A Little Too Far (10 page)

He looks at me curiously for a second, and he’s so close I can see the thin black rims around his charcoal irises. “Alessandro.”

“What?”

“I want you to call me Alessandro.” His hard shell cracks a little, and his face softens. But then he glances at the milling crowd and backs off a step, lowering his lashes. “You were truly spectacular with those children . . . and I have something I’d like to share with you.” His eyes lift to mine. “Can I show you?”

God, why can’t I breathe?

Because he’s an attractive man. A
very
attractive man. It’s normal to feel attracted to an attractive man, white collar or not, right? . . . Even though half the time I want to wring that collar right off his neck.

Which is something else I’m sure I need to add to my list for confession—both the wanting to wring his white-collared-neck part, and the lusting-after-his-bones part.

I am so burning in hell.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

Chapter Ten

T
HE LIFT DUMPS
us onto an open expanse of flat roof, where there’s a gift shop (even the Church exploits tourists) and a few picnic benches. We’re on the roof of the basilica, and as Alessandro strides off toward the dome, he says, “There are 320 stairs.”

Panic kicks in my chest. “We’re going up?”

He glances at me and smiles. “It’s one of my favorite spots in all of Rome.”

I’m already more than a little wired from the tour, and I feel another shot of adrenaline hit my veins. My feet stall, and it takes Alessandro a few seconds to realize I’m not beside him. He turns and looks back at me. “Is there a problem?”

“Um . . . I’m sort of,” I cringe, knowing just how stupid this sounds. “I’m scared of heights.”

He takes the few steps back to where I am and stops in front of me. “The observation platforms are all enclosed. There is no possible way you could fall.”

My heart is thumping in my chest just thinking about all the possible ways. “Unless the platform gives way, or the rail comes detached from the wall, or there’s an earthquake or a—”

His palm cups my elbow, shutting me up. “So you will deprive yourself of the most breathtaking view in all the city because of a phobia?”

I look up at the dome and feel my legs turn to Jell-O as cold sweat breaks over my body. “Somebody must have taken pictures up there, right? I’ll just Google it.”

“Like most everything else, pictures don’t do it justice.” His hand squeezes my elbow, and we start moving again. I let him guide me to the base of the stairs.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

I can do this. I
want
to do this.

I try not to think as we climb the flight of stairs to the cupola. Alessandro’s hand is on my back, urging me forward, and I ignore the pounding of my heart and focus on moving my feet.

It’s just a flight of stairs,
I coach myself. But I don’t let myself look up or down.

When we get to the top of the stairs, Alessandro smiles at me. “You’re doing great.”

“Yeah, but . . .” I trail off as my eyes flick to the dome. I’m going to try really hard not to puke in front of him . . . or
on
him.

He ushers me along the walkway, and when we get to the base of the cupola, and I look up, I see a gradual ramp enclosed inside a yellow-tiled tunnel. We start up it, and my chest loosens a little. With no windows to the outside world, I can almost convince myself we’re not actually 200 feet above terra firma.

“This isn’t so bad,” I say. “Is it all enclosed like this?”

He nods. “With the exception of the observation platforms inside the basilica and at the top.”

The top. That’s all I have to hear before my knees are quaking again.

We spiral up the ramp, which, after a few minutes, dead-ends at a door. I stop short when I realize it leads inside the basilica onto the viewing platform at the first ring of the cupola . . . 250 feet above the basilica floor. “Is there a way to just . . . skip it?” I ask, looking for another opening or doorway.

“No,” he answers, grasping my elbow, “and trust me, you don’t want to.”

He guides me onto the platform and, for a second, my head swims, and I’m sure I’m going to pass out. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades as I press my back against the wall inside the dome, as far from the edge of the platform as I can get. But as my fingertips dig at the wall for purchase, I feel sharp edges and roughness, and when I turn, I’m face-to-face with the mosaics of St. Peter’s. There are beautiful examples throughout the basilica—reproductions of great works of art by Raphael and others—but none are as expansive as the mosaics that were laid inside the dome, covering the entire undersurface. They’re obviously more modern than the mosaic at Santa Maria in Trastevere, laid in the late 1500s, and in a completely different style, but no less stunning. I step back for the bigger picture and bump into the rail behind me.

When I realize where I am, I cry out in surprise and my arms flail, trying to claw me back to safety. But then there are strong hands on my upper arms, pulling me into a firm body.

Alessandro.

“You’re fine, Lexie,” he says in his most soothing voice, which would make me weak in the knees if I weren’t already weak in the knees.

But he’s a liar. I’m
not
fine. I’m hyperventilating.

He guides me away from the rail to the wall, and I bend over and fight for breath. The wisps of hair that I curled around my face this morning when I pulled my ponytail back are plastered to my forehead with sweat.

“I need to . . . go back . . . down,” I manage as I gulp for air. I climb my hands up my thighs until I’m upright.

He loops his arm around my waist, steadying me as I wobble on my feet. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have forced you into this.”

We turn toward the door we came through, and that’s when I catch sight of Bernini’s bronze baldacchino: the canopy of the Papal Altar. It’s so close, I can almost reach out and touch it.

I look at Alessandro and grasp his hand where it rests on my waist to be sure he has me, then we inch toward the rail. I stare down at it, memorizing every detail from this angle. “This is incredible,” quakes out of my chest with my shaking.

He grasps my arm and draws me close, supporting my shaking body. “That it is.”

When I look at him, he’s gazing out over the baldacchino. I mop my face with my sleeve. “I want to go all the way up.”

His gaze turns to me, and there’s a question in it.

I grasp his arm. “I think I can do it.”

He nods, and a smile creeps over his face. “If you’re sure.” He guides me around the cupola to a door farther along the platform. “Are you ready?”

I nod, and we step into the stairwell. Like the ramp, it’s totally enclosed in yellow tile except for the occasional slits in the wall where a person could look out . . . if that person weren’t me.

I focus on breathing as Alessandro guides me up the stairs, but it becomes harder as the stairwell narrows. I’m not normally claustrophobic, but there’s something about knowing I’m 400 feet above the ground in a cramped stairway that leads to a platform where I’ll surely fall to my death.

When the walls of the stairway start to slant with the curve of the top of the dome, I have to stop. “How much farther?” I pant.

“Almost there,” Alessandro assures me, but it’s not at all reassuring. “This last bit is a tight spiral staircase.”

I look in front of me and see exactly what he just described. There are deep stairs in a tight spiral with a thick rope dangling down the center. I know my eyes are about to bulge right out of my head. “Are you
serious
?”

He turns and rests his hands on my waist. “We can go back if this is too much.”

“No,” I say, setting my resolve. I’ve come this far. It would be beyond stupid not to go the last few feet.

He slides a hand around to my back and urges me toward the stairs. “I’ll be right behind you.”

We twist up the spiral, and when we get to the top, there’s a breeze coming through the door. This is it. Alessandro steps up behind me and rests his hands on my hips. “Are you all right?”

“What do you think?” I grasp his hands and hold on, just to make sure he’s got me, then step out the door. I look out over Rome, and all the blood drains out of my head. When stars flash in my eyes, and my knees buckle, I’m sure I’m going down, but Alessandro pulls me into the curve of his body and holds me tight. I turn in his arms and bury my face in his shirt, holding on to him with a death grip.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

His hand strokes my hair, slow and smooth, and I try to synch my breathing with the motion. Slowly, my senses return, and I realize I’m plastered to the front of an almost-priest. I back out of his embrace. “I’m okay.” I scrape my sweat-soaked hair off my forehead. “You know . . . provided I don’t look anywhere but at your chest.” . . . Which is spectacular, by the way.

“The rail is as high as your shoulders, Lexie. You could jump, but there’s no way you could fall.”

With the word “jump,” my insides flip, and I feel woozy again. “Thank you for that visual,” I tell him. As I stare into his chest, afraid to even look at his face because it’s too small to totally block the view of what’s behind it, I feel a cool breeze in my face, drying my sweat. “You’re sure you have me?” I ask.

He grasps my hips firmly. “I am.”

I press my hands against my eyes and slowly turn. When my back is against his front, I lower my hands and open my eyes.

He was right, it’s breathtaking. Just the sight of Rome, 400 feet below, leaves me gasping for breath. But I refuse to cower into his shirt again. I start inching my feet sideways, around the platform. “Is that the Pantheon?” I ask, realizing that if I focus on picking out landmarks, I’m not thinking about how high I am.

“It is.” He starts to lift an arm to point but I grab it before he can take it off me. “And, to the left and a little closer,” he says, laying his hand on my hip again, “is Piazza Navona.”

We keep moving, and, slowly, the fist around my lungs loosens a little. By the time we make it around to St. Peter’s Square at least fifteen minutes later, I can actually breathe.

“I’ve got to take a picture,” I say, fishing in my pocket for my phone with a shaking hand. “My family will never believe I did this unless I send proof.” I snap a shot and text it to Dad and Julie. I hesitate, then add Trent to the text. My phone rings almost instantly, and I glance at the screen. “Hi, Julie,” I say when I answer.

“You are
not
on top of St. Peter’s!”

“Actually, I am.”

“She’s really there!” I hear her call to Dad. “Oh, Lexie! I’m so glad you got up the nerve. Isn’t the view spectacular?”

“I never would have come up here on my own. I had a little help.”

“Oh? Are you with a friend?”

I glance behind me at Alessandro and feel his hands on me, holding me tight. “Yeah. The Reverend Moretti talked me into coming up after our first tour. It went really well, Julie. I didn’t choke or anything.”

I feel Alessandro’s fingers squeeze tighter as Julie says, “Congratulations, honey. I knew you would be wonderful.”

“Thanks, Julie. Give Dad a kiss for me.”

“Have you talked to Trent recently?”

She knows we’ve always talked constantly in the past, so if I say no, she’ll know something’s wrong. But if I say I just talked to him this morning, she might ask what he said. “I’ve been so busy with school and the tour and all, I just—”

“Well, you should call him. He just made first team, so your dad’s in heaven.”

“First team? Really?” Trent has never put in the training hours to earn one of the top spots on his wrestling team. “Is it because he’s a senior?”

“Your father says no. He says Trent’s wrestling like a man possessed.”

“Oh. Well . . . okay. I probably should go, but I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“We love you, honey, and we’re so glad you’re doing well.”

“Love you too, Julie. Bye.”

When I disconnect, I look over my shoulder at Alessandro. “I told you they’d never believe it.”

He smiles. “You’re going to go home an entirely new person.”

If only.

I’m actually starting relax a little. My breathing is coming easier, and I don’t feel like I’m going to pass out or throw up. I inch closer to the rail. “This really is amazing. Thanks for making me do this.”

“It’s your reward for a job well-done.”

“I thought absolution of my sins was my reward,” I mutter.

He bobs a nod. “That too.” He looks out over the river and bites the corner of his lower lip. “I am not supposed to ask this, and you don’t have to answer, but”— his eyes flick back to mine—“what is all this penance for?”

He opened up to me and told me about his dark past. Could I open up to him?

No. It’s too mortifying. The only person I could ever tell about something this mortifying is Trent.

And I can’t tell Trent about this because this
is
Trent.
I want you so fucking much right now.
He said it, but I feel it. I want him. I can’t deny it. Which means there’s something really wrong with me.

But as I look up at Alessandro, his gaze is so warm, urging me to trust him, and I realize I
want
to tell him.

He leans on the rail but keeps one arm firmly around me. “I shouldn’t pry. I’m sorry.”

“Have you ever done something so . . . unforgivable that you couldn’t even look at yourself in the mirror?”

His lips purse, and the skin around his eyes pulls tight, but despite his obvious discomfort at the topic, he holds my gaze. “There are many things I’ve had to beg forgiveness from the Lord for.”

“But I mean something that you can never fix. Something that ruined everything.”

He leans forward, his elbow on the rail and looks at me intently. “I shot a man, Lexie.”

The jolt is physical.

“That’s why my brother and I were in juvenile detention,” he continues. “I was with Lorenzo when he got the notion to rob a street vendor. He threw the old man to the ground and kicked him a few times, then handed me the gun when he went to grab the money. But the old guy got up and jumped Lorenzo, so I shot him.”

“Did he . . . die?”

He shakes his head. “The Lord spared both of us that day.” He rubs a hand down his face. “But I’ve dealt drugs to children. I beat a boy within an inch of his life. These are all things I’m still paying penance for and will continue to for the rest of my life. There is very little the Lord won’t forgive if you look into your heart and truly repent.”

I feel so stupid now, my problem so insignificant. But the thing is, I’m not sure if I “truly repent.” I’ve already confessed the sex to Father Reynolds. I’ve tried not to think about it—to move on like Trent is. But I can’t stop remembering. I can’t stop thinking about him.

“Talk to me, Lexie,” he says softly, his arm around me squeezing.

I blow out a slow breath. “I slept with my stepbrother, and . . . I think I may be in love with him.”

The whole story spills out of me, and as I get deeper and deeper into it, I almost forget I’m 400 feet in the air. I tell him about our first kiss in Trent’s beanbag chair six years ago. I tell him how excited that made me feel and how, ever since then, I think I’ve always wanted more. I tell him how when Trent first left for college, I slept in his bed for a week, until his scent wore off the sheets, and sometimes touched myself and dreamed he was there with me. I tell him how ashamed I am for not stopping when Trent asked what we were doing that night. I tell him how my selfishness ruined everything Trent and I had, and would ruin my whole family if our parents ever found out. I tell him how the guilt is eating me alive and how I’ve tried to focus on other things like school and the Vatican tours to keep my mind off it, but I can’t stop thinking about him and dreaming about him.