, and the food that is packed with glutinous wonders that have ensured me peaceful dreams. I’ve been in Italy for two weeks. I’ve eaten at 13 Gobi—the restaurant King told me inspired him to cook—four times already. It truly is the best food I’ve ever tasted. I’ve also seen The Duomo twice, The Pitti Palace, and lost an entire Saturday in the Ufizzi Gallery where I met the statue of David in person.
The sight of Kash’s name across the screen confuses me, but I don’t hesitate in answering it.
“Lo?”
It’s 4:00 a.m. I know by how early it is and the hesitancy in his voice that something is wrong. So does my heart. It’s twisting along with my stomach.
“Lo, are you there?”
I shake my head and quietly respond. “What’s wrong?” I ask when Kash doesn’t immediately respond. I feel the tightness in each of my muscles as my mind races to prepare for what he’s going to say.
“King crashed. He crashed hard, Lo.” My breath is gone. I shouldn’t be able to cry, yet I am. “He’s in surgery.”
My head shakes again. Maybe it never stopped. “What happened? What are they saying?”
“Not a lot yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s in surgery, Lo. All we know is they have to reset his shoulder and elbow, and his hip was fucked up, and…” Kash takes a deep breath, and my tears stream faster.
The tiled floor is still eerily warm under my feet as I begin shoving things into my suitcase, balancing the phone between my shoulder and chin with nothing but stretched silence between us with occasional deep breaths and attempts to get our noses to stop running. I go into the bathroom and quickly shove everything in a plastic bag I paid for earlier today when I forgot my own grocery bag, and drop it into my suitcase as well.