Noah and I are both mildly drunk by the time we leave.
For no reason whatsoever, neither one of us can stop laughing. We walk home hissing at each other to keep it down.
“Shh! It’s late. We’re going to wake up the neighborhood.”
We’re not in danger of that. Not even close. We’re in Rome on a Saturday night in July—the streets are flooded with people.
We’re almost back to the school when I think of a brilliant idea. I grab Noah’s hand and tug him back.
“Oh! Oh! Should we get another—”
I’m about to say a word when it completely evaporates from my head.
“Another what?” Noah asks.
“The dessert we had last night.” I snap my fingers. “What was that called?”
Noah acts completely confused. He likes seeing me flustered.
“It was the thing with the ricotta cheese! Oh my god! Are you kidding me? OH! CANNOLI!”
“Cannoli!” some dude on the street echoes back at me, like we’re playing a game.
Noah can’t quite remember where the bakery was located. We go down a multitude of wrong streets, laughing like it’s the most hilarious thing that’s ever happened to us, and by the time we find it, the place is closed.
I press my face and hands against the glass, looking for any signs of life inside the dark building.
“Are you crying?” Noah asks me.
I sniff. “No.”
He grabs my shoulders with his hands and reroutes me down the street.
“I’ve just never tasted something so good in my entire life.”
“That’s what you said about the lasagna at dinner.”
“And I meant it then too.”
What’s so hard to understand about that?
He laughs and keeps prodding me along, probably worried that if he lets go of me, I’ll turn back and run for the bakery. He’s not wrong. A part of me wants to camp out on their doorstep until sunrise. I’d get the first cannoli of the day.
When we finally make it to St. Cecilia’s, we’re drunker than skunks, thirsty, and tired. The whole place is dark, which doesn’t worry me all that much until Noah tries the gate and it’s locked.
Worst-case scenarios run wild in my alcohol-addled brain.
They’ve forgotten about us!
We’ll have to sleep on the street!
We’ll die!
I’m spiraling. Meanwhile, Noah buzzes a little intercom button half-hidden behind the overgrown bougainvillea. Apparently, it connects to a walkie talkie Enzo, the security guard, carries.
Noah follows my panicked “HELP US! PLEASE!” with a calm “Hey Enzo, it’s Noah and Audrey. Could you come unlock the gate for us please?”
When Enzo comes to let us in, we thank him profusely.
“Non c’è problema,” he assures us.
We tiptoe through the school so we don’t wake up the kids or the other chaperones. The lights are still on out in the halls, but it still takes me ten tries to fit my key into the lock on my door. Noah leans against the wall and gives commentary.
“Close. Ooh, just overshot it.”
Turns out, it wasn’t my door anyway.
My room is one over.
“See now? That would have helped.”
I feel like a world-class locksmith when I finally succeed in opening my door. I step inside and toss my sweater and clutch into the air. I think I meant for them to land on a surface, any surface, but they just crash to the ground.
“Wow, you must be drunk. No perfect pile or neat arrangement?”
“Oh shoot!”
I quickly grab my sweater and hang it up in my closet, place my clutch on my dresser so it’s tidy and next to my other bags, and then put my shoes back in my closet, in their assigned spot. When I turn back to Noah, he’s standing on the threshold, studying me.
“Much better.”
He chuckles and shakes his head.
“You coming in or not?” I tease. “You made it all the way to my door, might as well step inside.”
“Only for a bit. To help you get ready for bed.”
Does he think I can’t do that on my own? I only sat down on the floor to rest my legs for one second, but now that I’m down here, I realize it’s really not so bad. I could sleep here just fine.
“The second bottle of wine might have been a bad idea,” he says, heading toward my dresser. “Where are your pajamas?”
“Second drawer from the top. Don’t look at my panties. Noah, Noah—don’t you dare look at my panties.”
A second later, he drops my pajamas on my chest.