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23

After Frida’s closed, my body entered total shutdown mode, fever peaking at 102.8 degrees. Everything ached, from my muscles to my bones, and I spent almost a week wrapped in a summer quilt, alternating between hot flashes and ice-cube-style chills.

“Pumpkin? Pumpkin, you in there?” A few days in a row, my dad called out from the other side of my door, delivering hot soup (clam chowder, from the small grocery store around the corner), but I wouldn’t let him into my apartment. No way was I infecting him, on top of everything else. I’d caused enough damage. The wholesalers were already stripping apart Frida’s, piece by piece, and it wasn’t nearly enough to cover my costs.

Soup in my lap, I tucked myself into Nana Frida’s old chair, notebook open, half-delirious, scrawling down every idea I could think of to come up with the money—to pay people back, to set things right. What did I have that I could sell, besides my refrigerator and my knives and my stoves? My bike. I’d sell my bicycle, and my computer, and I’d start freelance catering alongside any new jobs. I wouldn’t eat anything besides ramen noodles and boxed macaroni and cheese. I’d move. Find a new, cheaper apartment, maybe within walking distance to a new job—so I wouldn’t have to pay for public transportation.

“You could always move in with us,” my dad offered, and he meant it. I could’ve moved back to the town house on Whippoorwill Street that had my first-grade handprints in the concrete outside; it wouldn’t take long, he reasoned, to clear away the piled-high boxes in my old bedroom, to sort through the sewing machines and the ski equipment and chuck it into the garage. But I said no, automatically. I couldn’t ask my parents for another thing. If they’d offered me a glass of water , I would’ve been too ashamed to take it.

As soon as my fever dipped, I applied for work at dozens and dozens of restaurants in the Portland metro area. Not many openings for chefs. Just breakfast places, flipping pancakes, pouring coffee, and scrubbing dishes in the back. I don’t mind grunt work. The problem is, grunt work in kitchens doesn’t pay down high-interest loans—and without fail, each place I applied told me that I was overqualified for the position .

“We’re sorry,” one of the chefs said, shaking his head. The dark circles under his eyes made him seem about ten years older than he was, and he gave me this look of pity that I’ll carry with me to my grave. “You’re good, I ate at your restaurant—the shrimp, I remember I had the shrimp. But every chef and their mother is out of work right now, and we just can’t…we just can’t take on anyone else. Have you thought about an office job?”

I did. I had. But with no college degree on my résumé, getting callbacks was even tougher than in the restaurant industry. Eventually, Andy offered me a front-of-house position at his catering company, just for wedding season, just until I got back on my feet again—but what happens if you’re permanentl y wobbly? What happens if you’re just one of those people who messes things up?

I thought I’d messed things up with Flynn, too, back then. Before he missed Thanksgiving, I must’ve said something that upset him, that damaged us; I must’ve misremembered what we had somehow. But I just couldn’t put the pieces together—what I’d gotten so wrong.

The second-to-last night we were together, his parents left for dinner at Lobster in the Rough, booking their favorite table and promising to order way too much wine. They were giggly, like they were just kids, living out the last bits of summer. Flynn and I, we were supposed to go to the movies; I can’t even remember what film we’d booked tickets for. Some rom-com with a happy ending, that probably took place at the beach. But he suggested, sheepishly, as soon as his parents’ taillights hit the end of the driveway, that maybe we could…stay home. Here. At their rental property.

A flutter rose up so fast in my belly, I actually clutched my stomach. I could feel heat traveling up my chest, over the neckline of my sundress, and I was hoping—no, praying —that he didn’t see the speckled spots. I didn’t want him to know how nervous he still made me feel, even after a whole summer of knowing him, touching him, kissing him.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he added quickly, redness crawling up his own neck. I loved how the tips of his ears flushed when he got a little anxious. “That’s…that’s not what I meant at all. I just meant that I want to talk to you, and it’s quiet here, and we could go for a walk, or make a pizza, or—whatever you want.”

What I wanted was to see his bedroom.

Not even, necessarily, in a sexual way. I’d just never been up there, up that set of knotty pine stairs, on the second floor of their rental house. And I was running out of time to know him, every piece of him, the hints of what his bedroom might look like back home. He told me he’d packed only two suitcases for the whole summer, but when I opened the door to his room, stepping almost reverently inside, it still felt so Flynn . Those stacks of sheet music—the ones I’d gifted him, from the Bar Harbor bookstore, after he handed me the Mary Oliver book—were spread out by a guitar on the wide blue rug. Shirts were hung neatly in his closet. A surfboard rested in the corner, freshly waxed.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving,” I said, like he’d always been there, and my voice felt small and pathetic, even to me.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t talk,” Flynn said, eyebrows furrowing. “We’re going to talk, right? I mean, unless you…unless you don’t want to.”

I let out a short laugh. “Of course I want to. I’m just afraid that you’re going to go back to Texas and find another girl.” The words came out before I had a chance to claw them back. How jealous could I sound ? But Flynn just…he just crossed the room in his socks, shuffling on that blue rug, and took both of my hands in his.

“I can promise you, Max, that you are irreplaceable.”

It was the closest I’d ever gotten to an I love you , and I kissed him right there, slanting my mouth across his, tasting the soft breath he gave me, my lungs feeling too small for my chest. His hands traveled to the sides of my face, pulling me closer, and I remember being so nervous to touch him—really touch him, the heat of him, slipping my hand down the waistline of his jeans. This was a new type of skin, velvety soft under my fingertips, and he whispered into my mouth that I didn’t have to, we didn’t have to, but I wanted everything to be with him.

Two mornings later, I said goodbye before he drove—with his parents—to the airport, and it was like he sucked all the air out of my little town. I remember bringing my hands to my knees, heaving in a breath, and then I waited for him to text me. He did. Everything felt the same between us, despite the distance.

Weeks later, the breakup email crashed into my inbox.

Outside the telephone booth, I’m shaking. My hands are shaking and my chest is shaking, and the breath won’t quite reach my lungs. It’s too hot. Everything is too hot and too bright, and there are too many people—strangers, glancing at me with odd looks—and I wonder how many tourists off the street would be able to spot a foreign prime minister, without her security team, without a gaggle of cameras following her around. Did the CIA manage to trace the phone number? If so, how long until they arrive? And should I stick around for them to get here?

I’ll admit that I’m not thinking particularly clearly as I stagger through the crowd, back toward the Trevi Fountain, into a mobile phone shop, and purchase a SIM card. The battery on my American phone is dwindling, but Gail disabled location services on it, right? It’s untraceable? I fork over the remainder of my cash for a bottle of water, taking lukewarm gulps on the curb as I pop out my old SIM card and install a new one, flicking through my numbers.

I have just enough battery left for one call. Maybe two.

It rings. And rings. And rings.

He isn’t going to answer. Why would he answer?

“Max?” At the last possible moment, Calvin picks up the call, his effortlessly calm voice floating down the line. “Heeey, Max, how’s it going?”

I almost laugh. Almost cry. My throat feels like it’s caught in a choke hold. “It’s…uh…it’s not going so well. I know this is a long shot, maybe the world’s longest long shot, but are you still in Rome?”

···

Miraculously, improbably, Calvin is still in Rome.

He arrives, less than twelve minutes later, on a lime green motorized scooter, no helmet, his curls flapping in the breeze. The scooter brakes screech dramatically as he pulls up to the curb, offering me a plastic bag with a T-shirt to slip over my fancier clothes. He actually did get a souvenir from Rome Fiumicino International Airport; on the tee, falling across my chest, is the slogan Caught in a Bad Rome-ance . “Catchy,” I tell him, stepping on the back of his scooter, my heart in my stomach. Over the tinny roar of the scooter’s engine, he explains how he slipped the security team at the airport, hiding in one of the cleaning-crew carts and getting wheeled out with the industrial rolls of toilet paper.

“I thought you might need me to stick around a little while,” Calvin explains, half yelling, the wind whipping past our ears. Surprisingly, he’s a careful (scooter) driver. I hold on to his shoulders, fingers half-numb, as we bump over cobblestones. “Plus, I was already in Rome, and I’ve never seen Rome, so I thought, when in Rome , I should be in Rome. Why miss it?” He is full of surprises. I must’ve said this last bit out loud, because he says, “Right back at you! I’ve been really worried. Almost thought about going back to your hotel in Positano. Then I saw that news conference—”

“What news conference?” I splutter.

“Oh, you probably haven’t seen it yet.”

“What news conference?” I repeat, gripping a little harder—involuntarily—on to his shoulders.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be on YouTube. They’re calling it Lobstergate. Don’t forget the hashtag.” Briefly, he lifts both hands from the scooter, crossing his fingers into a hashtag symbol, and I…I’m not sure I can process that right now. My brain can’t stand any other hiccups.

Turns out, Calvin doesn’t have many questions. You’d think he’d have questions, after receiving a 911 call from his semi-estranged roommate, dressed as a Northern European prime minister, waiting outside a mobile phone shop in Rome; the last time we saw each other, he was handcuffed to a chair in a hotel conference room. But that all seems to be…strangely in the past. And he’s strangely in the loop, having put the pieces together himself. “You’re the body double,” he says, stopping the scooter outside a tangerine-colored B and B and producing a key from his brown leather jacket. It’s brass, the shape of a bee, and reminds me of Giorgio. “You and the prime minister of Summerland, you look exactly alike. It’s freaky. You were pretending to be her—even though you were pretending you won the lottery.”

“That is…correct,” I manage, following him into the lobby, my head throbbing. He walks at a jaunty pace, leading me to an elevator at the back. The B and B is much more modest than Hotel Giorgio—no angel statue, no impressive bouquets of hand-cut flowers. It does feel very Roman, though, with air that smells ancient (like dusty library shelves, like catacombs) mixed with the hint of oranges. Orange cleaner? Orange potpourri? It’s quiet, too, as if you’re stepping into a church and shouldn’t raise your voice or laugh too loud—or else a nun will come out and hush you. But it’s comfortable, and quaint, and no one’s popped out yet to kill me, so I’d call that a solid five stars on Tripadvisor. Every once in a while, I glance over my shoulder, just to make sure we haven’t been followed.

In Calvin’s room—with its pumpkin-colored, ’70s-themed decor and view of the panetteria across the street—he fires up his laptop and his VPN, searching YouTube for a clip posted less than an hour ago. In it, reporters thrust those fluffy gray microphones around Roderick Flaa, who spins a dramatic tale about how the prime minister of Summerland chucked a lobster at him at a children’s birthday party. Near the end of the clip, a photo of me appears, blurred, racing through the kitchen, and the comments are already pouring in debating if Lobstergate is a hoax or a sign of the extreme stress world leaders are under in this increasingly hostile climate. “At least Obama stressed out gracefully,” one commenter says. “All he did was get gray hair.”

“They really didn’t have to bring Obama into this,” I say, wincing; the injury under my ear is healing, but when I rub my hand over it now, it only adds to the ache. I stretch my neck, rolling it, trying to release even an ounce of tension—but no good. No use. I have failed so profoundly in this role, have let so many people down—Gail, Flynn, Sofia, my parents, Jules, myself, and actually, an entire country —that a few yoga stretches aren’t going to cut it.

“Pizza?” Calvin suggests, shutting his laptop, like food will fix everything. He cups his hand to whisper out of the side of his mouth. “It won’t be the frozen kind, but I’ve heard—through the grapevine—that they do good pizza here.”

I summon a smile, but it’s a weak one. I’m not too keen on leaving the hotel, wandering back into the streets, where anyone can spot me and pick me off (incredibly easy to assassinate someone in the open air, on a scooter—that’s what bulletproof cars are for), so I stay back in the hotel, head cradled in my hands, letting the world spin as Calvin picks up a Neapolitan pizza. When housekeeping knocks, I double-chain the door and count my breaths until he’s returned, steaming pie in hand.

Eating cross-legged on the floor, he passes me a slice. My stomach is so watery, the first bite is practically impossible; a tiny blob of tomato migrates from under the cheese, directly onto Calvin’s brand-new airport tee, and I apologize profusely as he chews, shrugs, and tells me, “Half my clothes have sauce stains. You’re just speeding up the process. Christening the shirt. Hey, can I ask you something?”

I lower the pizza slice, thinking , Here it is . The waterfall of questions I’ve been expecting.

Instead, he hits me with, “Is your leg all right?”

“My leg?” Startled, I glance down at where he’s pointing, a thick streak of raspberry sauce clinging on from the kitchen. In the right light, it looks like I’ve split my femoral artery and I’m seconds away from requesting a crash cart. “Oh! Oh, that’s from the restaurant. It’s just raspberries. I made…kind of a quick exit.”

“With the lobster-throwing?” he asks.

“With the lobster-throwing,” I confirm, shifting uncomfortably on the floor. “I thought that guy, Roderick—I thought he was trying to attack the prime minister. I’m still not sure he wasn’t, honestly.”

Calvin chews thoughtfully, reaching behind him into his “suitcase.” It’s one of those bright blue IKEA bags with the strappy handles, tied up into a bow; he picks out a bottle of ranch dressing, presumably that he brought from America, and douses his pizza slice in a thick white gel. “Yeah, even on TV, Roderick doesn’t have good vibes. If anything, though, I think the public will see that. Your poll numbers might even increase. I mean, not yours , but—what’s her name, again?”

“Prime Minister Christiansen.”

“Prime Minister Christiansen’s,” he says, swallowing another bite and running a hand through his curls. His fingers leave the tiniest shine of grease, which, in the dim light of the hotel room, looks fabulous and intentional. “Can I ask you another question?”

I stop chewing, stop shifting on the floor, because the expression on Calvin’s face is suddenly serious. It’s a look I’ve rarely seen from him, the corners of his eyes pinched, his pupils dilated but not too much. “Yeah, sure. Sure.”

“What happened to that friend of yours? The one who interrogated me in the hotel room?” Calvin rips off another corner of pizza, blinking at me. “It seemed like you two were more than pretend. Then all the news articles started coming out, about you and him together, and I guess I’m just curious. You never mentioned anyone.”

I pick at my pizza crust, my face hot, dough dissolving into crumbs under my fingers. “I’ll be honest, Calvin. There’s not a lot that’s worth mentioning.” Calvin throws me a glance that clearly states, I don’t believe that for a second , and it pushes more out of me. “The two of us, we knew each other when we were young. Younger. He came up and spent a summer in Kennebunkport with his parents. We worked together at a restaurant, hung out all the time, so much that he kind of became my person, and then he…He ended it around the holidays. Said it’d be too hard if we couldn’t see each other.”

Calvin narrows his eyes at me, processing. “I think I’m missing something. How did you get back together now?”

Back together . It stings, and it shouldn’t, but the memory of Flynn is like a piece of sea glass that I keep stepping on. “He’s the one who alerted the CIA that I looked exactly like the prime minister of Summerland.”

“ Shiiiiit ,” says Calvin, leaning back against the bed, his pizza slice drooping over his knee. “That’s some seriously complicated stuff, Maximus. Are you okay?”

No. No, I don’t think so. Besides the fact that I’m currently passport-less, semi on the run, having potentially lost five million dollars in one lobster-throw, I’m stunned that—after all this, after the explosion and the museum gala and days pretending to be the prime minister—I’m back to where it all started. More than penniless. Without my family. Eating pizza with Calvin, on the floor, mulling over every poor decision I’ve made in my life. Every way that I’ve failed, tilted off-balance, felt like that wonky restaurant table that never has enough napkins. And I think about Flynn, way back in the tunnel, rushing from the front seat, sidling up next to me and telling me to breathe when I couldn’t seem to force any air into my lungs. I’d gripped his hand. I’d gripped his hand, without even thinking about it, without even questioning it—because at one point, he used to be my anchor.

“Do you ever have those moments,” I ask Calvin, squeezing my eyes shut to fight the tears, “where it just feels like nothing you do is right? Like you can’t make an intelligent decision to save your life?”

Calvin frowns. “It seems like you did save your life, Max. I mean, you’re alive, aren’t you?”

···

Night seeps across the city, the sky turning from rose-colored to black. Calvin offers to hang out with me a bit longer, but I tell him to go see the city. When in Rome , remember? He leaves reluctantly, waggling his phone in my direction, saying that I can call him at the first sign of trouble. Or the tenth sign of trouble. Or whatever sign of trouble we’re on now.

Closing the blinds to block out the city views—I’d like to pretend, just for an hour, that I’m nowhere—I crouch down on the floor again, TV remote in hand, flipping through the cable channels and trying to give myself any possible distraction. Limited options flicker past: children’s programming, a movie about a couple falling in love on the back of a Vespa (at least, that’s all I can piece together), and—of course—the news. My blurred face flashes across the screen; they’re covering Lobstergate, and even without the subtitles, it’s obvious that I do not come across well. Tomorrow night, Sofia was set to appear on Italian TV— La Visione Italiana , I think the program’s called. The newscaster mentions it, probably saying that I’m neglecting my media appearances in favor of chucking lobsters at Summerlandian diplomats.

I switch off the TV, leaning back on the carpet, staring up at the plaster cracks in the ceiling. Outside, the sounds of Rome whiz by—beeping horns, people laughing, summer, life. Life that I’m not living. Life that I’m not in. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was in Positano with Flynn, my head tucked under the crook of his chin, sheets falling over us. It’s been a long time since I felt that safe, that balanced, and the entire time, what was he thinking? What was going through his mind as I told him, with my body, things like I missed you and I’ve missed this ?

That book he gave me, it’s in my closet, tucked in a memory box. I’m not usually a sentimental person. I don’t collect things. I didn’t even save any copies of the menu from my restaurant. But in the box are a few oyster shells from that summer, ones we found together on the beach, interiors swirling and pearled; a fake diamond ring he won me after playing Skee-Ball at the local arcade, plus some of the leftover tickets; and the book, dog-eared, underlined, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? In the margins, next to Flynn’s restaurant suggestion, I’d written Frida’s with the swirly penmanship of an eighteen-year-old. It felt inevitable, that I’d spend the rest of my life in restaurants; that I’d cook good food for good people; that Flynn and I would stay in each other’s lives, one way or the other.

When my American phone buzzes in the corner, I’m so deep in the past, I have to swim out of it. I reach, grab the charging cord, and pull, dragging the screen toward me, wondering if it’s another delayed message from Calvin—something about Kevin the turtle or getting on a plane to Italy. But it isn’t. The screen flashes a new message from Dad. A response to my message from the first night in Positano, when I told him I was traveling, and that I hoped he and Mom were okay.

Good for you, Max-a-million , he’s written me. You deserve a little fun, after everything. Your mom’s making pot roast for dinner, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that 4 tablespoons of salt is too much!!! Immediately, I’m imagining him eating it, with my mom at their simply set table, my dad giving her a thumbs-up and a smile, like it’s the tastiest thing he’s ever eaten.

Storms of emotion bloom in my chest. Sweep in. Thunder and rain and—

I text him back immediately, knowing now that he won’t get it for a while, Save some for me.

I finally get it. Fully get it. I understand what Flynn told me, the night he unzipped my dress and whispered against the back of my neck that my parents wouldn’t want this for me. In fact, I think they’d be horrified, picturing me with raspberry bloodstains on my suit, lying on the carpet of a random hotel, after signing away my life to the CIA. It was always a possibility that I’d die. God, did I think they wanted me to die for them? That a pile of cash would make up for everything I did in the past, and for all the family Christmases I’d miss in the future?

I think…I think they just want me to be happy.

They just want me to feel whole, stable, capable of survival. Capable of getting by, even in the trickiest situations. Even when things feel impossible.

More than that, I want that for myself . I want to trust myself.

That is what I want to do with my one wild life.