Chapter 10
July
Cecilia
Cecily
Some images from my first visit to the Cinta Costera refuse to fade: the impossibly blue sky, the ocean breeze tangling my hair.
There’s something about that waterfront that changes how you breathe.
I remember stopping to watch the boats in the distance, feeling an unexpected calm that almost brings tears to your eyes.
Sometimes, all we need is a new place to give back a piece of ourselves we didn’t even realize the routine had hidden away.
The Cinta Costera did exactly that for me.
I read through the post again, making a few edits, polishing whatever feels like it still needs it. When I’m finally happy with it, I check if the photos are in the right order, and then I hit post.
I smile as I scroll down the page, revisiting the other three posts I shared about Panama, each one holding its own memory. With this one, I officially wrap up the stories from my trip to the country. Next week, I start sharing everything I experienced in Costa Rica.
We’ve been back for four days now, and I’m working my way back into my routine after spending three weeks in places so rich in history and culture they felt like pieces of paradise on earth.
Alicia and Ethan had more fun than I’ve seen them have in a long time.
It reminded me that we need to do this more often, even if it’s just for a few days, not weeks.
The sun is starting to set outside the office window as I close my laptop and stretch as I stand up.
Alicia is out with Khara and her family, and Ethan—ever since we got back—has been spending every spare moment with his friends. Both of them making the most of summer before school starts again in just under two months.
I leave the office and head straight to the kitchen. I glance inside the fridge, letting my eyes wander over the shelves as I try to figure out what I’m in the mood for. In the end, I grab a few random ingredients and throw together a quick salad for myself.
I’m washing my hands at the kitchen sink when my phone starts ringing. I grab it from the island and answer the video call with a smile.
“How are things over in New Jersey?”
“Going better than I thought they would,” Mark says. His tone is casual, but the half-smile on his lips suggests there’s more to it. “But I called to tell you your new post is already a hit. Less than thirty minutes in and it has hundreds of comments, everyone’s asking for more.”
I smile, because even though the numbers don’t mean that much to me, I know they’re what bring in advertisers. And, consequently, keep the blog profitable.
“Good,” I say, reaching for my passion fruit juice, keeping my eyes on the screen. “I’m guessing Renée already posted on Instagram announcing the new entry on the blog?”
“Of course. Our girl doesn’t play around. She scheduled it to go up at the exact same time you published. She also said the first sneak peek from your visit to Manuel Antonio National Park will go live in a couple of hours.”
We started working with Renée not long before I accepted the offer to write a column for USA Today, more than four years ago.
The idea to hire someone to manage my social media and promote my work came from Mark.
He knew it wasn’t my strength and that I never put much time into it.
And fortunately for us, a colleague of his in San Francisco had a friend who was exceptionally good at this type of work and had just started her own business.
We couldn’t have chosen anyone better than Renée.
“When are you coming back again?” I ask Mark as I sprinkle more black pepper over my salad.
“Mid-August.”
“Wasn’t it supposed to be just a month?”
“Let’s just say I’ve been... kept well occupied lately. Enough to extend my stay.” He says it with a mischievous smile.
“And may I know the name of the him or her who’s keeping you so... well occupied?”
Mark bursts out laughing.
“It’s her, and I’ll tell you more when I get back. If there’s anything worth telling, of course.”
We both laugh, and I pull up a stool to eat dinner while we talk.
I lift the phone to my ear, and it rings twice before he picks up.
“How did you know I was just about to call you?” he asks in that smooth baritone that always feels like he’s speaking right beside me.
I sink back against the headboard.
“Sixth sense? Synchronized thoughts?” I tease, laughing lightly.
He chuckles. “It’s been a few days since we talked.”
“I’d already started missing your voice.”
We say it almost at the same time.
“Yeah... with my trip and your work, keeping in touch got a little harder,” I say.
“We can fix that,” Alexander replies. “Have lunch with me tomorrow?”
That pulls a laugh out of me. “Where? Berlin, Amsterdam, Pisa?”
“It could be any of those places if you wanted,” he says, in a tone that makes my pulse jump, “but the invitation is for here in New York.”
It takes me a few seconds to process his words.
“You’re... here?” I ask, sounding surprised.
“Yes. I got in last week. I meant to call and tell you.”
I struggle to make sense of the feeling that rushes through me, but I push it aside, forcing myself to stay on track.
“I can’t tomorrow, sorry. I’ve got a meeting with my editor.”
Not wanting to miss the chance to see him, I suggest, “But... maybe coffee? If you’d like that.”
“I’d like that,” he says immediately.
We make plans to meet at a patisserie I’ve been wanting to try for ages, and I promise to tell him more about my trip with the kids.
When we hang up a few minutes later, I’m smiling at my phone, feeling the first stirrings of anticipation knowing I’ll see him tomorrow.
Alexander holds the door open for me, letting me step out first, and we walk into the late–afternoon air. It’s cooler now than it was a little over an hour ago when we arrived.
Seeing him again the moment I got here felt both strange and unexpectedly good.
While I was wondering if I should just shake his hand or greet him with a kiss on the cheek, Alexander pulled me into a quick hug.
It was brief, but still enough for me to feel the scruff of his beard grazing my skin as I breathed him in.
Clean cedar, sandalwood and something expensive underneath it, unmistakably him.
When we stepped back, he leaned in and kissed my cheek. “Ciao, cara mia.”
That good feeling I can’t name moved through me, and before I could let myself linger on it, we headed inside the patisserie.
We spent the whole time sampling their tasting menu and talking about everything and nothing, slipping effortlessly into a rhythm that felt both new and comfortingly familiar.
Now that we’re each supposed to be heading in different directions, I realize I’m not ready to say goodbye. So I ask, almost without thinking,
“There’s a park on the next block. Want to take a quick walk with me?”
Alexander gives me a contained smile, but something in his amber eyes changes, brightening like an ember catching light.
“Lead the way,” he says, his tone rough.
We’ve barely taken two steps when he stops, and I notice his gaze drop to my feet.
“Are you sure you want to walk in those shoes? They can’t be comfortable for this,” he says gently.
I follow his eyes to the black heels contrasting with the beige hem of my trousers, paired with a sheer black button-down and a black camisole underneath. A smile tugs at my lips. Because he not only noticed, but he cares.
“Actually,” I say, amused, “I was going to suggest a quick stop by my car first.”
He lifts an eyebrow, waiting.
“I keep a pair of ballet flats in there. Especially when I know I’ll be walking around a lot.”
I say it as a confession, and his laugh tells me he finds it endearing rather than ridiculous.
We walk to where my car is parked, tucked away in a secluded corner of the lot. I unlock the back door and slide onto the seat, reaching under the front seat for the bag. Alexander stands by the open door, one hand resting lightly on the roof of the car, watching me.
I’m caught off guard when he takes the bag from my hands and says, “May I?”
I blink at him, confused... until he crouches down.
“Alexander, what are you doing?” I ask, between a laugh and exasperation.
“May I?” he repeats, already kneeling beside the car, and something in his eyes makes me nod before I even think about it.
He takes the flats from the bag and sets them neatly to the side. And when his long fingers circle my ankle and he gently slips off my heel, I hold my breath. It’s careful, respectful, yet there’s a tenderness in it that unsettles me.
He slides the first flat onto my foot and his thumb brushes lightly over the exposed skin. A barely–there touch, but enough to send a shiver through my whole body. He repeats the gesture with the other foot, and I find myself watching him the entire time.
Alexander—kneeling in an almost empty parking lot, dressed in a black suit tailored to near perfection—changing my shoes as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if this is something he’s done a thousand times before.
When he stands, he leans forward to place the heels inside the car, bringing us within inches of each other.
For a second, I feel his presence like a soft current pulling me in.
He sets the shoes inside and straightens to his full height.
I’m still watching him, unable not to as he extends his hand, and I take it.
“Thank you,” I murmur, standing beside him.
He smiles, eyes tender. “Andiamo, bella[XXXIII].”
We walk the long stretch toward the park in a comfortable ease. It feels like holding hands without actually touching.
People are scattered around, enjoying the end of a bright summer day. Children race across the grass, kicking a soccer ball, while others sit on benches reading. We pass a couple of runners keeping an easy pace along the path.
“I want to ask you something,” I say after a moment, “but if it’s too personal, please feel free not to answer.”
He stops, and I turn to face him.