Chapter 24
Bex
For our final day in Capri, I’m clad in a cream linen skirt and tank. I reluctantly admit that, when I look in the mirror, I like this version of myself better than the one I’d normally see. I’d feel pretty silly wearing it while eating donut holes on Jessie’s couch, however.
Today I have Giovanna teach me how to say “My husband masturbates and cries while watching Charlotte’s Web” in Italian.
Mio marito si masturba e piange durante La Tela di Charlotte.
I’ll find a way to use it eventually.
Theo is waiting downstairs. He was cranky over dinner last night, perhaps because I kept bringing up his erection in one-minute intervals. When he looks me over, I sense that I’m still not forgiven. His slight frown becomes a full-blown scowl.
“Ah, there’s the glare I’ve missed so much,” I say, walking out the door. “Is this about your erection?”
“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” he says.
“When a daddy loves a mommy very, very much, blood flows to his—”
“Rebecca,” he growls as we enter the town square.
“Just laugh and I’ll let it go.”
He places a hand on the small of my back to keep me from getting run over by a cyclist. It’s nine in the morning and the streets are already bustling. “We both know you’ll never let it go.”
“That’s fair,” I reply, smiling at him. “I probably won’t.”
We were supposed to have a more relaxed day today—a visit to the Blue Grotto and the chairlift at Monte Solaro—but apparently something was fucked up with the sound yesterday, so we’re skipping the Blue Grotto to pretend we enjoy shopping together instead.
Theo handles this with the good cheer I’ve come to expect from him.
“I swear to god if you look at one more leather bag, I’m just heading to the airport,” he warns me.
“If I have to listen to you hold one more wine shop conversation about varietals, you won’t live long enough to make it there.”
As if to test this, he veers toward a wine shop.
Rolling my eyes, I veer toward another stall selling leather bags I don’t need.
The crew can’t shoot both of us at once, but God knows they must have enough footage of Theo asking about the qualities of volcanic reds to cover twenty seasons of the show.
I pinch the thin leather of a pretty bag between my fingers. There’s no price tag, which I suppose means I’ll be expected to haggle. I’m not interested in doing that, and I shouldn’t be buying shit anyway, but—
“Ciao, bella,” says a voice in my ear just as a hand lands on my hip. I’d assume it was Theo except Theo would never say that I’m beautiful.
I stiffen, looking around. The guy is not big but he’s bigger than me, and his hand is still on my hip.
My mouth opens but before I can utter a word, Theo is yanking the owner of that hand backward by the collar. “Remove your fucking hand, mate.”
Once upon a time, I’d have assumed the only kind of arguments posh, dignified Theo ever got in would be playful disputes about polo ponies or involve one friend calling another “old chap.” But the words are growled, seething—just like the ones he directed at Caden in Iceland—and he seems like someone else entirely at the moment.
Someone feral and more than a little dangerous.
My heart pounds, and it’s not with fear, since the guy is already diving out of the stall.
Theo is a force to be reckoned with. I could probably bathe in the amount of testosterone he’s exuding.
I think I would like to bathe in it.
“Stop wandering away,” Theo snaps at me, that muscle in his jaw clenching, his palm wrapping around my wrist. “I’ll handcuff you to my side if I have to.”
“I bet you’d love to use handcuffs on me,” I coo. “Not as much as I’d love it, obvs.”
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes as they sweep over my face and drop to my mouth. A muscle in his jaw flexes once again as he looks away. That muscle’s going to need a massage after the week it’s just had.
Increasingly, I want to be the one to provide it.
· · ·
We return to the hotel to change for our chairlift ride to the top of Monte Solaro, which will be the last thing I film with Theo before I head home. I think it’s that, more than anything, that has me longing to curl up on my soft white bed and cry.
It all just went so fast.
Instead, I grab Mindy’s instructions and don the designer shorts and T-shirt I’m instructed to wear, along with my own sneakers, though she’s suggested low heels for some insane reason. Once downstairs, Theo and I grab a car and meet the rest of the crew at the mountain’s base.
I’ve just gotten my mic on when Katrina approaches. “Bad news,” she says. “The chairlift just broke, and they don’t know when or if it’ll start running again.”
“Goddammit,” says Lars, fuming. “Well, it looks like you’ve got the afternoon off. Sorry, Bex, I know you were looking forward to seeing the view from the top.”
“We can climb it,” Caden says. “I’ll go with you.”
Ugh. An hour and a half spent with Caden? No thank you.
“I’ll go,” Theo says, as if Caden hasn’t spoken. “Maybe you guys could shoot us taking off and just grab some stock footage of the top?”
“Fantastic,” says Lars. “Take some video too. We might be able to use it. But don’t forget to be ready to leave for the airport by five.”
Theo and I hand our mics back over and turn to head up the gravel path. We’re out of view within minutes, surrounded by trees, and my shoulders settle—it’s a relief to know we’re not being watched. “Thank you for doing this.”
“I wanted to see it too,” he says. “I also don’t trust Caden.”
“Yeah, me neither,” I reply.
His head jerks toward me. “Has he tried something?”
I shake my head. “He’s been a little gross. Nothing I can’t handle.”
After fifteen minutes of climbing, we’ve got a view of Capri below us—umbrella pine trees and white stucco homes sprawling all the way to the deep blue sea. Not long after, the chairlift suddenly begins moving far overhead and I turn to grin at Theo, who smiles back.
I think I sort of prefer this quiet climb anyway, our breath and our sneakers slipping over gravel the only sounds. Hopefully he does too.
Soon we’re high enough that Capri is tiny below us and the sea makes up most of the view, with Sorrento a haze in the distance.
It’s drier and cooler here, mostly rocks ahead and little vegetation, the path wide enough and empty enough that we can easily walk side by side.
I reach into my bag and offer him the bottle of limoncello I brought.
“Go ahead. It’s just alcohol-flavored water. ”
He laughs. “Only you would bring booze for a hike.”
“To be fair, I brought booze for a chairlift. Very different. To give you an analogy you’d understand, it’s like when the royal family drinks at Wimbledon versus when they’re playing tennis in the backyard.”
“Nothing about that analogy clarified the situation,” he says, but he takes a swig and so do I.
We reach the top at last and take some video of the view for Lars—the same rock formations we sailed near yesterday, and the yachts anchored close to them.
He takes a few photos of his own—I’m pretty sure I was in the shot too, but I seem to be in most of the pictures he takes, and he no longer complains.
Apparently, he’s good at editing me out.
We’ll take the chairlift back, obviously. It’s for the best since we both need time to pack and shower. I sort of wish it had stayed broken anyway.
“This trip went fast, didn’t it?” I ask, pulling the limoncello out of my bag again and taking a swig. “Although waiting for your erection to go down seemed like it took a year.”
“Rebecca.”
I laugh and push the bottle toward him. “Sorry. Just had to slip that in there, which is what you clearly hoped would happen yesterday. But yeah, it’s weird to go from doing so much, like nonstop, to doing absolutely nothing at home.”
“I’m so glad you’ve introduced the topic.” He takes another sip of the limoncello before he hands it back to me. “Have you given any more thought to what you might want to do with your life?”
I lift the bottle. “I’m pretty sure this covers it. There will probably also be some sleeping.”
“Bex.”
I exhale heavily. He’s so tiresome when he’s pursuing the truth. “I don’t know. It’s like I’m not sure who I am anymore.”
Tourists unload from the chairlift and descend toward us. We step closer to each other, like pioneers circling their wagons.
“Why?” he asks. “Your situation has changed but you haven’t.”
I tip my head. I think maybe I have changed. I sense it inside me, this odd sort of opening up, an unspooling. I’d stop it if I could—but I don’t think I can. It’s as if there’s an entirely different girl, long buried, and she’s digging her way out whether I want her to or not.
“I was always going to come in second before, and I was used to that,” I admit slowly. “To give you an analogy you’ll understand, it’s like Bronwyn was William and I was Harry.”
“You realize we do actually have regular family issues in the UK? You don’t have to relate everything back to the royal family.”
I shrug. “I was going to do a Harry Potter analogy, but nothing came to mind.”
“Truly, the analogies are unnecessary. Let’s start at the beginning. What was your favorite topic in school?”
“Physics,” I say, turning for the line to the chairlift. “I really liked physics. I failed it, but I really liked it.”
He laughs. “So you weren’t good at it? This might not be helpful.”
I hesitate, then release the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“No, actually, I was. I failed on purpose.” I told myself I just didn’t care enough to try, but that wasn’t it at all, was it?
“They wanted to put me in AP Physics. But I couldn’t do better than Bronwyn without it becoming a problem for Jessie.
It was…” I shake my head. “I did it for a very long time.”
“Jesus,” Theo whispers. He grabs the limoncello from my hand and takes a long drink. “Is that why you do it? Is that why you try so hard to convince everyone you’re some slacker who does nothing but watch TV all day?”
“I do watch a lot of TV,” I reply.
“You’re a lot more than that,” he says. “I think it’s time to stop pretending otherwise.”
I guess he’s right. I am more, even if I don’t show it. It’s the part of me that’s digging her way out. And I don’t know who I’ll be when she arrives.
· · ·
Three hours later, we’re back at the airport and heading in different directions: Lars, Paula, and Katrina will fly to LA for their other show, Caden and I to New York, and Theo to London.
It’s a relief to be back in my own clothes again—leggings, sweatshirt tied around my waist, sneakers. I can spill whatever I want on the flight home and no one will be the wiser. That’s pretty much the only part of this that’s a relief, however.
Theo and I walk toward our gates together.
His flight is already boarding and our time together is running out.
I’m oddly desperate to make the clock just…
stop. I don’t want this to end—hanging out, our talks, making fun of his erection to his face.
But none of it is permanent, and he’s not here by choice.
“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when we get a divorce?” I ask again. I have to force the good cheer in my voice.
His smile is weak. “Sleep.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
But I’m beginning to think I’ll probably cry first. A part of me is going to miss this when it’s done.
“You’re ready to be home again, I imagine?” he asks.
I should lie. I’d normally lie. Maybe it’s fatigue or maybe it’s the intensity of the time we’ve spent together lately but I just don’t want to lie right now. “I can’t remember a time when I ever looked forward to going home.”
“Even before the accident?” he asks.
“For most of my life, it’s felt safest to be somewhere else.”
His smile is wistful and only graces a small fraction of his mouth. “Then I guess I should have married you long, long ago.”
“That would be problematic on a number of levels, since I’m only twenty-four now.”
He leans forward and lets his lips brush my forehead. “Safe travels, fake wife.”
“Safe travels, fake husband.”
He walks toward his gate, and I head toward mine.
But just before I’m out of view, I turn back to look at him.
He’s in line. Watching me walk away.