Since the night they’d escaped to the terrace for their chat, the friendship had definitely veered into romantic territory. I knew the signs well. Secret longing looks shared across the room. Casual excuses to get close—a brush of the shoulders by accident or stolen touches of the hand or arm. They sat together on the bus and their laughter filled the air with the vigor and passion of youthful infatuation. I’d kept my mouth shut, not wanting to cause any undue tension between us. Not when things were going so well. Maybe I was lying to myself by thinking our problems were solved and we’d return home with a new respect for one another. Maybe I was just too happy in this fleeting moment to think about the future and try to control it.

Enzo was slowly teaching me that.

How to relax. How to seize the moment. I was immersed in my own game of hide-and-seek with him during the tour, trying to find ways to sneak in conversations or a private rendezvous. We’d been all set to meet on the terrace again the night Allegra announced she was seeing Ian there. Having nowhere else to go without being spotted, we’d canceled and I’d gone to bed early, just as I’d declared.

But I dreamed of him again.

I’d become a starstruck, giddy teen crushing on my tour guide. It was textbook cliché and I should have been embarrassed, but I felt too good to punish myself so soon. There’d be plenty of time for internal recriminations later.

Once we entered the square, I had to catch my breath. So many movies had been filmed here, showcasing the exquisite detail of Venice and the romanticism of the plaza. Various cafés lined the perimeter, and St. Mark’s Basilica dominated the open area, showing off stunning marble lacework. The clock tower held a high archway that led to the shopping streets of the Rialto. We’d put that off until tomorrow so we’d have hours to indulge in shopping. Music rose and fell around us, a rich, soothing Italian melody that matched the otherworldly surroundings. Crowds swarmed the area and squeezed into the open chairs to sip lattes, eat bitter chocolate tarts, and people watch.

“Oh, let’s take a picture of us with the pigeons,” Allegra said. “It’ll look awesome on my IG story.”

I looked at the hundreds of fowl walking around, climbing on the body parts of tourists posing for the cameras. They looked like the New York City pigeons but even less afraid of the crowds. If everyone was doing it, the birds must be used to it. And clean. I hoped.

“Sure, do we need someone to take it or are you doing a selfie?”

Mom stepped back and put her hands out. “I’ll pass on this one. I don’t want them on me.”