The High Dive

10. Positano, Italy

10

POSITANO, ITALY

Now

I f the restaurant terrace was breezy and luxurious, the karaoke bar was its logical opposite: stuffy and damp, in a dark stone basement that likely once served as a medieval torture chamber. The eight of them had crowded around a few miniscule bar tables, sipping some of the most questionable gin and tonics of their lives while a group of drunk girls squawked their way through a Katy Perry song.

Paul had a habit of insisting on fun, willing it into existence through brute force alone. And while it had always worked in college—it was part of what made him so popular—the cracks were beginning to show now that they were all firmly in their thirties. There wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to make a place like this appealing, especially when the enthusiasm for this plan had been tentative at best. But he swayed to the music, undeterred, seeming genuinely charmed by the bleak ambiance as he sang along with the women on stage.

“I’m really glad I stayed for this,” Danial shouted across the table at Paul.

“I know you’re being sarcastic,” Paul replied, flagging down a server. “But no one is leaving until they sing at least one song.” He turned to face the overworked Italian man waiting with his notepad. “Eight Don Julio shots with lime, grazie .”

“Jesus Christ, no.” Bee waved. “I’m not drinking tequila.”

“Then I’ll drink yours,” Paul dismissed, much to Guy’s visible frustration.

“Do you drink tequila?” Enzo asked in Alex’s ear, his lips brushing her skin with every word.

“For Paul, occasionally,” she replied.

Across from her, Danial was already on his second drink, his movements—usually elegant and intuitive—on a five-second delay.

“What are you singing?” he slurred from across the table, looking between her and Paul.

“The usual,” he answered.

“‘California Dreamin’.’ The Mamas and the Papas,” Alex clarified to Enzo.

It was her and Paul’s signature karaoke number, one of the few songs that was within her range and blended their voices together nicely. Plus, most crowds knew it well enough to sing along.

“Oh, right, duh,” Danial slowly nodded. “Do they have that song in Italy?” he turned more pointedly to Enzo.

Enzo cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully. “Yes, we have that song in Italy.” He leaned slightly back in his chair, making a point of taking a slow sip of his drink before continuing. “But with the internet now, you can get any song in any country, you know.”

Laughter rippled through the group as Enzo turned his attention back to Alex. He had gotten more forward since their venue change, slipping a finger under the delicate strap of her dress that had fallen and returning it to her shoulder, brushing the skin of her breast with his hand before taking it away. She didn’t care that this was more action than she’d seen in literal years, that she would never normally be so sexually open with a man—especially not in front of a group like this. It just felt good to be wanted, to be noticed, to have a man treat her like a beautiful object instead of a source of frustration.

The two of them once again got lost in conversation, Enzo’s charm making it so easy for her to be charming, too. Everything she said was just that much funnier; every lull in their conversation was a natural opportunity to touch. At one point, he leaned in to whisper something she could barely hear over the music, pushing back her lush black curls to better access her ear as his soft fingers spanned the length of her neck. She shivered with delight, this foreign feeling of a man with nothing better to do than to touch her.

“Here,” Danial said, materializing behind them as he roughly placed their shots on the table, along with a few wedges of lime. “I had to go get them myself. No one wants to work in this country.” He stumbled back slightly as he pulled his hands away, undercutting the intended pointedness of his words.

Alex looked up at him with the sharpest admonishment she could muster. She could feel him trying to ruin her evening, the closed loop of attraction she was enjoying with Enzo. “I think people work plenty hard here.”

“No, no, he’s right,” Enzo laughed, looking more casual than ever in his linen suit. “We don’t like to work here. There are many more fun things to do in life.” He placed his hand very intentionally on Alex’s knee, opening it slightly as he ran his fingers up a few inches. With his free hand, he wiped a cocktail napkin over the drops of tequila that had spilled when Danial slammed their glasses down.

“Aren’t you up?” she asked, gesturing at Dev, who was waiting on stage with two microphones and the lyrics to “Lips of an Angel” pulled up on the screen.

Danial lingered in irritation for a moment before walking over to Dev, taking the mic in an unsteady hand. The opening guitar chords reverberated around the cavernous room as the two of them moved in tandem, closing their eyes and raising their voices to match the intensity of the chorus. Danial seemed lost in the music, shout-singing so loud that the backing track was nearly drowned out. He briefly bounced off the stage to grab his half-empty gin and tonic from the table before running back for the bridge. Enzo leaned in and whispered again, something derisive about how her friend shouldn’t drink so much next time.

She laughed along and nodded, because he was right. But despite the quality of the performance, she had to admit that seeing Danial up there sent a pang of nostalgia directly into her heart. He looked just like he had at Dev’s twenty-first birthday. That year, Dev had rented a huge bar down in Brooklyn and hired a jazz band to play covers of all of his favorite songs. At one point, Danial had joined them on stage for a rendition of “New York State of Mind,” one that brought the whole house down. He had taken it seriously, practicing for weeks beforehand, usually in Paul’s apartment for him and Alex.

She remembered how nervously he flitted around that party in anticipation of his big moment, occasionally dashing off to the men’s room for a little last-minute rehearsal. She remembered the roaring applause when he finished, the way Dev ran up on stage and practically lifted him off the ground in a bear hug. She remembered the rented suit Danial wore, the one he meticulously protected all evening because he could not afford to lose his deposit. And maybe most of all, she remembered the two of them dancing late into the night, spinning and laughing under the colorful lights.

“Babe,” Paul interrupted her thoughts, pointing to the screen. “We’re up.”

He made a show of helping her up out of her chair, presenting her with a flourish as they walked to the stage. They took the mics from the pair leaving it, Alex making a point to take hers from Dev.

“Let’s hear it for the dress!” Paul exclaimed, gesturing toward the meager crowd to give her a round of applause.

“Yes, please clap for the dress, because I can’t promise much in terms of vocals.” She laughed, twirling the hem slightly. The complete silence from the audience indicated that very few of them likely spoke English.

The music started and they both began swaying in a vaguely sixties way, singing the lyrics mostly from memory. They turned toward each other at certain intervals, sarcastically over-singing to one another as they moved around the tiny stage. It was as it had always been, their total comfort with each other becoming a kind of effortless synchronicity. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Danial leaning nearly all the way across their table, saying something to Enzo in a pointed tone. Dev placed a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back as their voices rose.

“Hey,” the waiter called over across the cramped bar, “calm down!”

“We’re fine,” Danial replied, running his fingers through his hair, now a little slick with sweat.

Paul reached down and grabbed Alex’s hand, his eyes fixed on their group. He gave a quick squeeze, turning them toward the on-screen lyrics and singing that much louder to drown out the scene back at their table.

“It’s okay,” Paul whispered in her ear during an instrumental break. “They’re not going to—”

Before he could finish, there was a loud crash, followed by the sound of glasses breaking and men yelling. By the time she spun around, Danial was on top of Enzo, the two of them landing blows on each other’s faces, punching and kicking in an impenetrable scrum on the stone floor.

“What the fuck?!” Alex screamed, running over to help Dev pull them apart.

Once Danial had been removed, bleeding from a cut on his forehead and breathing in jagged bursts, Enzo came to his feet, rubbing his chin and muttering something angry-sounding in Italian.

“Get out!” the waiter shouted, charging toward their group, “Get out right now, or I’m calling the police!”

“We’re going!” A humiliated Guy was already shepherding the stunned group outside, Bee dramatically crying as Dev put his suit jacket over her shoulders.

“Let me settle the bill,” Paul offered, trying to salvage the last of their dignity. “What do we owe you? Quanto… quanto… ” he started in his meager Italian, but the waiter cut him off.

“Get your friends outside and we will handle it,” he insisted, almost pushing Danial as he spoke.

“Okay, okay, we’re going.” Paul was deflated, counting the bills in his wallet.

“What the fuck was that, Dan?” Sophie hissed as she walked past them and out toward the rest of the group.

“I’m so sorry,” Alex said, roughly grabbing a few ice cubes from a glass and bringing them over to Enzo.

“I’m fine,” he answered, covering his face. He pushed her hand away, knocking the ice cubes onto the floor. “ Troia.” And before she could offer any more apologies or explanations, he dashed up the stairs and out of the bar, flashing her a look of disdain before disappearing into the night.

For a moment, she was too stunned to move, confused and angry and yet somehow almost satisfied that her inability to trust Danial was perfectly justified.

“Signora, get out ,” the waiter yelled, startlingly close to Alex’s face.

“I will handle the bill,” Paul reiterated, shooing her toward the door.

“We have to leave,” Danial said, grabbing her wrist.

“Don’t touch me,” she spat. She ripped her arm from his hand and headed for the stairs, leaving just enough distance between her and Enzo to avoid running into him outside.

“Alex.” Danial followed her, reaching in her direction but distinctly avoiding contact with her body. “Hold on.”

“ What? ” She turned to face him as soon as they were safely around the corner from the bar. With the group now out of earshot, they had relative privacy, save the occasional tourists stumbling by.

“Let me explain.” He looked like a little boy, defeated and embarrassed.

“Explain why you attacked that man for no reason and got us thrown out of a fucking bar?”

“I didn’t attack him,” he hiccupped. “He swung on me .”

“And why did he do that?”

“He…” Danial hesitated, letting a group walk by before dropping his voice slightly. “He said something I didn’t like. And I told him to shut up.”

She let out a long sigh, rubbing her temple in exasperation. “What could he have possibly said?”

“I don’t want to get into it,” he wiped his forehead, swaying on his feet with inebriation. “But it wasn’t respectful to you.”

She laughed, so unfazed that she could only find it funny. “Danial, I don’t give a shit. I wasn’t going to marry that guy.”

“What do you mean you don’t give a shit?” His face had taken on that condescending distance again, disappointed in her answer.

“We’re at a karaoke bar for a bachelor party. This isn’t a fucking regency romance.”

For a moment he was silent, a pained expression forming itself on his face. And when he finally spoke, it was with an almost petulant insistence. “So you would just let that scumbag hook up with you?”

“Excuse me?” She backed up, straightening her posture. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I had a chaperone following me around on this trip.”

“I’m not following you around,” he offered, lamely.

“Yes, you are. It’s like you just want to punish me the minute I get close to having a good time.” She dug around in her purse for her phone, dreading the chaos likely waiting for her in the group chat. “Well, congratulations, you’ve succeeded!”

“That wasn’t the point.”

“Yes, it was.” She put her phone back in her bag, thinking better of looking at her notifications. “And you got exactly what you wanted, messing up my life yet again.”

“I didn’t—”

“And I’m going to get blamed for this, I’m sure.” She could feel the sadness welling up in her, the familiar unfairness of being the broke loser who couldn’t quite hang. The killjoy . “I always do.”

“No one is going to blame you.”

“Yes, they will.” She sighed. “If I hadn’t come, none of this would have happened.”

“That’s not true.” He could barely speak, his weak voice lost in the street noises surrounding them.

“Just please, please leave me alone. Just let me have a nice vacation.”

“I wasn’t trying—” the words caught in his throat. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was trying to help you.” He sounded pathetic.

“I don’t want your help.” She put her hand to his shoulder, moving them both to the side as a group of tourists squeezed by.

“Alex—”

“ What?” Her voice was barely more than a hiss.

“ I’m sorry,” he replied, his eyes fluttering closed as he leaned slightly in her direction.

She took a long look at his face, drawn and ashamed and slick with the sweat of intoxication. And she realized only then that her hand was still on his arm, radiating with heat, as if glued in place. Perhaps sensing the same thing, his face turned down toward their point of contact. He opened his eyes, silently taking in the sight of her touching him.

“Sorry for what ?” she asked, still with that menacing quiet in her voice, her face now inches from his.

For a moment he said nothing, only taking a deep breath before expelling it in a great, heaving sigh. They could pretend it was just about the fight in the bar, but she knew—and felt certain he knew—exactly what she was asking. She wanted him to apologize for what happened between them ten years ago, and she was just loose enough to demand it.

His eyes were still fixed to her hand on his bicep, which twinged involuntarily beneath her touch.

“I’m…” his breath was heavy as he finally turned his gaze to hers, brows knitted in anxiety. He looked physically pained, his lower lip hanging the slightest bit open, his head shaking as if to rid his own mind of unwanted thoughts. “I’m sorry for upsetting you.” As soon as the words left him, he looked away again, avoiding her.

A river of contempt flooded her body, at his inability to acknowledge the damage he had done—even a full decade later, even after a night like this.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she clinically replied, full of anger and anxiety and another, third thing she couldn’t quite place. “And then I’m going to bed.”

“Okay,” he breathed, his presence so heavy she could almost feel it.

“And you can come after me,” she declared.

“I can—” his eyes flicked up to hers again, and only once they were looking at each other did she consider her phrasing. “I can what?”

There was a great pause, and she could hear the sound of him swallowing hard, even over the chaotic street noise surrounding them. At this, she made a point of clapping him on the shoulder, the way a little league coach might encourage a player, eyes still on his with piercing intensity.

“You can come back to the boat after I do. Have a good night.”

Freshly showered and padding around in her fluffy white bathrobe, Alex finally felt normal again. The others had decided to go out after all, and that meant she had the boat to herself for at least a few precious hours. She couldn’t untangle the thorny feelings in the pit of her stomach, but she could at least scrub the sensation from her body, nearly scalding herself with hot water until she felt almost nothing at all. There was a candle lit on her bedside table, and a cup of chamomile tea sitting neatly on a saucer. The room felt so adult and reasonable, a respite from the anticipated stress of having to face everyone come morning.

Paul had texted her off of the group chat to tell her that some of the group wanted to explore the town in Taormina tomorrow. She was invited, of course, but they just don’t want any more drama for a minute . She knew what that meant: she was invited, but not wanted . Paul gallantly offered to plan a little excursion for the two of them, instead—an attempt to soften the blow of her second-class status—but she declined. Reading a book on the deck would be just fine for her.

From the room next to hers, the unmistakable sound of a drunk Danial cut through her spa-like quiet. She heard him slam the cabin door behind him, clicking across the room in his leather shoes. Every step of his process was audible: tossing his jacket on the floor, setting his wallet on the armoire, sitting down to slip off his loafers. She could hear the hiss of him opening his sparkling water and pouring himself a glass, followed by a bottle of medication opening and a pill being shaken out, almost certainly a preemptive ibuprofen to stave off his inevitable headache.

Then, there was an unexpected moment of quiet, a silence in which she held her breath for fear that he might hear the rise and fall of her chest through the wall. She wanted him to think she was asleep, totally unaware of his presence and indifferent to his arrival. As the silence continued, she wondered if maybe he’d passed out—but if her college memory served, he was prone to snoring after too many drinks. She waited him out with a growing impatience, uncertain whether she could safely move to her bed without being detected. But then, after what felt like an eternity, a distinct sound from the other side of the wall broke the silence.

Alex padded over, cat-like, pressing her ear against the lacquered mahogany to better hear. It was Danial, unbuckling his belt and lowering the zipper of his pants. Another pause, then the sound of starched sheets shifting underneath him as he reclined in his bed. She pressed herself harder against the wall, willing herself to eliminate all space between her ear and the wood. There were small, recognizable noises here and there, though she couldn’t know for sure what he was doing. All she knew was that his belt was still on, its silver buckle producing a distinct metallic sound with his every movement.

Her eyes fluttered to a close, heavy with her own imagination. She visualized each micro-sound, each shift in tone or pace, as an unmistakable desire began to rise within her, one she couldn’t bat away with her usual rationalizations. The fact that he thought she was sleeping, and would never know how attractive she still found him, was intoxicating. And when she heard the murmur of his voice, its mesmerizing depth pulsing with words she couldn’t quite parse, she pressed her hips against the wall. Her legs were almost numb beneath her as she moved, pushing herself in slow, rhythmic movements against the dark wood panel. Before she realized what she was doing, a distinct cry of pleasure escaped her lips.

He went silent in his room, both of them hovering in momentary suspension until she heard the sound of his belt being buckled, his body lifting from the bed.

“ Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she whispered through gritted teeth, padding over to her bed and sitting on the tightly tucked comforter. She haphazardly grabbed her notebook and pen from the nightstand, forming a pathetic still life of pretend work.

An intoxicated knock came at her door, sloppy in rhythm.

“Come in,” she said with practiced indifference.

Danial opened the door and lingered there. His shirt was completely unbuttoned, hanging open over the pants he had hurriedly reassembled in his room. He rested a forearm on the door frame, leaning in slightly and blinking hard to restore his seriousness.

“Are you okay?” he asked, eyes narrowing in her direction.

“Yes,” she answered dryly, clearing her throat and holding her pen as if she had been writing something important. “What do you want?”

“I thought I heard you, you sounded like you hurt yourself.”

She paused and took him in, full of the recycled longing she had forced away the second he heard her voice. She ached with it, with the knowledge of what her body wanted—even if her mind knew better.

But she used the denial of her own want to power her, to boost her self-confidence. She clicked her pen, closed her notebook, and sat straight on the bed, tightening the belt of her robe. “I hit my elbow on the nightstand,” she said, looking over at the water bottle and glass perched atop it. “I’m fine.”

“You hit your elbow,” he repeated, looking supremely unsteady on his feet as he followed her gaze over to the nightstand in question.

“Yes. And now I’m going to bed,” she added, standing to turn off the bedside lamps. “Can I help you with anything else?”

He swallowed hard, face slack and dewy from sweat. “I guess not.” He shook his head, turning back into the hallway and roughly closing the door behind him.

The second the door clicked back into its frame, Alex hustled into the bathroom and to the edge of the tub, chest almost painful with eagerness. She roughly turned on the faucet and pulled the gold shower head, with its snake-like cord, from its handle. She tested the temperature with one hand—warm, but not too hot—while the other hand flicked through the water pressure settings. She could feel the clammy desperation in her fingers, the urgent need to approximate what she actually wanted, the knowledge that she didn’t stand a chance of sleeping until she had exorcised the thought of him from her body.