“There’s nothing going on!”
“But you’re still in contact? What, do you write letters?”
“Yes.”
“So, how often? Like, once in a while?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“Like, once a week, or so.”
“Once a week?
“Or, once a fortnight, maybe.”
“What do you even write about?”
“I don’t know, nothing really. Just life, stuff I’m thinking about.”
“Me? Do you write about me?”
“Sometimes.”
“So, he knows about me?”
“Of course. You’re a part of my life.”
“Then why don’t you share those things with me instead?”
“I do. For fuck’s sake, you’re not making any sense. There’s no competition between you and Jean-Luc. You’re my boyfriend and he’s my friend. That’s it. Get it?”
“How would you feel if I had a female friend I hung out with once a week?”
“Do you? Do you have a mysterious female friend you hang out with once a week?”
“No! I’m saying, imagine if I did.”
“But that’s not the same thing—if you’re seeing someone in person, then that’s—”
“It’s the same thing—if we were just friends—you know, like you and whatshisname.”
“It’s Jean-Luc.”
“Yeah, well, whatever. So, when were you going to tell me about your very best friend, Jean-Luc?”
“He’s not—never mind. And I did tell you about him.”
“No, no, you didn’t. You might have said something about an exchange student once, but this is all news to me.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I don’t want you writing him anymore.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Scott, this isn’t the 1950s. You can’t just tell me to stop writing letters to my friend.”
“I’m not telling you, Catey. I’m saying that if you love me, you’ll stop.”
“I … you’re not serious.”
“I am totally serious. If we’re going to be in a relationship, then I should be your priority.”
“You are—being friends with Jean-Luc … it’s—”
“I mean it, Catey. Look, I don’t feel like going to the movies anymore. I’m gonna go. I—just decide, will you?”
“Decide? Decide what—between you? That’s—wait, Scott!”
***
Sarah pokes her head around my bedroom door. “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Everything’s fucked, Sez.” I can tell she didn’t expect me to say that.
“What do you mean? What happened?” She sits next to me on the bed, a concerned look on her face.
“Scott saw Jean-Luc’s photo and he just started going off on me about how if I love him, I won’t write to Jean-Luc anymore—like I’m a bad girlfriend or something.”
“You’re not a—Cat, that’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what I said, but what if he breaks up with me?”
“Then good riddance.”
“Don’t you like him?”
“Uh, sure. But, Cat, he can’t tell you who to be friends with. That’s not okay.”
“I know.”
“And don’t bite your nails.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s … look, maybe he’ll calm down and realise he’s being a massive dick about it.”
“Maybe.”
“Jean-Luc—he’s a great guy. It was almost like having a little brother around, you know. That kind of friendship, you gotta hold onto those. Okay?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“It’ll all work out. Here—wipe your nose.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve got to go. I’ve got a uni thing, but hang in there, okay? No doubt Scott will realise he’s being unreasonable, and he’ll be back to say he’s sorry, okay?”
“Yep.”
“Love you.”
“Yep. Love you too.”
Chapter 9
Darting off after dinner to see a brass warthog turned out to be a terrible idea.
While most of the tour group headed to a seedy bar with Georgina for karaoke and overpriced drinks—Sarah’s advice was to avoid it at all costs—our little band of merry men and women went in search of a warthog.
The searching part wasn’t difficult, because, well, Google. Her phone in hand, Dani led the way through a maze of deserted cobbled streets. I wondered where the throngs had disappeared to, but I realised it was 10:30pm on a Wednesday. The tourists were likely asleep in their hotel rooms and the locals were probably still eating dinner. They ate late in Italy; the restaurant where we’d eaten was only just starting to fill up with locals when we left.
“There it is,” she said, pointing up ahead to a row of shuttered markets. The statue guarded the marketplace from its stone plinth, its weird little spikey penis the second ugliest thing about it.
“That is seriously ugly,” said Lou, saying what I was thinking. Its face was the ugliest part of the warthog—tiny beady close-together eyes, a long snout, and giant fangs protruding from its almost comical smile. I’d never seen a live one, and I was certain I could live the rest of my life quite happily without rectifying that.
Lou rubbed its snout and I did the same. As unappealing as the warthog was, I wanted to return to Florence. And yes, I knew it was a stupid superstition, but what if I never went back—and it was because I didn’t rub the warthog’s nose?
Jaelee rolled her eyes, then took out her phone and handed it to Lachie—damn those boys, I was learning their names. She asked him to take a photo of her and rubbed the statue, her smile disappearing as soon as he took it. He handed back the phone and kept hold of it a little longer than he needed to, teasing her with it. Her smile came back, only this time it was a flirty one.
It was my turn to roll my eyes and Lou caught me. She shrugged. The Love Bus indeed.
The other guys, Jason, Paul and Rob—see? actual names—did not care about ugly statues or superstitions, so we managed to wrap up the whole excursion in about six minutes.
“Okay, so now what?” asked Jaelee, peering at us expectantly. She looked weighed down carrying all those shopping bags. I would have offered to help carry them, but I didn’t want to.
Craig spoke up in a rare moment of leadership and I was a little proud of him, our baby bro. “So, we’ve got almost two hours ’til we need to meet the coach. Cat, you said that the bar is a no-go?”
“The one where everyone else went?” He nodded. “Yes, definitely. My sister, Sarah, used to run these tours. She said if it was the same bar—and it is—to stay away. Quite nasty, apparently.”
Jae breathed out heavily from her nose, her impatience obvious. Lachie, whom I was starting to like more as the night went on, reached for her shopping bags. She feigned fobbing him off, but he insisted and she finally “let” him take them. She perked right up after that.