It was an area like a piazza—a piazzale, Valerio called it—high up, like an outdoor observatory. Hordes of other people, mostly around our age, hung around the ledges, drinking and taking in the view.

“Piazzale,” I said, stretching the word. “Like a piazza but high up?”

Valerio thought for a moment. “Not quite. A piazza is surrounded by buildings on every side. A piazzale usually has a side that is not buildings,” he said, sweeping his hand across the view.

“So it’s like a peninsula,” I said.

“What?”

“An island is surrounded by water on all sides,” I said. “But a peninsula has one side that’s connected to land.”

Valerio still looked confused. “It is not a peninsula. It is a piazzale.”

I snorted. “You’re a piazzale.”

He shrugged. “If you insist.”

We claimed a space on the stone ledge, and he called out some of Rome’s wonders from the skyline: Saint Peter’s Basilica, the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, and, next to it, the two-thousand-year-old chariot racing track.

“My friends from Rome, they say they used to drink and make out there when they were in high school,” Valerio told me.

“Where I’m from,” I said, “people in high school drink and make out in dark parks, not on ancient Roman racing tracks.”

Valerio giggled, scooting closer to me on the ledge. He leaned in and whispered, “I would make out with you anywhere. Racing track, dark park, wherever,” he said, his warm breath tickling my ear.

I pulled back.

“What is wrong?” Valerio asked.

I looked around the piazzale nervously. There were so many people around, most of them straight couples, though there were two girls who looked like they could be together. “Nothing, nothing,” I said, forcing a smile.

Valerio and I sat and talked for a while, and then he drove me back to my place, the ride even scarier and more life-threatening in the dark. He helped me off the scooter.

“Do you live alone?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, “though I kind of miss living with Jahan. I was on his couch for a few days when I first came to Rome.”

“That is really nice of Jahan,” Valerio said, swinging his arms.

“He’s been so great to me,” I said, swinging mine. “He—” Before I could finish my sentence, Valerio grabbed my elbows and pulled me in and pressed his lips against mine.

I stood still.

I must have look petrified, because Valerio’s face fell. It was just like that split second in the car with Jackson, the first time we kissed, when I pulled back. Valerio started to stutter that he should go.

“No,” I pleaded. “Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” he asked, confused.

Something about being boozy and having my own place made me wonder the same thing. Why was I sorry?

“Do you want to come up?” I asked, half smiling.

Valerio paused, looked at me, completed my smile, and nodded.

I fumbled with my giant key until I got it in the keyhole. That’s not an innuendo. That’s just a statement of fact. Then we cannonballed onto my bed. Fact. Valerio kissed me like a skilled sailor tying the most perfect knot in the middle of the ocean. Subjective, non-fact.