9. Positano, Italy
9
POSITANO, ITALY
Now
“H ave you been wearing sunscreen?” Elena asked from the phone screen propped up on Alex’s bathroom vanity.
“Yes, of course, Mom,” she answered, tapping the excess powder from her oversized brush before gently swiping it over her features.
“What’s the SPF?”
“The strong kind.”
“You should know the SPF.” Elena took another bite of her protein bar, the familiar sounds of the daycare rising behind her. “Anything less than fifty and you might as well wear tanning oil.”
“I’m not wearing tanning oil.”
Her mother shot an incredulous look through the screen, likely counting the substantial freckles dotting Alex’s nose and cheeks. “Hmm,” she conceded. “And how is Paul?”
“He’s…” Alex thought briefly of being honest, of mentioning that he’d mostly been avoiding his fiancé in favor of hanging out with her, but she didn’t want to prompt Elena’s inevitable follow-up questions. “He’s great. Excited for Greece.”
“Do you have—”
“Yes, I have Dad’s list. And I am still not buying him cheese—it’ll go bad by the time I get home. I’ll get him an extra bottle of olive oil to make up for it.”
“He shouldn’t be eating cheese, anyway.”
Elena’s health obsession was something Alex had spent a lot of money unpacking in therapy. It started as an earnest attempt to combat the infertility issues she’d experienced after having Alex, gradually morphing into an all-consuming religion. But because her fixation on muscle building, protein consumption, and sleep quality edged closer to genuine health than standard diet culture, they were harder to criticize—no matter how oppressive they sometimes felt.
“Let him have his cheese,” Alex finally said in quiet protest.
“ You don’t have to listen to him in the bathroom every morning.”
“That’s gross, Mom.” Alex paused, dipping her mascara brush in its tube for more product. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine, you know. Fine.”
Fine usually indicated an unremarkable week in which his back allowed him to drive the cab, but not much else. Good meant he had picked up a full week of shifts, and great meant he was working more than usual—and that the Buffalo Bills were having a good season.
“Did you see?” Alex leaned into the camera, resting her hands on her collarbone and turning her head back and forth, “I’m wearing the necklace.”
“I saw, it’s beautiful.” She paused, appraising her daughter before seizing the moment. “You look relaxed.”
Relaxed meant it seemed like Alex wasn’t working too much.
“Thank you.” She smiled, eager to gild the lily. “I deleted my work email off my phone.” This was half-true, as she had already redownloaded the app multiple times since arriving—but she was much less connected than usual, especially with the sometimes unreliable WiFi service on the Verseau .
“I’m glad to hear it, baby. They can survive a few weeks without you.”
“Well, I’m not sure about that, but that’s not my problem right now.”
“Exactly.” She paused for a sip of water. “And everyone is being nice?”
“Yes, everyone is being nice.”
“See? You had nothing to worry about.”
“Yes, Mom, you’re right about everything.”
“Not everything.” She unwrapped a string cheese, her glittery red nails glinting in the overhead office light. “But I knew you were getting too worked up about this. They like you, or they wouldn’t have invited you.”
It was no use arguing this point again, so Alex simply nodded, leaning closer to the mirror to apply a layer of gloss over her lipstick.
“And what are you getting so dolled up for?”
“It’s Paul’s big night out.”
Paul had created an entire itinerary for Positano—dinner at a glamorous cliffside restaurant, drinks at a hotel bar he loved, and karaoke until last call—and had gifted her a dress for the occasion. It was all shades of blue and green, like a living watercolor that skimmed her body in perfect waves. The neckline plunged much deeper than she was used to, and mostly served as a silken outline for the teardrop shape of her bare breasts. Between them, she wore a few gold necklaces to match the cuff on her left wrist.
She felt confident, beautiful, and ready to turn her victory with Danial into a permanent position of power.
“Speaking of which,” she added, “I should probably start heading out.”
“Already? I still have fifteen minutes left on my break!”
“I know, but I don’t want to be rude.”
“Okay, baby. Well, you look beautiful.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Text us when you get home safe.”
“Of course.”
With a last fluff of her curls, Alex downed her glass of water in a single sip and walked out of the bathroom. She grabbed her clutch from the nightstand and spritzed herself with her favorite perfume as she headed to the salon.
“Look at you!” Dev called out from an armchair, looking up from an intricately carved wooden chess board.
She waved nervously, offering a somewhat sarcastic little shimmy in response. From his seat on the other side of the board, Danial glanced in her direction but didn’t move. His expression narrowed into a fine point as he observed her, the sharp angle of his jaw clenching just slightly before he returned his gaze to the board. She almost smiled at the familiar look of concentration on his face—for Danial, even a casual game to kill time was a serious affair. Alex approached them, standing over the board to observe the gameplay in the respectful silence that chess demands. Danial was winning, but he was playing more sloppily than usual, having already traded his bishop pair for Dev’s knights.
Dev checked his watch, then glanced over at the cabins where his wife was still getting ready. “Maybe we should call it, man,” he said, looking over at Danial. “I think we’re being rude.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Danial replied, disassembling the board without looking up. “I shouldn’t have started a game, sorry.”
Alex swallowed the rising swell of nostalgia in her throat. Danial had first taught her to play, and she became so consumed with the game—and the connection it fostered between them—that it dominated her schedule for the entirety of their junior year. The chess app they finally embraced was a social necessity, a compromise to please their friends who were tired of waiting around for the two of them to finish yet another match.
“Are you excited for tonight?” she asked, clearing her throat of emotion and intentionally facing Dev.
“I’m excited to get off this boat,” he answered. “I’ve been feeling a little sick all afternoon.”
“I’m sure the beer isn’t helping.” She gestured to his tall, thin glass of pilsner.
“It’s medicinal.” He smiled.
“And you?” She turned to Danial, who was neatly packing the last of the pieces in their beautiful wooden box. “Have you been to Positano before?”
“I haven’t.” He shifted slightly in his seat. “Have you?”
It was odd seeing him so chastened, without the usual swagger he brought to their conversations. It made her feel almost sad for him.
“Oh, no. I’ve only been to Rome.”
“It’s such a tourist trap here,” Sophie mused from across the room, perched on a little barstool at the island, where she had apparently been sitting the whole time.
For a moment, Alex thought of releasing a guttural scream. The studied indifference Sophie had for absolutely everything—something Alex used to find intimidating and aspirational—now felt suffocating. Couldn’t she enjoy anything?
“Well, I’m excited!” Alex chirped, a direct defiance to Sophie’s blasé commentary. “It looks really pretty from the harbor!”
Across from her, Danial grabbed a cube of cheese from a tray on the dining table, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Fuck,” Paul declared as he walked into the salon. “ You look fucking hot.” He marched directly over to Alex with arms wide open, gesturing for her to turn around so he could get a full view.
“You only think so because you picked this dress.” She smiled, moving the hem of the dress in opposition to her twisting body. She noticed that he had subtly coordinated with her, in an aqua-blue suit and chartreuse silk shirt that was unbuttoned halfway down his torso.
“True! But this waistline, good lord .”
From his seat on the couch, Danial cleared his throat. “Are we heading out soon? We’re going to be late.”
Alex looked over, grateful for his equal commitment to promptness.
“We’re already late,” Dev confirmed, “but Bee is probably still in the shower.”
“Then she can go with Guy,” Paul directed, somewhat bitterly. “He’s having a little tantrum.”
“Why?” Sophie asked, adjusting her perfectly French Girl red lipstick in a silver compact.
If Alex had to guess, it was almost certainly over Paul’s aesthetics. Paul loved to dress in light drag for special occasions—back home, he had an entire walk-in closet full of corsets and silk robes, feathers and elaborate beadwork—and Guy was not a fan, to say the least. She’d received more than a few texts from Paul about Guy vetoing an outfit just as they were walking out of the door, or leaving him at a restaurant, mid-course, out of humiliation. She hated the thought of Guy policing Paul on what was supposed to be his night, that Paul had likely already changed to please him but was still being punished.
“Who knows?” he replied, changing the subject. “Shall we?”
“I’m going to wait for Bee,” Dev said, accepting a fresh pilsner from one of the crew. “I’ll catch up.”
Narrow, tall, and surrounded by weedy greenery on all sides, the ancient stone stairs made for a treacherous walk. And, as much as Alex hated to admit it, Sophie was right: Positano was absolutely choked with tourists, so dense at points that it was difficult to walk along the single road snaking its way up the cliff. Sophie and Danial led the group, powering through the crowds with a commanding ease, while Paul trailed behind with Alex, eager to talk about the day’s drama.
“He always fucking does this,” he said, expertly dodging a family as they posed with a selfie stick. “He just can’t help himself.”
“What were you going to wear?”
“That’s the thing, nothing crazy! I had this beautiful silk jacket I got in Vietnam.” He outlined the shape of the jacket with his hands as he spoke. “And I was going to wear it open with nothing underneath. But it’s not like I was in a dress!”
She inhaled slowly, exhausted by their dynamic. “He just gets like that,” she said. “He’s weird about clothes.”
“He’s weird about everything ,” Paul replied.
Alex had learned a long time ago that she could only validate Paul’s complaints so much before it backfired on her. Any time she said what she truly felt—that they were ill-matched, that they probably shouldn’t be together, that Guy was an asshole—it did more damage to her friendship than it did their relationship. Now, she mostly just echoed his thoughts like an extension of his internal monologue until they inevitably reconciled.
“Anyway,” he continued, “He’ll probably just show up late to dinner, once he’s done feeling sorry for himself.”
“Hopefully not too late.”
“They’ll wait for us.”
They had arrived at the restaurant, where an incredibly glamorous hostess dressed like she was going to a nightclub stood just inside the door. Paul stepped aside to allow Alex to enter, and she snaked her way past the interior tables with confidence—she knew Paul would have only reserved a table on the terrace. Behind her, she heard him charming the hostess as he walked, complimenting her perfect outfit.
Danial and Sophie were already seated next to each other at their large, round table, looking perfectly suited to the surroundings. Almost instinctively, Alex raised her phone to snap a photo of the scene: behind them, the Mediterranean stretched on in all directions, cradled by the vertical cliffs dotted with multicolor homes. The sun was just beginning to set, and everything looked slightly dream-like: twinkling lights strung above them, candles flickering in the elaborate centerpiece. Danial had removed his suit jacket, and the blue linen of his shirt seemed pulled from the sea itself, elegant and casual in equal measure. She noticed his grandfather’s watch, ticking away on his wrist.
“Oh, there’s actually only seven of us,” Alex started, turning toward the hostess.
“No,” Paul corrected, pulling out her chair, “there are eight of us tonight.”
“Who’s coming?” Danial asked from across the table, a safe distance away.
“A friend of mine, I told you.” Paul smiled, leaning down to whisper in Alex’s ear. “An incredibly hot friend of mine.”
“Oh, you didn’t need to—”
Before she could finish, a man so beautiful it sucked the air from her chest stepped out onto the terrace, heading toward Paul with open arms.
“Enzo!” Paul exclaimed, bringing him into a full-chested embrace. “How are you?”
“Excellent, excellent.” He turned to Alex, looking at her with piercing green eyes that shimmered against the depth of his tan skin. “ Buonasera.” He smiled, bringing the back of her hand to his lips for a gallant kiss.
“Uh, hi,” she replied, too stunned to offer anything better.
As he made his way around to the other side of the table to greet Danial and Sophie, Alex sat back down in her chair next to Paul, leaning into his ear. “ What the fuck? ” she whispered through gritted teeth. “Did you hire a gigolo?”
“No.” He laughed, turning his face to whisper back, “He’s a friend from study abroad. And he’s single.” He reached across the table to grab a piece of bread, dredging it through the saucer of olive oil placed before him. “And he likes you.”
“How could he possibly like me? He literally just met me.”
“I’ve sent him plenty of photos, and I’ve told him all about your life.” He paused, waving over the waitress. “And that you don’t have a gag reflex.”
“ Jesus Christ !” she shouted, much louder than intended. She continued, bringing her voice back to a whisper. “What is wrong with you?”
“I’m joking, obviously. But he did love your—” he quieted himself as Enzo sat down on the other side of Alex, elegantly opening his napkin and placing it on his lap.
“You must be Alexandra.” He smiled, pouring himself a bit of sparkling water from the glass bottle on the table. “I am Enzo.”
“Uh,” she started, losing language at a startling rate as he ran a hand through his wavy brownish-blond hair. “Yes. Well, Alex.”
“Alex. And what do you do, Alex?” His beautiful accent tap danced over every word.
Next to her, Paul had started an intense conversation with Sophie in an obvious effort to give the two of them some privacy. They chatted away while Danial looked across the table, tearing at a small piece of bread.
“I…” she had to think about it for a minute. “I work in politics.”
“That is fascinating, what do you do in politics?”
Although Paul had clearly instructed Enzo to be as curious about her as possible, it was nice to have a man take interest in her work.
“I work in digital media strategy. I basically help our candidates reach new potential voters.”
“This is very important work,” he intoned, deadly serious.
“And what about you?” She leaned in slightly as he poured her a glass of water, still not quite believing he was real.
“I work in fashion. For Max Mara.”
“Wow, that’s cool—do you like it?”
“I love it.” He smiled. “I love making women look beautiful.”
The two of them slipped into easy conversation: undisturbed by the arrival of Bee, Dev, and Guy; unaware of the waiters flitting around them. They sipped their Aperol spritzes with cheeky abandon as the sun disappeared behind the horizon, only breaking eye contact when absolutely necessary. It didn’t matter his motives, or whether Paul really had overhyped her oral skills—Enzo moved with the kind of ease and certainty that begged to be followed.
She barely noticed as his hand snaked around the back of her chair, as he leaned in closer to ask about her perfume. When her pashmina slipped off her shoulder, he brought it back up; when she mentioned that his appetizer looked good, he offered her a bite, meeting her eyes with intensity as she took it from his fork.
“Time to come up for air, babe.” Paul nudged her as a waiter set the main courses in front of them with a choreographed flourish.
“I’m here,” she replied, a little too insistently. She smoothed her napkin on her lap, taking a sip of water. “What’s up?”
“We’re talking about the elections,” Dev explained, nodding a thank you to the departing waiter. “What’s your take?”
“My… take?” She struggled to get her bearings, still flush with Enzo’s attention. His fingertips remained on her lower back as she spoke. “On which race?”
“All of them,” Bee answered, reaching her fork for a bite of Dev’s lasagna. “But especially your boy, is he going to win?”
“Carter.” She cleared her throat. “Congressman Stephens is running a very strong campaign, but he’s running against an incumbent.”
“She doesn’t work for him,” Danial interjected, rather theatrically. He leaned back as a waiter refilled his wine with a generous pour. “She works for his party .”
“Yes, I do.” She took another sip of water, willfully ignoring that Danial was directly quoting their conversation from the car ride down. “But we collaborate with his team a good amount.”
“She does cool stuff,” Dev added, vaguely in Enzo’s direction.
“Dev, are you a closet Stevie supporter?” Guy asked, holding the base of his glass and giving it a gentle swirl.
Stevie was how the right wing media referred to Congressman Stephens, an infantilizing nickname Alex had created a flood of social media content to counteract. It was meant to render him unserious, to highlight his relative youth and inexperience, and to generally erode trust in his campaign. And among certain swaths of the electorate—particularly older, more conservative voters—it was quite effective.
“Dev doesn’t live in Pennsylvania,” Alex said, setting her fork down. In her mind, she added the hissed clarification that “ his name isn’t Stevie ,” but she didn’t have the courage to say it out loud.
“Yeah, but he can still support free retirement for all at forty-five , or whatever it was,” Guy continued, Paul shooting him an uncomfortable look across the table.
Alex clenched her teeth, caught between wanting to scream at him and not wanting to seem like a killjoy, a role she often felt expected to play by her present company.
“It’s the Dignity In Retirement bill,” Danial corrected, his tone neutral.
Momentarily stunned by his interception, Alex took a beat before peeling her eyes off of him to add her own commentary. “And it’s not retirement at forty-five, it’s sixty-two—which puts us very much in the middle of the pack for developed countries. You know, like Norway?” She didn’t need to specify that this was the country Guy’s family lived in, because everyone already knew it.
A wave of quiet rippled over their group, Bee and Sophie exchanging the same knowing look as they had during her argument with Danial that morning. But this time, she wouldn’t allow them the satisfaction of seeing her worked up again—not even about the thing she cared most about. Not while Enzo’s fingers were delicately grazing her back, at least. She continued on in her most diplomatic, calm tone:
“And I do think Congressman Stephens has a good chance of winning. Especially after the… recent labor issues in Pennsylvania.” She made a point of looking at Guy as she said it, remaining aware of Danial from the corner of her eye.
“What happened?” Sophie looked up from the phone that had been occupying her attention for most of the evening. “I hate politics.”
Next to her, Dev looked over with a distinct expression of fatigue.
“I’ll let you Google that one.” Alex smiled, imagining herself throwing her Aperol spritz in Sophie’s face. “But it’s bad.”
“It’s complicated,” Danial replied, setting down his utensils but keeping his voice even.
The group hushed again, seeming to brace itself for another argument.
“You know”—Enzo dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin—“in Italy, it is considered impolite to discuss politics at the table before coffee. We need time to digest.”
“I agree.” Alex smiled at him, making a point to linger in her gaze while Danial stared at her from across the table. “Does anyone want to try my pasta?”
The conversation turned to another topic, politics being just another ball for this ultra-privileged group to bat around while they sipped their drinks. And even though she was feeling unusually confident, Alex knew the change in subject was for the best: each plank of her party’s platform opposed the existence of virtually everyone at this table; it was only a matter of time before the dissonance became too great. She retreated back into her conversation with Enzo: where the stakes were low, and the chances of being touched by a beautiful Italian man were extremely high.
“Does anyone want coffee?” A bit later, Paul scanned the table as the now-impatient waiter stood by. “Alex? Hello?” He bumped her gently to grab her attention.
“Coffee? Uh, yes, please. Espresso.”
“ Due ,” Enzo echoed, holding up two long, elegant fingers before turning his attention back to Alex.
“And this is last call for drinks, you lushes,” Paul chided. “I want to get moving.”
“I’m going home,” Danial declared from across the table. “I’m tired.”
Alex looked over at him, and he immediately averted his gaze.
“Uh, no the fuck you are not,” Dev corrected. “My stomach finally stopped hurting. I’m not going to karaoke without you.”
“We’re not even going to karaoke for another two hours, at least,” Danial pushed back.
“Why not?” Sophie asked, never one to pay attention to schedules or plans.
“We’re going to a bar first, there’s some live music,” Guy explained, moving out of the way slightly as a waiter set down his cappuccino.
“Oh, come on,” Bee whined, “I don’t want to go sit at a bar.”
“This place is supposed to be really nice,” Alex chimed in. “It’s jazz music.”
“You like jazz?” Enzo asked, genuinely curious.
“I love jazz.” She smiled.
“She’s a great dancer,” Danial added, a light slur in his voice. He seemed to snap to attention the second the words escaped him.
“I’ll make a deal,” Paul inserted himself, eager to play the diplomat in service of getting what he wanted. “We go to karaoke next, and then whoever wants to will go to the Sireneuse after, for a nightcap.”
“I want to see you dance,” Enzo whispered, gently running his fingertips along Alex’s exposed back.
“We can dance at karaoke,” she replied, not really meaning it but wanting to go along with whatever he said.
Danial scooted his chair out from the table, loudly scraping on the tile floor. “Fine, it’s your bachelor party,” he muttered in Paul’s general direction. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
He walked around the table, meeting Alex’s eyes only briefly as Enzo whispered something indecipherable in her ear. There was something about Danial’s expression that scared her: it felt at once cold and blindingly hot, indifferent and enraged. His eyes moved from Enzo’s hand on the small of her back to her face, taking her in as his features darkened. If she didn’t know better, she would say that he had mouthed something to her.
Before she could consider it further, he rounded the table and pushed past both of them, knocking Enzo’s chair slightly on his way inside. The very air felt disturbed by his movement, and she could feel the electricity buzzing and humming around her body, lingering on every inch of her skin.