Sunday, July 10

FLORENCE

Clara took a step back and crossed her arms, hugging her sketchbook.

“What do you think of this one?” she asked Rae.

“I think it’s one of the most famous paintings in the world,” Rae said.

“Psh. Everything here is famous. What do you really think of it? And you’re about to be an art major, so you have to say something smart. Say it with a British accent!”

“Hard pass. I suck at a British accent.”

They were spending the morning in the Uffizi Gallery, walking down its long marble corridors and staring at paintings of myths and angels and lots of naked bodies. Right now, they were looking at a Botticelli. The Birth of Venus. A goddess stood on a shell floating on the ocean, her long red hair wrapped around her and roses drifting down. The painting was massive; it was vivid, bright, and blue.

“I think,” Rae said, “it’s beautiful.”

But she kept glancing to the side instead, taking in Clara’s furrowed brow and the small red buttons on the waist of her skirt. She watched the goose bumps form on Clara’s arms in the air-conditioned chill and the way she scuffed her shoes on the glossy floor. Because Clara wasn’t a fantasy. Or some perfect painted image. She was real, and that was even better. She was the girl who’d kissed Rae in a rose garden above the city and a few other places since. She was the girl standing with Rae now, turning every image on the wall flat and gray.

Clara leaned in. “What do you think Gabe and Aubrey are doing later?”

“No clue,” Rae said. But the thought of Aubrey made her briefly cringe—she’d been trying to avoid it as much as she could.

“They didn’t come back till late last night,” Clara said.

“Not that we can talk.”

Clara blushed. “That’s true.” They’d arrived back at the apartment only a few minutes before Aubrey and Gabe did. For most of yesterday, they’d scoured the city for places to be alone. And in the evening, they’d sat on the front steps of an old building, showing each other pages from their sketchbooks, things they’d worked hard on but had always kept to themselves. When they walked home, they took their time, stopping to kiss on bridges and on narrow streets between apartment buildings.

“I was just thinking,” Clara said, “it’s our last night here. We should commemorate it somehow. We should throw a surprise party.”

“A surprise party for who?”

“For Aubrey and Gabe. For all of us.”

“Is it really a party if only four people go?”

“Of course it is!” A guided tour assembled in front of the painting, and a woman in a navy-blue suit addressed the group. Clara spoke quietly. “I’m really good at this stuff. Rose and I used to plan parties for my parents’ anniversaries before she went to college. They were themed and everything.”

“I know you’re good,” Rae said, “but I don’t have a great history with parties. You think it’s going to be completely harmless, because everyone there is really into Broadway musicals, but then someone brings a bottle of tequila, and someone else suggests a Phantom of the Opera sing-along, and before you know it, you’re standing on Lisa Tomiyama’s coffee table fake-opera-singing to a bunch of theater geeks.”

Clara bit her lip. “You have to admit, though, that was a fun night.”

“Best of my life,” Rae said drily.

A woman holding a map of the gallery edged up beside them, fixing her glasses on her nose and craning her neck to listen to the tour guide. Rae played with the spiral in her sketchbook. She and Clara had decided to come to the Uffizi so they could draw, but she hadn’t wanted to copy any of the art itself. She’d spent her time sketching the people around her instead, the ones who looked tired and bored or serious and intent. All of them revolving around one unchanging piece of art.

“I like it.” Clara touched the corner of the page. It was a picture of a little boy staring up at the Botticelli.

Embarrassed, Rae shielded it with her hand. “I’ve been staring at it for too long. I kind of hate it now.”

“All of your drawings seem so alive,” Clara said. “Your photographs, too. That’s why I love them all so much.”

The woman with the map gave them a pointed look.

“This is a big gallery.” Clara took Rae’s hand. “We should see as much of it as we can.”

They found themselves in an impossibly long hallway with a black-and-white floor and a row of tall windows running down one side. White stone statues stood balanced on heavy pedestals, and the air felt even colder here. Rae shivered in her tank top and shorts.

“Isn’t it weird how empty it is?” Clara asked. Their footsteps echoed. “Doesn’t it make you feel like we’ve stumbled into someone’s house?”

“This would be a super-weird house,” Rae said. “You’d need a map just to find the bathroom.”

“And it would be extra creepy at night. All those depressing medieval dudes staring at you from portraits.”

“God, we’re sophisticated. We’re, like, experts on classical art.”

“Yeah.” Clara sighed. “Our teachers would be so proud.” She sat on a bench in front of a window and reached down to rub her calves. “If we walk too much, the day will go by faster. We need to slow down.”

“Good plan.” Rae joined her on the bench. It did feel oddly quiet here. She pulled out the map they’d picked up at the entrance. “Look at how many rooms there are. We could spend the entire day going from wing to wing.”

“And then we can head home,” Clara said, “and plan for the party.”

Rae closed the map. “Okay, what is with this whole party thing? You seem pretty determined to have one.”

“Like I said, it’s our last day in Italy. It might be nice to do something with—all of us.” She tapped her heels against the ground.

“Uh-huh,” Rae said as it finally clicked together. “All of us as in me and Aubrey in the same room. Are you trying to get us to talk to each other again?”

A few kids stampeded down the hallway, their exhausted parents warning them to slow down. “I guess it is a little strange.” Clara watched them pass. “The two of you haven’t said anything to each other since we left Prague. Has this ever happened before?”

“Nope,” Rae said.

Clara looked alarmed. “And you don’t think that’s a bad thing?”

“Well. Not necessarily. Aubrey and I can be pretty codependent. Maybe we need a break.”

Clara’s eyes widened further. “But what if you leave in a few days and you’re still not talking to her? What will you do then?”

Rae wasn’t sure what to say. It wasn’t like she wanted to leave things this way forever. But she didn’t want to have a Big, Important Conversation with Aubrey, either. If she and Aubrey made up, her time in Florence wouldn’t be about her and Clara anymore. Once again, it would be about Aubrey and all her plans. Or maybe worse—if Aubrey found out about Rae and Clara, she might be hurt that Rae had kept such a big secret from her.

And Rae couldn’t take that.

She wanted to concentrate on Clara. On the sheen of purple glitter along her cheekbones, on her shoulders tinted red from the sun. Rae couldn’t imagine ever saying good-bye to her.

So she pictured this instead: They would go back to London together. They would hang out for as many days as they wanted and take the tube to each other’s houses and watch movies and work on their art in Lucy’s studio.

Clara turned to look out the window now, and Rae could tell she was slipping into herself. Down the hall, a clock chimed. A statue’s long shadow reached across both of them. And even though Rae wanted to avoid any mention of Aubrey, she also didn’t want Clara to be so concerned about her. She wanted every second of today to be perfect.

“Okay,” Rae said. “We should do it. We should throw a party.”

“Really?” Clara seemed elated. “You think so?”

“Sure. It is our last night here, right? We can’t waste it.”

“We’ll get food and drinks after we’re done here,” Clara said. “Oh, and what do you think about streamers?” Rae’s face must have changed, because Clara added, “Fine, no streamers. But I promise you, this will be fun.”

Rae took Clara’s hand and held it between both of hers, telling herself that, yes, they still had time. They had whole hours, days, and nights left together. “Of course it will.”