Jesse didn’t reply.
“The trip to Europe’s just a bonus.” She tried to keep her voice light, upbeat. “For doing what I was planning to do, anyway.”
“But you wanted to act,” Jesse said.
“I used to. I mean, I’ve been doing it forever.…” Lucy felt herself growing increasingly flustered. “I loved being onstage.”
Jesse waited for her to finish.
“Everybody always said I was pretty good at it. But it’s so hard to break into the industry. There’s so much competition in Hollywood, not to mention on Broadway.” She heard herself channeling her father, but couldn’t seem to stop. “I probably would have failed.”
“How can you know that?”
“I just do,” she said.
“Even if that’s true”—Jesse rubbed his palms against his legs and squinted into the distance—“I’m not saying it is, but even if it is, you don’t have to be a movie star. You can do what you love, anyway. Like me, for example. I’ll probably never be famous. But I’m here, making music. Doing what makes me happy.”
“And that’s fine for you,” Lucy said. She could hear she was losing the battle to keep her voice calm and light. “But if I can’t be great, I don’t see the point.”
“So instead you’re going to waste your life? Doing something you hate?”
“Waste my life?” Lucy felt like she’d been slapped. “Did you really just say that?”
Jesse looked embarrassed.
“Besides, maybe I won’t hate being a business major. I haven’t even tried it yet. For all I know, I might like it.” Her forehead throbbed, and she felt it with the back of her hand. It was hot, of course. Even in the shade, everything here was hot. “I feel like you’re judging me,” she said, finally.
“I’m not,” he said.
“Not everyone can just drop everything, buy a one-way ticket to Europe, and become a street musician.”
“I’m not judging you,” he said again. “It just bothers me to think you’re…” His voice trailed off. “You know. Giving up on yourself.”
Without warning, tears popped into Lucy’s eyes. Embarrassed, she tried in vain to blink them away. She was remembering something she’d worked hard to forget: how she used to feel onstage, as everything fell away—everything but the make-believe world she’d stepped into. All that mattered was the audience wanting to be entertained, holding its breath, waiting to laugh or cry or applaud. Waiting for her. Was Jesse right? Had she given up on her dreams too easily?
“Hey.” Jesse sounded alarmed. “Did I do that? I’m sorry.” He patted his pockets for tissues, apparently not finding any. “Here.” He grabbed the bottom of his T-shirt and pulled it up toward her. “Use this.”
Lucy wiped her eyes, smiling through her tears. “Even if you’re right, even if I made a mistake…” Her voice came out wobbly. “It’s too late. I promised.”
“It’s not too late.” Jesse smoothed his T-shirt—now damp—back into place.
“It is.” Lucy rubbed beneath her eyes, hoping her mascara wasn’t running. “You don’t know my dad.”
They sat quietly side by side, watching tourists mill around and take photos of one another in front of the statues. Finally, Jesse broke the silence. “We should go.”
“Where?”
But he still wasn’t telling. “Our next stop. Someplace I think you’ll like.”
Wherever his mystery destination was, he didn’t take Lucy straight there. First he took her to a sidewalk café for espresso, then to a bookstore where they browsed in the English section for a long time. Only after they’d watched the sun set over the city from Piazzale Michelangelo did he turn to her and, with mischief in his dark eyes, ask, “Are you ready for something that absolutely isn’t in your guidebook?”
VII
After dark they pulled into a neighborhood Lucy hadn’t seen yet, on an ordinary thoroughfare of restaurants and stores. “This is it?” she asked him.
Jesse didn’t reply. Instead, he motioned for her to follow him down the street. In front of a mural—a colorful jungle scene in which lambs and tigers lay side by side—he stopped. “This is what you wanted me to see?” Lucy asked, hoping it wasn’t. It was a nice mural, and a vivid contrast to the old stone buildings everywhere in Florence, but she’d been hoping for something a little more exciting.
“Look closer,” Jesse said. Lucy scrutinized the bright leaves and flowers, the painted monkeys and jaguars, and then noticed a door-shaped crack in the wall. She looked at Jesse questioningly, her pulse quickening. He nodded, so she felt around until her hand landed on a doorknob camouflaged by paint. She gave it a turn.
The door opened into what looked like the dark lobby of a small theater, blue lights giving it an undersea glow. Though the room was empty, from behind a drawn velvet curtain Lucy could hear the deep throb of a bass, an electric guitar, and voices conferring—some kind of sound check. “What is this place?” she asked, excited. “Why isn’t there a sign outside?” Before Jesse could answer, she connected the dots herself. “Is this an underground nightclub?” She glanced down at her dusty sandals, her shorts, and the rumpled tank top she’d been wearing all day. “I’m not dressed nicely enough,” she said sadly.
“No worries,” Jesse said. “We’re casual here.” Easy for him to say: In his jeans and black T-shirt, he would fit in wherever he went.
“But I’m a mess.” Lucy reached up to assess the condition of her hair. “I have helmet head.”
Jesse smiled. “Spoken like a girl who has no idea how beautiful she is,” he said, and before she could absorb the fact that he’d said something so incredibly sweet, he’d turned and was heading through the velvet curtain.
Still reeling from his words, Lucy followed.
“What’s this place called?” Lucy asked Jesse. They joined the edge of the crowd in a large room full of Italian hipsters waiting for the show to start. Despite what Jesse had said about the crowd being casual, she couldn’t help feeling she stood out among all the skintight jeans, artfully draped scarves, dreadlocks, spiked hair, and biker gear.
“It doesn’t have a name,” Jesse told her.
“What about them?” Lucy pointed at the band. “Do they have a name?”
“It changes every week.” Jesse folded his arms and inclined his head toward the bassist. “Recognize her?”
Lucy looked closer. It was Gianna, Jesse’s friend from the Bargello, but she’d shed her museum-guard blazer in favor of black leggings, a long op-art T-shirt, and a fedora. “You know the band?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“So do you.” Jesse pointed to the drummer, a baby-faced, curly-haired guy in prisoner stripes and severe blue glasses. Lucy looked closer and he turned into Nello, the desk clerk from the Bertolini.
“I do! I do know the band!”
“Let’s get closer.” Jesse hooked his arm through hers and started nudging through the crowd, pulling her toward the front row. Just as they got there, Nello spotted them. “It’s my man, Jesse!” he called, playing a drumroll. “And you brought Lucy!”
Lucy waved, feeling like a celebrity despite her less-than-cool clothes.
“You coming onstage with us tonight?” Nello called to Jesse, whose only reply was a shrug.
“This is your band?” Lucy asked him.
“Not anymore,” he told her. “Like I said, I dropped out to focus on my brilliant career as a street musician.”
“But why?” Lucy asked.
“The money’s better, if you can believe that. Besides, their new lead guitarist is a hotshot.” He gestured toward a skinny-as-a-toothpick guy with his black hair gelled upright in a rooster comb. “They don’t need me.”
At that exact moment, Nello called from the stage again. “Get up here, my man,” he shouted at Jesse.
“Andiamo, Jesse!” Gianna called, brandishing her bass in his direction. “Get onstage.”
“See?” Lucy said. “They do need you. And I want to see you play.”
&n
bsp; “You’ve seen me play,” he said.
“Not like this,” she told him. She slipped behind him, grabbed both his shoulders, and pushed him toward the stage. “Please. Get up there.” As cool as it was to be in the front row of a nightclub so underground it didn’t even have a name, it would be even cooler to be the guest—possibly even the date—of a guy in the band.
He looked over his shoulder at her. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said.
Lucy grinned from ear to ear. “Where would I go?”
The band—whose current name Lucy never did catch—played American-style garage-band rock. Some of the songs seemed to be original, and some were covers Lucy recognized. Jesse played rhythm guitar and sang backup at first, but as the room filled up and the crowd grew rowdier, he began to switch places with the rooster-haired guitarist, taking over lead guitar and vocals every few songs. Lucy sang along with the songs she recognized, dancing as much as she could in the jam-packed crowd, which basically meant pogoing in place. Dark hair flowing as he played, face serious with concentration, Jesse was adorable. And you’re here with him, she told herself, giddy with the adventure of it all. You’re with the band!
Then came the moment when Jesse took the mike between songs. “I’d like to bring somebody up on the stage,” he said, his gaze searching the front row and landing on her.
Lucy caught her breath. This was a setup, she realized, thinking back to their conversation in the Piazza della Signoria. He’s been planning this all along. Panicked, she looked around for an escape route, determined to keep the promise she’d made to herself after that last audition: to stay away from stages of all kinds.
“Oh, no,” she said, though she knew he couldn’t actually hear her from the stage.
But Jesse was saying something into Nello’s ear, then into Gianna’s.
“Come on, Lucy,” Nello said into the mike on his lapel. “Get up here.”
“Lu-cy, Lu-cy, Lu-cy!” Gianna chimed in, and the crowd joined the chant, though of course they didn’t have any idea who it was they were chanting for. What could Lucy do but climb the rickety steps onto the stage, legs trembling? Even back when she’d still considered herself an actress, when performing had been the one thing she truly loved to do, there had been a moment before each show when she’d been seized by stage fright. Each time she’d had to talk herself through it. She would close her eyes and tell herself, You can do this.
But ever since that terrible audition, she didn’t believe she could. Not every time. Not anymore. Now Lucy stood in the shadows at the far end of the stage, unable to take another step forward.
“You can do this.” Jesse took her hand and tugged her to center stage. “Share my mike.”
“I don’t know any of your songs,” she hissed.
“You’ll know this one. Trust me.”
“What part do I take?” she asked.
“Just sing.” He signaled to Nello, who counted off.
The band launched into the Beatles’ “I Saw Her Standing There.” Jesse was right; she did know the song. Her parents had just about every Beatles album ever recorded, and her mother had sung her to sleep with “Hey Jude” and “Norwegian Wood.” But knowing the song wasn’t the same as singing it for an audience. As the band played the familiar opening bars, Lucy considered bolting from the stage. When the time came to sing, though, she opened her mouth and her voice rang out, the way it was supposed to. “Well, she was just seventeen. You know what I mean.…” She could hear her voice through the mike, blending with Jesse’s. Below the stage, the crowd bobbed and sang along.
Lucy felt herself relax. As they launched into the bridge, she dared a glance over at Jesse and caught his eye. This is fun, she thought, surprised, though it hadn’t been all that long since performing onstage had been the best thing in her whole life. When the song ended, the crowd erupted in applause, and she grabbed Jesse’s hand and gave it a grateful squeeze. He squeezed back, his smile so bright it dazzled her.
“I knew you could do it,” Jesse told her when the set was over. Clothes still damp from the heat of the stage, they’d slipped out of the club to a sidewalk café just down the street, the perfect vantage point for watching the hipsters stream past.
Lucy took a long sip from her lemon soda. “I wanted to kill you when you made me get onstage, but now I’m so glad you did,” she admitted. “That was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. No… it was the most fun ever.” Lucy had known every one of the songs the band played after she got onstage, and she had grown progressively more daring, taking the harmonies, her voice winding around Jesse’s, lending the music an extra dimension.
“We sound good together,” he said.
She grinned. She’d been thinking the same thing.
But the next words that came out of his mouth pulled her up short. “I really hope you’ll reconsider that whole giving-up-your-stage-career thing.”
Lucy set down her glass. “I don’t think so.” She looked away from him, at a couple that had just walked into her line of vision. Tall, slender, and golden-skinned, they were matched bookends, the most beautiful couple she’d ever seen. Had they come from the show? Lucy wondered. She watched them wander past the sidewalk café, slow their pace, confer, and walk back to talk to the maître d’.
But Jesse persisted. “You’ve got an amazing voice,” he said. “And you were so comfortable up there, once you started singing.”
Lucy frowned. Why did everyone insist on trying to tell her what to do? Her parents. Charlene. And now Jesse. “Anyone can get up onstage and sing some Beatles songs.…”
“Not anyone can sound good doing it.”
“Not everyone should make it their life,” she said. She lowered her voice as the maître d’ seated the beautiful, happy couple at the table beside theirs. “Not everyone wants to,” she whispered.
“I’m not talking about everyone,” Jesse said, lowering his voice to match hers. “I’m talking about you.”
“Please, don’t.” Lucy glanced over at the couple. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Instead they fell silent, watching the gorgeous couple slide their chairs side by side and share a single menu. Then he was kissing her, the menu forgotten.
Lucy tore her gaze from the couple and gaped at Jesse, trying to remember what she’d just been saying. He gaped back, just as distracted.
A moment later, it seemed the couple had forgotten they were in public. His hands were enmeshed in her blond hair; under the table, her long legs were entangled with his.
“PDA Italian-style,” Jesse whispered, looking pointedly at a spot to the right of the couple.
Just then a cell phone rang, and the man broke from the embrace to answer it. The mood at the next table changed quickly. The girl listened to her boyfriend’s half of the conversation, giving off waves of distress even Lucy could feel.
“Dinner and a show,” Jesse whispered.
By the time the boyfriend pocketed his phone, the woman looked furious, her forehead wrinkled in frustration. She started yelling at him in rapid Italian, apparently not caring who was listening. Lucy could only catch a word here or there, so Jesse translated for her.
“That phone call was from another girl,” he whispered to Lucy. “Now she’s accusing him of cheating on her.”
“Unreal.” Lucy couldn’t seem to stop watching the unfolding drama. Now the boyfriend was yelling back, a look of wounded disbelief on his face.
“He’s saying she’s crazy. He’s always been faithful,” Jesse whispered. “The girl on the phone is just a friend.” Jesse paused to listen some more. “Now he says his girlfriend’s jealousy is out of control and he just might cheat on her to teach her a lesson.”
“Whoa,” Lucy said.
“Tactical error,” Jesse said.
The girl lunged at the boy, beating his chest with her fists. She screamed at him, calling him names—that much Lucy could tell without translation. He took her punches for a while, a look of pained forbearance on
his handsome face, evidently hoping she’d tire out and give up. But she didn’t, and before long he exploded, screamed a swear word or two, then jumped to his feet, pushing her off him, hard.
In what felt like slow motion, the girl’s slender body fell, her golden hair billowing around her like a parachute. All Lucy could do was watch in horror as her head hit the concrete patio.
“Oh my God,” Lucy said. “Should we call for an ambulance?” she asked Jesse, whose face had gone utterly pale.
Jesse pointed through the open doorway, where the maître d’ was barking something into the house phone, gesturing wildly with his free hand. “He must already be calling one.”
Lucy nodded, relieved.
A man from a few tables over was bent over the woman, listening for breath. Meanwhile, the boyfriend had thrown his head back and was wailing—an almost inhuman sound.
“Let’s get out of the way,” Jesse said, and they emptied euros from their pockets onto the table. “They’ll need room when the ambulance gets here.”
“Will she be okay?” Lucy asked. “What will they do with him?” The boyfriend dropped to his knees beside his girlfriend, screaming what must have been her name. “Marietta! Marietta!”
A siren screeched in the distance, getting louder. Jesse put his arm around Lucy’s shoulders and moved her through the crowd. Once they got beyond the rubberneckers, they found themselves in a piazza with a fountain at its center. “Please sit down,” he said. “You look like you might pass out.”
“I don’t faint. At least, I’ve never…” But she did feel a bit shaky, so she sat. “That was unbelievable. One moment, they’re all… and the next…”
Looking pretty unsteady himself, Jesse sat down next to her. Though an ambulance had already passed them, a siren still shrieked. They watched as a police car pulled past, pedestrians scurrying out of its way.
“You don’t think she’s going to die?” Lucy asked.
Jesse rubbed his temples. “I don’t know.”
Lucy’s hair clung thick and hot to the back of her neck. “I don’t understand,” she said as she gathered it into a ponytail and held it away from her skin. “How could they go from being so in love one moment to wanting to kill each other the next?”