Where Do Broken Hearts Go?

25. Doge's Palace

Marcel wears a lightweight, black coat with a casual, white v-neck as we stroll down the serene streets of Venice. A coat in June? It's more of a duster cardigan, but I see where you're coming from. It's an unusually cool day, but very nice – 60 degrees.

His hair is tied up into my favorite style and he's clothed in black from the waist down. Marcel's fashion is put-together, minimalist, yet very sexy.

I can admit this to you, not him. Admit it to him you say? Do I have to? It's time? What do you mean it's time? I haven't been checking him out? Okay, whatever. I said OKAY! This is why I don't talk to you much.

"You look nice." I break our pending silence with YOUR compliment. 

He catches his stunned mug and shifts it into a modest, closed-mouthed grin. "You keep breaking out cute dresses. I'm trying to keep up with you." He walks with his hands in his pockets.

"I had to wear something flowy. I knew I'd be eating the whole time." 

My fingers lightly graze over a bouquet of pink flowers sitting in a bike's basket. Looking up, I admire the white, brick homes.

Grabbing both of our attention, my and Marcel's eyes dart across the street to a bakery. No matter where you are, once you smell fresh bread, you feel at home and comfort.

"I like what you did to your hair."

"You did it."

He bows his head and allows the crinkles by his eyes to form as a result of a drawn smile. Lifting his face, Marcel instills a soft chuckle, then passes the deemed compliment.

"It's pretty."

"Thank you." I accept the appreciation of my natural curls with a simper of my own.

"Incoming." Marcel takes my waist and pulls me to the side as three, adorable boys come running our way – two passing us.

The remaining drops his ball at Marcel's feet. The English kid kindly uses the inside of his foot to pass it to the Italian boy. The little guy kicks it back. Then, Marcel kicks it to me before I deliver it back (in my heeled sandals) to its owner.

"Dai Nicolo!" A small voice rushes our teammate along.

The boy picks up his ball with a wink and missing-front-tooth smile then rejoins his buddies. I watch over my shoulder, spying one nudge another while he points to the back of his head. Puzzled to begin, the nudger points to me. With excitement reading in his bright, brown eyes, the other aims a small finger towards me. At the revelation, the nudged leaps into the air as he covers his mouth, celebrating the flower in my hair. I turn to Marcel with a tickled smile.

Marcel opens his hand to our little teammate and is rewarded with a slap that doesn't take up half of his hand. Immediately, the other adorable kids get in on the action by tapping Marcel's welcoming palm.

Bringing the ball over his head, our teammate launches the ball down the opposite sidewalk to resume their game. Squealing, they all go chasing after it.

"How freaking cute?" I wave to them, earning precious waves back.

"Sweet kids. Do you like soccer?" Marcel asks.

"Love it."

"I'm not really into it." He lours as he shrugs, revealing his boredom of the most popular sport in the world. Still, he builds a conversation out of my interest. "Who's your team?"

"Juventus."

"Ah." He nods. "Ronaldo?" He guesses my reasoning.

"My favorites are Mario and Dybala." I state matter-of-factly with a straightened posture and closed, rejecting eyelids.