Roman Crazy Read Online Free PDF Page B

Orgasmic. You gotta come here some afternoon; there’s a guy that sells these little flowers that he’ll weave into your hair for, like, a dollar; they’re so cute! If you need anything, condoms, tampons, aspirin, come here.”
    â€œCondoms?” I laughed, shaking my head.
    She shrugged as if it were perfectly acceptable to assume I’d need some while here.
    I knew better than to argue with her, so I just smiled and nodded. We weaved in and out of the Piazza di Santa Maria’s labyrinth of streets. Glittering mosaics that were baked into the masonry glinted as the fading sunlight blanketed the buildings in a golden glow. The centers of the streets were filled with terra-cotta planters, ivy, and bright red flowers pouring over the edges. In the approaching sunset, they were bathed in gorgeous golden hues.
    And pedestrians. Hundreds walked about like a Roman heartbeat livening up the city as they took in dinner menus or window shopped. Some shared a gelato or a glass of wine. It was nice to see people out enjoying their city, just for the pleasure of it. No one seemed to walk simply to enjoy Boston anymore. We were always in a rush or had a faceful of technology. But you could tell that for the people who lived here, Rome was their backyard, their front yard, their living room, their dining room . . . and maybe even their bedroom.
    Turning onto Via del Moro, we passed shops and cafés readying for the late dinner rush. Each building had outdoor seating, every table loud and boisterous.
    I was swept up in the city’s energy. It seeped into every pore, moving me along like a marionette; by the time we reached the restaurant, I had sensory overload in the best possible way. The restaurant looked to be about the same as a dozen others that we passed. Brick, old as dirt, and full of life.
    â€œAcross the river is another favorite spot of mine. Campo de’ Fiori, this gorgeous outdoor market over the bridge. You’ll have to see it. It’s like a color explosion. Bring your sketchbook for sure.”
    â€œMm-hmm.” I nodded absently, watching the traffic patterns and trying to discern if there was indeed a pattern or just barely contained chaos.
    â€œDo you still like charcoal when you sketch? I know for a while there you were digging colored pencils, right?”
    â€œHmm? Yeah, either I guess.”
    â€œYou guess?” she asked, looking at me curiously.
    I stopped, chewing nervously on my ponytail, and narrowly missed getting clipped by a Vespa zipping by. The driver shouted a colorful expletive and tapped his helmet. “Where exactly are we headed to next? Are we close or—”
    Daisy stopped abruptly, whipping around to face me. “Did you just change the subject? I know a sidestep when I see one, Bardot,” she said, using my maiden name. She was my maid-of-honor when I became Avery Remington, but she was my only friend who refused to use that name.
    I shrugged, closing the distance and walking around her to head up the narrow alley that spilled into a bustling piazza. Dozens of people were chatting near a fountain. Others were pointing their cameras at the crush of pigeons dive-bombing the crust a waiter tossed outside. It was busy, frenetic, and hopefully distracting enough to—
    â€œHey, hey!” Daisy shouted, catching up. Nope. She wasn’t going to be distracted by this. Sighing heavily, I turned to face my friend.
    I’d gotten used to avoiding that conversation over the years when it was over the phone or on Facebook. “How’s your sketching going; working on anything new?” or, “Finish anything incredible lately?” Facebook posts I could beg off of. Phone calls, I was able to change the subject or blame the shitty signal because she was off on some adventure where the least exciting part wasspotty cell phone coverage. Those calls proved to me how fully she was living her life, which I didn’t begrudge