Beautiful Things Never Last by Steph Campbell Read Free Book Online Page B

devour my sandwich.
     
                  I slide my cell phone out of my pocket, and frown when I realize I have next-to-no signal. Figures. I seriously doubt there are any cell to wers remotely close to Spello, which I guess is okay, because from the itinerary that the school gave me, it doesn’t look like I’ll have a whole lot of time for social stuff. Ben will understand. As m uch as we love being together, one thing I’ll never have to explain to Ben is getting lost in my art. It’s the same reason I let him off the hook night after night when he drags his cold ass to bed at ungodly hours and his chilly skin shocks me out of deep sleep. I get needing that release, having to answer that call. If I can forgive his freezing feet on my calves in the dead of night, he can forgive my craptastic cell service and need to devote myself to herb blends and the perfect homemade pasta consistency.
     
                 
     
    After Amalea closes up the shop, we make the short walk back to her home , passing a woman selling flowers, a man selling cheese , and a stray chicken, but little else.
     
                  “You live here alone?” I ask Amalea as she shows me up the tiny, narrow staircase to my room. It’s the only room on the second floor and it’s dark and poorly insulated. The weather outside is gorgeous, but inside the room it’s several degrees cooler. I hug myself to keep warm, hoping my discomfort isn’t obvious. There’s a single, thin blanket draped over the foot of the bed, and I make a mental note to try to find a street vendor that sells down comforters.
     
                  “I do,” she says.
     
                  I scanned the walls when I came in, looking for photos that might tell me more about the woman I’ll be sharing space with for the next few weeks. It’s a habit, thanks to Ben, to notice people’s photos, to try to dissect their lives based on those images. But other than a few religious pieces, Amalea’s walls were bare.
     
                  “Must be quiet,” I say. Idiot. It’s obviously quiet. Which reminds me, it’s also quiet for Ben, who is stuck at home alone.
     
                  “Do you mind if I make a call?” I ask. “Actually, do you know where I can get a decent signal?” I hold up my iPhone. While I get that calls will be limited, all decent girlfriends call their boyfriends to let them know when they’ve arrived safely in a foreign country. Even I know that.
     
                  “Try the roof,” Amalea says. She points out of the room into the cramped space outside my bedroom. There’s a small cutout in the ceiling that I didn’t notice on the way up the stairs. That explains the draft.  “Pull that chair over if you need a boost.”
     
                  I wait until Amalea has left me in the space, and then do as she suggested , and slide the flimsy desk chair over to the hole in the ceiling and hoist myself up through it.
     
                  The sun setting over the town looks like it is straight out of a movie as I crawl through the tiny space. I hold the phone up toward the sky, squinting to see the screen with the glare of the last bit of daylight. Sure enough, three solid bars. I don’t bother trying to calculate the time change because I know Ben will be waiting to hear how my flight was.
     
                  But he doesn’t pick up.
     
                  His voicemail message is one of the prerecorded deals, so I don’t even get to hear his voice. Though, I’d never admit that I miss his voice already— it hasn’t even been an entire day.
     
                  “Hi, it’s me. So, I’m here. And it’s beautiful. And I’m watching the sunset and remembering how I said I never wanted to miss another sunset with you. So, I guess since I’m leaving you a message, you’re sort of here with me. Or not. That