The piazza surrounding the Pantheon is aglow in a warm, gold light that shines from the fountain in the middle. Francesco knows the owner of the bar and is able to get us a table just to the right of the fountain. Kat, Lindsey and I order Moretti beers, while Poster Boy orders cappuccinos for his crew.

      Once we sit, Poster Boy places his arm around Kat in a way that strikes me as proprietary rather than friendly, but she doesn’t seem bothered. She keeps touching him—her fingers grazing his hand, her head resting briefly on his shoulder—and even the way she gazes at him when he’s talking seems more a stroke than a look. She’s always been a flirt, but this is fast. Maybe it’s the change of scenery, being on the other side of the pond for the first time.

      I keep glancing at Sin to see if she’s noticing this, but she seems more loosened up than usual, too. She asks the guys questions about living in Italy and kids them about their need to tie sweaters around their shoulders.

      Meanwhile, Francesco pays little direct attention to me, which is slightly insulting, but just fine, since I’m not looking to hook up. I let the conversation swirl around me while I stare at the Pantheon, a huge circular temple made of stone and cement. The interior design classes I took in college taught me that it’s an engineering marvel because of the massive domed ceiling that lets light onto the marble floors, but what really baffles me is that it was originally built in 27 B.C. Ironic, because it’s now surrounded by cars and cell phones and platform sandals.

      As a History Channel junkie, John would have loved it here if only he could have ripped himself away from the office for a few weeks. Lately, I’ve wondered if he enjoys his work more than he enjoys me. As I sip my beer, I start to review the moments we’ve spent together during the past few months, then going back further, to come up with the last time we’d had fun together, real fun, not just the getting-dressed-up-to-go-to-a-cousin’s-wedding-and-drinking-bad-table-wine kind of fun. I want to remember the belly laughs, the accidental fun, the spontaneous good times at the end of an otherwise crappy day. We’d had those times at the beginning—the pub crawl we arranged with John’s neighbors during a blizzard; the time John surprised me with a weekend trip to Manhattan because I was depressed about a bad grade; the New Year’s Day that we drank every bit of leftover alcohol in his place and watched football and movies for fourteen hours. But where are those times lately? Absent, it seems, lost somewhere in the desire for career advancement and the late nights at the library.

      “Casey,” Lindsey says, bringing me back to Rome, back to the now. “Ready to order dinner?”

      I nod.

      She leans across the table. “Are you okay?”

      I haven’t told Kat or Sin about the distance I feel growing between John and me, probably because a different kind of space has grown between them and myself as well. But now with Sin looking at me, some concern in her eyes, I wish that we were alone, just the three of us, so I could spill everything out—my parents’ problems, this thing with John that I can’t put my finger on, the way I’m terrified to start working for a living. But Massimo and Francesco turn to me, too, waiting for me to answer Lindsey’s question, so I just nod again and take the menu from her hand.

      Kat orders spaghetti carbonara, a rich, egg-filled pasta. She’s one of those criminally thin people with a perpetually high metabolism. I opt for a light caprese salad to try to whittle away some of my post bar exam girth, and Lindsey orders the same. When the food comes, she offers bites to everyone at the table, although only Kat accepts. The tomato and mozzarella, dribbled with olive oil and sprinkled with basil, taste ridiculously fresh and healthy, two foreign concepts, since I subsisted the entire summer on various members of the Frito Lay family.

      Once I’m finished, I notice that Francesco sits silently while Kat is busy making faces at Poster Boy. Lindsey, surprisingly, appears to be enjoying her conversation with Massimo. My side of the table is overly quiet except for the clinking of glasses from other diners and the lilting Italian music wafting from the bar.

      “Pretty hot, huh?” I say to Francesco.

      His mouth turns up slightly at the corners, and his eyes skate to our friends. “It seems to be getting that way.”

      I follow his glance to find that Poster Boy and Kat are now kissing like they’re alone on a couch somewhere. I wonder if I should stop her, maybe reach an arm across the table or toss some cold water like you do with unruly dogs, but I’m suddenly unsure of myself, of my role. I try to meet Lindsey’s eyes, but she’s talking to Massimo, her back turned to Kat.

      “So,” I say, looking back at Francesco, who wears an amused expression.

      “So,” he says, mimicking me, and we both crack up.

      Silence settles between us then, during which I try to focus on Sin’s explanation of her job to Massimo and ignore the forms of Kat and Poster Boy, which have become a single, entwined mass across the table.

      “You are going to be a lawyer?” Francesco finally asks. I’m startled for a second, but then I vaguely remember hearing Lindsey mention my new job to the guys while I was drifting off about John.

      I only nod and sip my beer, not sure that he wants a real answer, and a little nervous that he might expect me to follow in Kat’s footsteps and lock lips with him.

      “What kind of lawyer will you be?” he says, without a trace a flirtation.

      “A litigator,” I say, thinking this sounds pretty interesting, even if the thought of doing it every day doesn’t particularly interest me right now.

      “What is ‘litigator’?” He’s apparently confused with the English and unaware of how cool I am.

      “Trials. In front of a judge,” I say.

      Actually, what I’ve learned is that litigation really means taking a million depositions about car accidents and medical treatments, compiling page upon page of tedious written discovery, attempting for years to make a settlement, and then maybe, just maybe, eventually trying a case in defense of some company or some person lucky enough to have an insurance company behind them. But for some reason I want to impress Francesco—and maybe myself—about the job that’s waiting for me, so I embellish my soon-to-be reality, prattling on and on about fascinating lawsuits and standing before a high-powered judge every day. Total crap. I’ll probably see more of the library than I ever will the courtroom, and even if I do work on a big case, it’ll be on the grunt end for a very long time.

      “And this is what you love to do?” Francesco seems to be going deeper than the surface conversation, making me squirm a little. On the other hand, his question flatters me. John assumes I’ll love the law as he does, so we’ve never truly discussed the subject of whether I’ll actually like my chosen profession. I’ve never even told John that I always wanted to be an interior designer before I convinced myself that the law would bring money and a decent lifestyle easier and faster.

      “I haven’t started yet,” I say to Francesco.

      “But you believe you will love it?” He holds his head a little bit to one