Chapter 13
“I’m sun-kissed.” Later that night, back at the restaurant at the B and B, Marisol holds her bare arm out over the dinner table. She has diagonal bikini lines across her collarbones and the tip of her nose and her cheekbones are tinged a poppy red. “Mission accomplished.”
The single votive candle illuminates our tanned faces as we slump back in our chairs, scrolling through all the photos we’d taken.
It’s been a long day and we’re exhausted, but we’re happy and absolutely famished.
I’m wearing a slouchy navy-and-white-striped sweater over white gauzy pants that flutter against my ankles, my hair thrown in a messy bun on top of my head.
Salt water and jasmine hang in the air, mixing with the aroma of simmering San Marzano tomatoes floating from the direction of the kitchen.
I smear burrata onto a piece of crusty bread and take a bite.
It’s creamy and the perfect amount of savory.
I still haven’t heard back from Wes, though, so I quickly shoot him another text: Fun day?
Alessandra drops off our orders. Each plate is piled high with bucatini and a spring of basil with three leaves artfully arranged on top. “I told the chef to throw in a little extra,” she jokes. She’s the only chef on staff and the type of woman who makes her own rules.
A large wedge of parmesan is shaved over each plate until we each hold up our hand to say when.
She has the same dark curly hair as her son and the same warmth too, but despite that, a heartache washes over me.
She hasn’t had it easy—losing Nico’s dad, and now potentially the B and B?
It’s obvious this place is her life, and she takes great pride in it.
“Grazie mille,” I tell her, because while it’s fun to push Nico’s buttons, I respect my elders.
We dive in right away. We twirl the noodles around our forks and slurp it up.
It’s life-alteringly delicious; I can taste the freshness of the tomatoes, and there’s a sweetness to the sauce, an aftertaste of brown sugar, that makes it addictive.
I keep eating until it’s all gone, trying to salvage every last remnant of sauce by scraping my fork against the plate.
“Today was a really good day,” Mari says.
“One for the books,” Anya agrees. They both stare, waiting for me to chime in. “I’m going to need to hear you say it, Soraya.”
I huff out a dramatic sigh. They love it when they’re right. “Thank you for getting me up this morning. I’m glad I came.”
“Come again?” Anya leans in, cupping her ear.
“I’M VERY GLAD I WENT!” I yell. We throw our heads back and cackle.
Mari leans in conspiratorially. “You were spending a lot of time with Nico on that boat,” she says, waggling her eyebrows like a cartoon character.
“I was not!” I protest. “And anyway, he’s not really my type.”
“Who cares?” Anya says. “We’re on vacation! He’s hot, he’s here, he has that sexy thigh tattoo. Plus, he seems crazy into you.”
“He seemed crazy into that girl at the beach too.” I tear a long strip from my napkin and focus on ripping it into little squares of confetti.
“I bet he hooks up with a different tourist every week. Anyway, that is the point—we’re on vacation.
Why start anything now if we’re going to be leaving soon?
I want something serious. I want something real. ”
Anya and Mari exchange a glance. “I’m glad to hear you say that,” Mari says carefully.
“We were worried that with Wes at Armstrong that you might slip into old habits again,” says Anya, blunt as ever. “But you’ve really grown, Sora. We’re proud of you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I roll my eyes, but a pocket of guilt settles in my gut, and so too does annoyance. When it comes to Wes, it sometimes feels as if they think of themselves more like my parents than my friends, and I ponder adding them to my parental privacy policy.
A glance at my phone reveals that the boy in question still hasn’t responded, so I text him again. What are you doing tonight?
“On the house, signorine.” Nico’s mom drops off a slice of tiramisu with three tiny spoons as she clears away our plates.
“Grazie!” we say in unison.
“Prego. It’s my pleasure. Nico said you were the perfect guests today. He had a lovely time.”
“We did too!” I grin, partly because I’m playing back the scene of my wayward fishing line and wondering if Nico exercised some creative liberty with the truth. “Is Nico here?” I crane my neck, looking for him in the kitchen.
“Oh, no. Nico is out with Domenica.” She wipes her hands on her apron.
Domenica. That must be the girl we saw him with. I raise my eyebrows at Anya and Mari as if to say, see?
As Nico’s mom clears off the rest of our table, I notice that she is wearing the same pendant Nico has. “How do you like our bed and breakfast?” she asks.
“It’s really lovely,” I tell her. “Perfect.”
Nico’s mom smiles, touching a hand to my shoulder in thanks. When she walks away, I turn to see identical I told you so faces staring back at me.
“Told you,” I say, avoiding the inevitable. “Nico and Domenica, his flavor of the week.”
It comes anyway. “Someone’s done a total one-eighty on the hotel,” Anya says. “You’re not even complaining about going to Pompeii tomorrow.”
“Well, Nico’s recommendations have hit so far.” I shrug. “I’m open to the unexpected.”
Mari beams. “I knew you’d get there.”
Anya yawns wide, stretching her arms up toward the sky. “I’m so tired. The sun really wears me out.”
“I mean, we did get up at four a.m.,” Mari agrees. “Coming, Sora?”
I look at my phone, at the empty home screen. I contemplate texting him again, but that would be four texts in a row without a response. My stomach flips, and dread washes over me. I want to be wrong, but I’ve seen how this plays out.
“Yeah.” I swallow. “What else would I do?”