Burning the Map by Laura Caldwell

me. “Per favore.”
    â€œPlease! Please!” echo Kat and Lindsey from behind me.
    The man continues to hold out his hands as if to block us, speaking even faster now, so that I can’t make out a word. I’m about to give up when the man’s wife nudges him aside with a sharp elbow and gestures us into the car.
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    Kat sprawls on the seat across from me, her eyes shut, legs apart, her head propped up against the window. I can’t imagine how she can sleep like that, but she’s shown time and again that she can doze through just about anything. In college, when she wasn’t with a guy, she was always the one who passed out on the couch while the party raged around her.
    Lindsey sits next to Kat, apparently absorbed in her novel.
    â€œGood book?” I say. I’ve already exhausted my conversational possibilities with the Italian couple, asking where they’re from and explaining that we’re from Chicago. The woman looks at me every so often, and we both smile as if not sure what else to do.
    â€œUm-hmm.” Lindsey nods, not lifting her eyes.
    â€œIt’s so hot in here, isn’t it?” I ask, fanning my face with my hand.
    â€œYeah.” She continues reading.
    â€œSì, sì!” the woman says, catching my drift, fanning her face as well. We smile again, and another uncomfortable silence follows.
    I want desperately to tell Sin about Francesco, to relive every moment. To me, an amazing experience doesn’t seem like it really happened until I can tell one of my friends. Yet at the same time, I don’t want to be the only one making the effort here.
    I turn and stare out the window. The countryside whizzesby, a blur of rolling burnt-yellow hills, vineyards with crisscrossed rows of vines, quaint stucco cottages.
    In my mind, I go over and over the details of my time with Francesco—the feel of his waist in my hands as I sat behind him on the scooter, the way he patted my neck with the napkins. I could live for years on these memories alone.
    We’ve only been gone four days, but it seems more like four weeks. Mostly, I feel far away from John. And with that reminder, the guilt comes rushing in. How can I be so cruel? John does nothing but love me, and I run off to Italy and roll around with the first guy on a scooter. What in the hell is wrong with me? Or maybe a better question is, what is wrong with us? It’s too unfair a thought, though, one he’s not here to defend against. I decide that I’ll swear Kat and Sin to secrecy and do my best to forget Francesco. It was just a small blip, nothing else.
    Think only of John, only of John, I tell myself. I squint at my watch and figure that with the time change, it’s early in the morning in Chicago. He’s probably just waking up. He’ll mix together Grape Nuts and Raisin Bran, then add banana. He’ll put on his olive suit but dress it up with one of his three hundred ties. He’ll take the 7:04 El train into the Loop, and he’ll go to work. Again.
    The problem is this—there isn’t anything particularly exciting to think about in terms of John. I try focusing out the window. We slow as we pass a small town, one with only a few dusty roads and three square buildings. A little girl of about seven stands in the doorway of one of the buildings, watching the train. She’s wearing a brown dress and has long, dark hair in a messy ponytail. It seems like she catches my eyes as the train moves past, and I imagine that we hold each other’s gaze until she fades to a tiny brown speck.
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    The Italian couple prepares to leave at the next train stop, which is about an hour outside of Brindisi. They don’t speak,but while they gather their bags and suitcases, they seem to communicate by gestures and looks. It makes me think of John and me in twenty years, and I find the thought both sweet and terrifying.
    At their stop, the man glares in our direction,