Tom was left to his own devices for much of the day. Over his morning coffee he contemplated whether or not to stay in or to do some sight seeing. He decided he would stay within the square. He grabbed a newspaper and, in doing so, knocked a handwritten note off the coffee table.

"I will be home at six. Please wire my secretary if you need anything."

Tom looked at the handwritten note. Jack wrote in small, neat print in all caps, more reminiscent of an architect than a realtor. His handwriting was in stark contrast to his lived-in flat. Tom studied its symmetry for a few moments before pulling himself out of such a risky headspace. He could, in no way, take on Jack Baker's identity. He was much taller and more muscular for starters. For another, Jack was nothing but friendly and welcoming. Tom shook his head. This kind of thought process was what led him to running to Palermo in the first place. He wasn't about to have another impersonation gap and he certainly wasn't about to have another casualty.

Tom looked out the window. It was beginning to rain. However, his nervous energy would not allow him to stay cooped up for much longer and he stepped outside. He hailed a taxi."

"Bonjorno! Dove vuoi andare?" asked the taxi driver.

"Uh...Teatro Massimo Vittorio Emanuel. Grazie."

The drive was short but felt endless. When he finally arrived, he opened the door to the lobby, and stood taking in the resplendence of the neoclassical architecture. He heard singing and an orchestra. They were rehearsing a familiar tune. A boy soprano made that tune immediately obvious-Sabet Mater. Tom felt his stomach rising into his throat. He mentally converted the singing into him playing the piano and Peter leaning over him tenderly, playing with his hair, rubbing his shoulders. The walls of the Massimo seemed to close on him until he couldn't take the strain anymore, rushed out of the lobby, and vomited on the sidewalk. A few passersby looked at him in concern but said nothing. He hailed another cab. I knew leaving the flat was a bad idea, he thought.

When he returned he slumped into Jack's sofa and took another look at his note. Could it be possible? he thought. He knew one thing for sure: he certainly didn't want to be Tom Ripley anymore. Because being Tom Ripley meant feeling in constant misery. Dickie had his miseries too, but he played them closer to the chest. He was better at bluffing, which was quite ironic considering Tom's vocation of crawling into other peoples' skins.

No, no, I can't, thought Tom. Jack's just too...nice.

He paused.

But Peter is nice too. And look what I almost did to him.

Tom shook, stopping just shy of tears. What pulled him out of his stupor was a rapping on the door. He answered it and it was Jack, who noticed immediately Tom's uneasiness.

"What's going on? Are you all right?"

Tom started to walk up to his room in silence.

"Look, you can tell me, all right?"

"I find that very unlikely."

Tom stopped walking, but he stiffened. Jack noticed his discomfort right away.

"Is it your sexuality?"

"Is what my sexuality?"

"You're gay, right?"

Tom started walking again.

"I don't have time for this conversation."

"It's okay, Tom. Mr. Greenleaf told me. He suspected it for a while. It's not a problem with either of us."

"Good," said Tom shortly and continued up the stairs.

"Was that what you were shaken up about?"

"With all due respect, Jack, I met you yesterday. I'm not quite ready to dump my life story on you just yet, okay?"

Jack conceded. "Okay. Sorry if I crossed a line. Have a good evening."

Tom crashed on his bed, mentally and physically exhausted. He couldn't help but notice how helpful and good natured Jack was. Almost too helpful and good natured. There had to be a catch. There was always a catch. And Tom would figure it out one way or another.