Chapter 27
Some mornings sing to you—that’s how this one feels. The birds are chirpier than usual and there’s not a single cloud in the sky. But I’m here, feeling nauseous instead.
Anya and Mari are eating breakfast out on the patio.
Neither has looked in my direction once, which suggests we are not any closer to thawing the frostiness between us.
Mari picks mindlessly at a plate of fruit while crocheting what looks to be the finishing touches on a stuffed lemon.
Anya has her notebook open and is scribbling as she laughs at something Mari just said.
It stings.
I should be there, next to them, in on the joke.
I look for clues of what they’ve been doing—maybe those crinkly curls at the end of Mari’s hair means they’ve been spending their days in the water.
What did they do last night, when I was managing the dinner rush?
What memories have they been making without me?
A sharp pain ripples through me. I’d found a photo album in the room when I helped Nico clean the other day and hadn’t been brave enough to open it and see proof of the Polaroids that Mari is snapping of just Anya and her.
They’re eating breakfast at our regular table, the one we would hog when we were all on speaking terms. It abuts the balcony, and Anya and Mari sit across from each other while my empty seat stares out at the ocean.
Nico notices, but thankfully he has the tact to know that I don’t want to talk to him about my estranged friends. “It’s Tuesday morning. Should we take a field trip?”
I know he’s just trying to distract me, but I’m grateful. “What does it being Tuesday have to do with anything?”
“You’ll see.” Nico sticks his head in the back office to let his mom know we’re heading out.
We ride bicycles into town, passing families enjoying leisurely breakfasts on their balconies and cafés bustling with people ordering espressos at the counter.
The sleepy streets are easing gently into the day.
Tuesday, I soon learn, is the day Sorrento has its farmer’s market.
It’s early, so the roads aren’t congested, and people are outside watering flowers and sweeping fallen leaves off their doorways and sidewalks.
Nico takes a soft right and leads us down Via San Renato to a bustling market where locals haggle with the vendors, arguing animatingly until they get their discount.
Vines of tomatoes and garlic and salami hang from the vendors’ booths.
Everywhere you look, there’s a burst of color.
Nico points things out as we park our bikes and meander through the stalls. “We come here every week. It’s where we get everything we can’t grow in the garden.”
We’re forced to stop by a woman’s errant purse. She’s yelling at a man behind one of the booths, swinging it at him. “Whoa. Is everything okay?”
“Oh, yeah.” Nico laughs. “Just Francesca. That’s her cousin Luca. She’s telling him that the price he’s charging for the zucchini is a crime and how could he steal like that from his own flesh and blood.” He pauses, listening. “And also, God is watching.”
Luca finally surrenders to his pushy cousin, bagging up the zucchini as they chatter on like they weren’t just fighting, hugging and kissing one another goodbye.
“See?” Nico nudges me. “All is fine. Francesca’s asking if he’ll be coming over for dinner this weekend.”
I laugh, but my heart gives a sour little pinch.
If only that was how my fight with Anya and Mari had resolved itself, instead of days of silent treatment with no end in sight.
Nico slows as we reach a booth with fresh produce.
There are lemons and oranges the size of my head, and large, juicy grapes.
Nico grabs some of each, putting them in one of the burlap sacks he brought along with us.
The woman running the booth looks to me, smiling.
“Bella, bella, bella!” she exclaims.
I try my best to eavesdrop despite only being able to pick up every tenth word.
“She says you’re very beautiful,” Nico translates.
My ears ring. “Oh! That is very kind. Tell her thank you.”
She clasps her hands over her heart and descends into a rapid burst of Italian before frantically packing up some juicy figs.
“No, no.” Nico shakes his head, but she insists, shoving them at him. Even with my rudimentary understanding I’m able to read between the lines—it’s on the house.
Nico is bright red when he turns away. “Everyone keeps thinking we are a couple. Or that we should be one.” He gives an awkward laugh, brushing it off, but his eyes linger on mine like he’s gauging my reaction.
“That’s funny,” I say. I hadn’t really been serious when I joked about him being a womanizer, but between his reaction now and how red he’d blushed yesterday, I’m forced to concede that it was a swing and a miss. But then—what about the girl on the beach?
I stop at a booth with beautifully designed ceramic souvenirs.
“Wait, these are so stunning.” I hold up an olive oil dispenser with hand-painted lemons.
The mosaic design reminds me of the tilework I’ve seen around town, almost identical to the B and B’s lobby floor.
I already have a souvenir for Reza, but my dad would love this.
I turn the dispenser over to see the sticker says twenty euro.
“Way overpriced,” Nico tells me. “Let me handle this.” Nico proceeds to barter before handing over twelve euro. Soon, the vendor is wrapping the olive oil dispenser in bubble wrap.
“How did you do that?” I ask, giving Nico my twentyeuro note.
He refuses to take it. “Think of it as payment for helping out at the B and B. A gift. So you don’t forget me when you’re off having your grand adventures.”
“I could never forget you,” I say without hesitating. “Gift or not.” Nico’s eyes crinkle.
As I walk up the aisles, I swear for a second that I see the top of Wes’s head.
I freeze. My heart starts racing. But when the boy turns, it’s someone else entirely, and I relax.
I’m surprised to feel less jarred than I usually would.
Last week, last month, maybe even last night, it would have ruined my entire day, but today, it passes.
I make a few more purchases: a bar of scented soap and a tiny glass container of limoncello that is shaped like the boot of Italy, painted with notable landmarks and city names.
While I am picking those up, Nico adds some leafy greens and radishes to his bag. Nico’s mom has a small garden where she grows her own tomatoes and garlic, so he skips over those sections, but we pick up a small pint of cherry tomatoes and pop them like they’re M&M’s, a snack for the road.
We are just about to leave when a woman walks up to us and envelops Nico in a giant hug. “è Nico quello che vedo?” She switches to English once she realizes I don’t speak Italian. “So nice to meet you. I’m Lisabetta, Alessandra’s friend.”
“Soraya,” I introduce myself.
“So, you’re stuck with this one, eh?”
“Yes. He’s been dragging me around to all these horrible places,” I joke. “I told him to please walk a few feet behind me so no one thinks I came with him.”
“You’re funny.” She gives me a once-over. “Come, help me talk some sense into the boy. Have you given any thought to that tour I told you and that stubborn mother of yours to start running?”
“Ah, Lisabetta, not this again,” Nico laughs.
But I perk up. “Tour?”
“This one, he knows all the best places. He and his father used to go fishing up and down the coast, trying all the restaurants and buying little trinkets for his mama. I keep telling them they should start hosting tours—all the other ones around town are so stale and circle through the same tourist traps—and every time they refuse to listen.”
Nico’s shaking his head like he’s heard this all before, but I’m interested.
Lisabetta’s totally spot-on—before we stopped speaking, Anya, Mari, and I had looked at booking some of the tours of the Amalfi Coast, but they’d all been too long or too stiff or not as centered around local cuisine the way we were hoping.
“But why not? It’s such a good idea. I loved your recommendations. ”
“We’ve thought about it, but it’s a lot of work,” Nico tells me. “Logistics, planning, permits, not to mention reaching out to other businesses and organizing large groups of people. We just don’t have the capacity right now.”
I deflate. He’s right, I realize. But then…
“Well, let me know when you do. I’ll be first in line.” Lisabetta peppers us both with kisses as she says her goodbyes. I watch her walk away, an idea percolating.