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“Statistically speaking,” I ask Flynn around midnight, the sheets tangled around our hips, “do you think that everyone has an identical stranger out there?”

My chin’s resting on his chest, and I hear him press his lips together. “Maybe.” We’re trying to stay in this cocoon, just the two of us, even though every buzz of his cell phone makes me lurch. No further updates as of yet. “That’s kind of like the soul mate question, isn’t it? Yeah, there might be someone out there who looks just like you, just like you might have a soul mate, but statistically they’re long dead and halfway across the world. You’re probably soul mates with someone who died in Australia in 1842.”

I tsk. “Who knew you were so romantic ?”

He playfully nips at my ear. “I can be. Seriously, though, I do believe in soul mates. Dogs. Every dog I’ve ever had is a soul mate. Plus family, friends…Are you and Jules still close?”

I shake my head against his chest, eyes stinging. “I’m happy you remember her, though.”

“How could I not?” he says, laughter at the back of his throat. “She threatened to trap a fisher cat and let it loose in my bedroom if I didn’t ask you out. I had to google what a fisher cat was.”

It’s the closest we’ve come to discussing our relationship. We’re tiptoeing toward the inevitable. “Weasel on steroids. Very savage.”

“What happened there?” Flynn asks. “You two don’t talk anymore?”

My heart clenches at the memory of our last phone call. “I borrowed money from her, too,” I say. “For Frida’s. She cornered me with a cashier’s check and told me that if I didn’t take it, she’d never forgive me, because she couldn’t get a lobster omelet anywhere else in town.” A sad smile works its way to my face. “Anyway, a few months after that, she told me she was expecting a baby, and I—I knew that’s where the money should’ve gone. I kept apologizing. She kept getting angry with me for apologizing, and I…I thought I was monopolizing too much of her time. I told myself I didn’t deserve her.”

I can feel the full weight of Flynn’s frown, tensing all the way down his body. “Max, you know that’s not true. You shouldn’t tell yourself that you don’t deserve good things.”

“Yeah, well—”

“No, I mean it.” He hugs me a little closer. “There are so many people who care about you. You have to let them.”

What I have to do is change the topic before I start crying into Flynn’s shoulder. “How are your siblings?”

He nods against the pillow. “Good. Brian’s an accountant now. He has a golden retriever and a recently renovated farmhouse in Vermont. There’s an apple orchard in his backyard. On the outside, he’s one step away from a Norman Rockwell painting. But he’s also heavily into Dungeons and Dragons.”

“We’re talking conferences?”

“We’re talking he legally changed his middle name to ‘Faerqiroth.’?”

“I love that,” I say genuinely. “And your sister?”

“High school science teacher. Three kids. They’re visiting a bunch of national parks this summer.”

“Awww, Uncle Flynn. I bet you’re the fun uncle.”

“Actually, I’m the uncle who’s babyproofing the house and making sure there are no spare pennies in the cup holders, so no one chokes on them. Walter, the youngest one, everything goes in the mouth. Buttons. Dog biscuits.”

“Calvin’s like that,” I say, wondering, once again, where the hell he is. “Do they know what you do for work?”

Now it’s Flynn’s turn to smile a bit sadly. “They think I’m a contractor for the Department of Agriculture.”

“Ah. Hence, Iowa.”

“Right.” He licks the seam of his lips. “I have to say, you’re not the only one with strained relationships because of your job. I’m gone way too much. I’ve missed family Christmas three years in a row. Whenever my college buddies ask about my life, I have to feed them a bunch of bullshit, and I hate it. Here I am telling you to let people in, and I can’t even take my own advice. Disclosing my involvement with the CIA isn’t allowed, but if it was, I still wouldn’t want to worry the people I love. Or shock them.”

“Same,” I say, quietly. “Not that I’ll ever tell anyone about this ‘vacation,’ but I’m not sure anyone would believe it if I did.”

“It does sound slightly implausible.”

“Just a little,” I say.

Flynn peers down at me through his eyelashes. “Although…”

I glance up at him through mine. “Although what?”

“Please take this as a compliment, because it’s meant as one. The girl I knew was always jumping at these random, interesting opportunities. Remember when you told me we had to drop everything and travel four hours for that rock oyster festival? Or that one Sunday when you got this itch to bike down Cadillac Mountain? You were spontaneous, and fearless, and as much as I think you shouldn’t be here, it doesn’t surprise me as much as it could that adult Max heard ‘Italy’ and—”

Something flickers in the bedroom.

I don’t mean in a sexy way. I don’t mean, like, a flicker of heat, or a flicker of lust, or even a flicker of the lights. When my gaze tilts to the ceiling, I see that a bird—a real, live bird —is staring at us from the chandelier. It offers a startled coo, wings flapping, like we’re the ones who are surprising. Flynn flinches, drawing back from me. “What was—?”

“Oh my god ,” I say, pulling the sheets over my face as the pigeon dive-bombs us. Apparently, we have wronged this bird in a past life; it has a vendetta, a score that it’s looking to settle. He darts in with a vicious swoop, narrowly missing my head—like he’s been trained to assassinate me. Flapping around the ceiling in a frenzied pattern, the bird releases a stream of gray poop onto the Oriental rug. In Italian culture, is this a really bad omen, or a really good one?

“Has a pigeon been in here the entire time?” I bleat out, scrambling to grab my pajamas. This bird’s like a falcon with a kill, latching on to Flynn’s shoulder for a second, talons fully out, before springing into the bouquet in the foyer. The vase topples to the side, water spilling all over the table.

I suppose Flynn and I could just go back to talking. Ignore the wild pigeon that’s somehow swept into the suite, accept that he lives here now. He can make a nest. Whatever. But the bird has, just slightly, killed the mood, especially when he’s obviously trying to escape—fluttering frantically around the room, beak pecking against the mirrors, like they’re windows to the outdoors.

Flynn’s gotten out of bed. His face is flushed, his hair’s messy, and his eyes are roving around the suite with a new, focused intensity. “Did you go out onto the balcony today?” he asks, his voice taking on an ultra-deep tone, which seems like an extreme reaction to a pigeon.

“No, I didn’t, I—”

It clicks. Why Flynn’s so guarded, so suddenly agitated. All the wind blows out of me.

It’s just a bird.

But who let the bird in ?

···

After the bomb-sniffing dogs leave, after the additional security sweep, Lars shooing the pigeon back into the outdoors with nothing but a champagne bucket and a bed pillow, Flynn can’t sit still. He doesn’t believe that housekeeping is responsible for the bird, even after Giorgio says that he personally delivered a few more bars of goat soap that afternoon, opening the balcony doors to air out the room for a few minutes. The bird must’ve slipped in then. Scusi!

Security footage captured the whole incident—Giorgio going in, Giorgio going out, no one else accompanying him—but I can read Flynn like the books he used to give me. He’s taking it as a sign. He let himself get unfocused. He dropped his guard.

“Flynn,” I say, “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, and a pigeon is just a pigeon.”

“I know,” he says, but I can tell he doesn’t mean it. “Hey, you should get some sleep.”

I cross my arms, hugging myself. “Are you sure? I can stay up with you. I’ve been thinking, it is possible that they caught the wrong guy, right? What if the Producer has a decoy?”

Flynn rubs his eyes. “I suppose anything’s possible. I promise I won’t leave any stone unturned.” He leans forward and kisses me, briefly, on the forehead. It feels slightly robotic. “Go rest.”

Rest does not come. The room’s too hot. The sheets tangle with my legs. My ears keep perking, waiting for a light rap at the balcony door (although, I’m fairly sure that most assassins don’t knock before they enter). The sound of rushing water wakes me up again, several hours later, just after dawn. The light’s egg-yolk yellow as I open my eyes and see that Flynn must’ve tiptoed to the bathroom for a quick shower. My head throbs like I’m hungover, the stress of the last couple days catching up with me.

Coffee.

If I’m going to get through today, I’ll need coffee.

Giorgio must’ve put an espresso machine in here. Something tiny and fancy. Sure enough, I spot one, half-hidden by another vase of flowers, and brew myself a foamy cup, sipping it in the startling quiet. No police walkie-talkies, no footsteps outside. Downstairs, servers must be setting up the early-morning breakfast buffet on the terrace, beach attendants stabbing umbrellas into the sand…

“Max.”

I jump, spilling half of my drink.

Flynn rounds the corner suddenly, toweling off his hair. It’s spiked in the front, and he ruffles the cotton through it. A second towel is wrapped around his waist, barely tied—and this is the type of thing that, day one, would’ve made blood rush to my face. “What’re you doing?” he asks.

“Drinking…caffeine?” I manage. The liquid sloshes all the way down my wrist.

He takes the cup away from me gently, the clean scent of his soap trailing in my direction. His collarbone’s glistening wet. “No one replaced the coffee grounds last night, I don’t think. I can’t guarantee that someone didn’t poison your…What is this?”

“Mocha latte.”

“Well, that looks damn delicious, and I’m sorry. I’ll get you a fresh one later.” On the nightstand, by my unmade bed, Flynn sets down the cup and puts his hands on his hips, letting out a short, sharp sigh. The brush of his fingertips against my thighs, as he leaned me against the wall last night, flashes fresh in my mind. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be…I’m just being cautious. I’ve been reading the transcripts of the Producer’s interrogation.”

My stomach swoops. “Okay, and?”

“You could be right.” Flynn keeps toweling off his hair, even rougher now, scrubbing. “There’s a chance we’ve got the wrong guy. Assassins might be completely psychopathic, but successful ones—usually—are whip-smart. This guy hasn’t asked for a lawyer, hasn’t put up any roadblocks, and maybe that’s arrogance…”

“But you don’t think so.”

Flynn swipes a hand down his face, holding on to the towel around his waist with the other. “It could be paranoia, but something feels off. The CIA wants you in the field for the rest of the vacation. To them, you’re just a placeholder to keep the peace. They think the danger’s over for you. But if the real Producer is still out there, if we still don’t know why the prime minister’s missing, then—”

A rap really does come at the door now. Room service.

“Should we get that?” I ask.

“You’re hearing me, right?” Flynn holds my gaze. “You need to go home, Max. Forget about the money.”

“And should I just forget about Summerland?” I argue, pulse rising. “You heard Gail—”

Knocking comes, again.

“Gail doesn’t have your best interest in mind,” Flynn argues back. “She’s only thinking about the CIA’s bottom line.”

A third knock.

“One of us is going to have to get that,” I say.

“This isn’t over,” Flynn grunts, begrudgingly throwing on a robe and answering the door. So the morning begins, a fast-paced blur. Breakfast. Paparazzi on the cliffs. Beach. Flynn, twitchy, looking out for danger around every corner. And me, trying to tamp down my own anxiety. Sofia’s been missing for over twenty-two hours; I’m much more worried about her than I am about myself.

“Quiz me,” I tell Flynn as I pack. “For the birthday celebration, I don’t have the luxury of laryngitis anymore. I know Gail said no one will want to talk shop, but I should have some talking points prepared, just in case I’m cornered.”

Across the room, Flynn’s only half there, checking and rechecking his phone.

“Flynn, please.”

He blinks, nods, and starts scrolling her recent interviews before asking, “Would you care to comment on the ongoing state of relations between Summerland, Estonia, and Russia, especially in light of the recently proposed treaty?”

I fold a pantsuit and shove it into my suitcase. “No? I wouldn’t?”

Flynn tips his head from side to side. “Actually, seems like the correct answer. How about…Could you please expand upon your thoughts about the increasing use of nuclear power in Summerland’s west territories, and the risks and benefits of this growth as it relates to climate change, energy costs, and the possible threat of global terrorism?”

My suitcase shuts with an exaggerated click. “You don’t suppose I could get away with a ‘no’ for this one, too, do you?”

“No comment is always an option,” Flynn says, toneless.

Publicly, all morning, we pretended to be a couple—he even rubbed sunscreen on my back, down at the beach—but alone, there’s this tension between us that I can’t shake.

We leave Hotel Giorgio in a haze of anxiety—Giorgio, obviously, waiting to say his goodbyes. You’d think we were cousins, or longtime best friends, the way an actual tear escapes his eye. He kisses me on both cheeks with an extended mwaaa , and asks me if I’ll visit Positano again.

“Every year.” I respond like Sofia would, adding a bit of Max into the mix. “Next time, I’ll leave my first tennis serve at home.”

Giorgio laughs, his whole face flushed. “Maybe that’s a good idea, Signora Prime Minister. Maybe that’s for the best. But I will be in Rome soon, too! If we run into each other there, I’ll say hello.”

“I’d like that,” I tell him.

My entourage ushers me out, a flash of cameras at the gates, and then we’re gone. I’m used to the Range Rover by now: the cool back seat and the smooth, stoic ride. Flags flap against the tinted windows, heralding my trip to Rome. It’s a little over three hours by car, but Flynn skips the polka this time, opting for more traditional Italian music as small towns and countryside slip by—Capua then Cassino then Ferentino. “I’ve pulled in a favor,” Flynn says, out of the blue, over halfway into the drive. “A buddy of mine’s a pilot. He’s added you to his flight manifest, right after the luncheon, leaving out of Rome. I have clothes for you in the back. The party will be incredibly secure, because of the president’s involvement, but after that, I can’t guarantee your safety.”

His words hit me in the back seat. Once again, it isn’t what he’s saying. It’s the tone. Like he’s pulled all the emotion out of his voice. Why? Is it because he can’t protect me well if his heart’s involved? Or— oh god —does he regret last night? Are we back to strictly an asset-handler relationship?

He keeps his eyes on the road. “I said you always have a choice with me, and I meant it. You have the option to leave. I hope you take it.”

When I don’t respond right away, he says, softer, “Promise me you’ll think about it?”

“Yeah,” I tell him, a little dazed. “Yeah, I’ll think about it.”

More houses. Trees flitting by. Old streets. Gardens. Head spinning, I tap into the Range Rover’s roaming hotspot, checking my American phone for new messages. Nothing from Dad, nothing from Calvin. Maybe I’m just not receiving their messages?

I text Calvin again: Could you just tell me where you are?

Is he in Rome? He’s not planning on gate-crashing again, is he?

One of Calvin’s texts, from two days ago, springs back in reply: If you’re not going to have the pizza outside your door, then I’m going to eat the pizza outside your door. Sorry! I stuff my American phone, alongside my CIA phone, into my pocket.

Unfortunately, right outside of Rome, traffic slows; the police escort pushes us through, around cars parting to the side, but by the time we reach Trastevere, we’re running around fifty minutes behind schedule—without time to drop by the hotel first. We go straight to the birthday luncheon, filtering through the crisscrossed streets, past an array of craft breweries, golden piazzas, and shops selling everything from ceramics to sandals.

“Do we have a gift?” I ask Flynn as the car slows.

“The prime minister’s team sent one,” he says, looking up at the restaurant, a bright orange building with ivy spilling from the windows. Very fancy. “Kid’s turning eight. When I was eight, I had a bouncy castle and a water-balloon fight in the park.”

This is slightly more elaborate than that. The place is crawling with security. Guards on top of guards on top of guards. Guests are filtering through them, dressed to the nines, carrying presents wrapped in glittering paper. Two bakers (after presenting IDs) totter along with a cake, the top tier nearly reaching the height of the doorframe. Rosettes of vanilla icing melt in the heat.

Inside, it’s just as warm. The tub that used to be filled with ice is now a half-chunky swimming pool, bottles of limoncello sinking toward the bottom. Flynn bats a blue, translucent balloon away from his face, and I puff away a chunk of my bangs. We’re hovering near the entrance, surveying the tables: In the middle, they’re spilling over with gifts; crystal plates surround edges, alongside sharp, glimmering forks and ice cream spoons. A few clowns mill around the guests, wearing polka-dotted pants and making balloon animals. Flynn shivers, speaking to me out of the side of his mouth. “Can’t stand clowns.”

I cup a hand over my mouth, speaking back. “Do you think that Italian clowns can just blow up a straight balloon and call it spaghetti?”

“I don’t know,” he says, acknowledging my bad attempt at humor. “But I’m not asking them.”

Like at the museum gala, my security starts vetting each guest who comes my way, offering introductions; it’s a blur of Italian government officials, cultural attachés, and people close to the Italian president’s family. My Summerlandian accent spills out. It’s getting more natural now, the more I use it. I wonder if I’ll have a sort of reverse culture shock, going home to Maine, if I’ll start speaking with a Scandinavian lilt while Calvin and I are commenting on reality TV. Hey, who’s watching his turtle? That thought strikes me, but not as much as the bleating sound of the accordion.

No matter where I go, I can’t escape the polka.

Around us, partygoers bob to the beat. Elderly couples mingle with young fashionistas, designer handbags in the crooks of their arms. There’s laughter and a bit of yelling and middle-aged men chiding each other about politics. The president himself has yet to make an appearance—he’s been held up at work, go figure—but the birthday boy doesn’t look too displeased. He’s busying himself with a mound of candles and cake as people kiss the sides of his cheeks, wishing him buon compleanno and tanti auguri!

Air-conditioning is nonexistent. All the windows are open, flowing in a breeze, but I find myself tucking a hand under my linen shirt, wiping away a thin sheen of sweat. I suck discreetly on an ice cube, internal temperature rising, and maybe it’s all the singing or the family or the brightness. Maybe it’s the painting of Julius Caesar in the corner, a super fun reminder that Rome is a great place for assassinations. (Historic, even! Sixteen emperors over fifteen years, if memory serves.) Maybe it’s the way I’m afraid to glance over at Flynn, afraid to see any shred of regret or worry on his face, but my temple starts to throb. I need water. Just a bit of cold water, splashed over my face.

“Are you okay?” Flynn asks me, fixing his gaze on my cheeks. I must be red. Or pale. Or a bit green. I also think I might’ve just seen Roderick, on the street outside, entering the building with a stack of baby blue gift boxes. Did I? How paranoid am I being? “You look a little…”

“Was that Roderick?”

Flynn’s head whips around the room. “Where?”

“Outside. I might’ve just seen him, trying to come in.”

“I’ll send someone to check.”

Instead of waiting for Roderick to arrive and strike up a conversation, I hook a thumb behind me, telling Flynn that I’m going to pop to the powder room. Historically, we haven’t had much luck with Italian restaurant toilets, but there are so many notable figures roaming around—so much security—that the possibility of another explosive device in the bathroom seems very low to me.

“We’ll clear it first,” Flynn says, reading my mind. “Twice.”

After a thorough security sweep, I’m allowed inside the bathroom. There are two sets of doors. The first leads into a small sitting room with a set of ornate couches, wooden hardware painted gold, and that’s where Flynn pauses. “There’s a window inside, but it’s padlocked shut. I’ll stop anyone else from entering this way. No rush.”

Wordlessly, I slip through the second set of doors and immediately sidle up to one of the pedestal sinks, running the cool water over my hands, suddenly a bit out of breath. My fingertips are shaking, and I’m not entirely sure why. Because of last night? Because of the Producer? Because Sofia’s still missing? Take your pick! In two days, this’ll all be over, and I’m wondering—besides the money—if anything will have really changed. Sure, the money’s a big change, but will I have actually helped the prime minister? And not that this matters in the scope of things, but what’ll happen with Flynn? Will we keep in touch now that we’ve met each other again as adults? Everything just feels so unfinished , so cut open at the edges. How do I just go back to normal life after this?

I mean, seriously. How?

The bathroom is deathly quiet, insulated from the party by thick marble walls. I wish I’d shoved a tube of lipstick in my pocket, just to give myself an extra way to kill time. Something to steady my hands. Splashing a bit of water on the back of my neck, letting the coolness trickle down, I puff out a breath and look over at the statue in the corner. It reminds me of Giorgio’s lobby angel: a Renaissance-style sculpture of a rather curvaceous man holding an apple. I want to crack a joke about Trader Joe’s—how that could be Joe with his organic, moderately priced fruit—but I’m alone. No one here to make it to.

“Just you and me, buddy,” I mumble into the emptiness of the bathroom.

And someone, from inside the ceiling , laughs.