Chapter 3
Ava
Whatever Tammy gave me is making my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth. I know hangovers worsen with age, but at the cusp of twenty-eight, I was hoping for a few more years before a little excess made me feel like roadkill post-vultures. Perhaps the champagne chasers pushed me over the edge. But really, who knew it could take so long for a pill to kick in?
My driver swerves around a mint-green Vespa as he takes another curve, and I’m definitely going to give this guy zero stars on whatever driving website he crawled out of. He’s doing wonders for my headache—has even tossed me into the glass a few times with nothing but a muttered “me dis-pee-achay” to make up for the offense. The nap I needed is just one window concussion out of reach. An hour late and aggravated driving assault. My fingers itch to text Ethan again. But since he left my “I landed safely” text unread, another attempt would just leave me in the pitiful zone. Well, even further in the pitiful zone.
The truth is, this little “test” is so Ethan. He has this way of rationalizing the stupidest of ideas. When we planned our first hiking trip, he decided to have us dropped on a trail that was marked extreme by all the experienced hikers. One guy had written on the app, “Good luck not dying.” And Ethan had said, “This way we will know if we are meant to be hikers.” Like avoiding death should be the test for all skills in life. I’d twisted my ankle on a root mound about ten minutes up the mountain and he’d had to carry me back to the trailhead Troop Beverly Hills style. Needless to say, that was our last hike.
Why the hell did I go along with that stupid idea?
Because you always go along with Ethan’s ideas.
I bet Ethan will want to have triplets. “Blah blah blah … Multiples will show us that we are really ready to be parents …”
“Che cosa?”
I turn. The driver’s dark brows are pulled upward beneath his wavy hair, as he glances at me expectantly. Where does one get brows like that? Is there microblading in Italy?
Shit. I’ve been talking out loud.
“Oh, nothing, I’m just bitching about my boyfriend …”
The driver presses his full lips together. His nose is slightly crooked, “character crooked” as my mother used to call it. She’d make up an absurd story to explain.
Perhaps he’d busted it in a fight defending an old man from a purse snatcher.
Why was a man carrying a purse, mom?
Don’t be small minded, Ava. Gender bias is so 1980.
What about a poorly timed head-ball in overtime of the World Cup?
She’d want to know which country he’d played for. Italy, obviously. Bronzed skin, thick lashes, dark eyes, lean build—Italian men are nice to look at, and this one is no exception. Terrible driver, but a fine specimen. Maybe I’ll take a selfie with him to make Ethan suffer.
His mouth quirks up on the side and then he meets my gaze for a moment. We might not speak the same language but it’s obvious he just caught me admiring the goods.
“It really is a shame you don’t speak English because then you might be able to tell me what to do about my moronic man. You seem worldly. Like you’ve been with a few—”
His eyes are narrowed on the windshield. Am I really calling hot driver a manslut? This is Ethan’s fault. And Tammy’s for giving me drugs. My thumbs peck away at my phone, my eyes focused on her response to my “landed text,” writing and rewriting the same question over and over. Did you know? She couldn’t have. Oh God, what if she knew? I’m not sure what hurts more—that thought or the break itself. I quickly delete the words on the screen and recommence my babblethon.
“Well, you know what I mean. Italians are well-reputed lovers. So I’m sure you’d find my general tendency toward monogamy tedious and American. Apparently my boyfriend feels the same way. ‘Experience the world,’ he says. ‘Oats to be sown,’ he says.” I let out a ladylike snort and look his way. “Got oats? Maybe, I should make a T-shirt.”
I pull my attention away from his crooked grin and its culminating dimple to the hillside we are currently climbing, preparing myself for the switchbacks that are churning the champagne in my stomach. I go to grip the center console, but my hand lands on his hand on the gear instead as he shifts down. I pull away quickly and he chuckles.
“I know. Prude, puritan Americans. You have very nice hands, though. Very big. Are you driving me to Greece?”
We’ve been driving for well over two hours. Not that I can complain about the scenery. Just endless layers of green sloping up, up, and away into blue skies. I can see why this place produces artists like bunny rabbits.
Here and there the hills act like a pedestal for whatever architectural dream sits atop the bluff. The town we pass now appears to be a breath away from toppling over into the pasture below, soft earth-colored bricks defying gravity—an illustration from a Dr. Seuss book. The sun behind us lights the clinging village with an orange glow, and a shadow city spills across the valley behind the hill. It’s all a bit like a fantasy novel—a land beyond Middle Earth. I can almost understand why my mother made me promise to travel here when my study abroad program became—impossible.
I swallow hard and reach for my purse and dip my hand into the front pocket, fingering the soft, worn edge of Mom’s postcard, then turn my attention back toward hot driver. His obliviousness is a welcome distraction. The whole one-sided convo thing is kind of freeing. Talking to a man who can’t understand a lick of what you’re saying. If I wanted to sow those aforementioned oats, perhaps a language barrier would help. Something about the physicality of that would be extremely liberating. No words. Just bodies.
I’m feeling flushed and this car is absurdly small, so I pull one of his vents back toward me. He doesn’t slap my hand away—just looks—amused?
“Ethan wants me to get it all out of my system—like there’s a stockpile of sexuality somewhere inside of me that I can just sprinkle like seeds all over Urbino. Like I’m an Amazon warehouse just awaiting the right delivery men,” I snort. “Such a man. No thought of the things that matter in bed. Like connection and respect and trust. Not that I’m complaining about Ethan in bed, though it would be nice if he was a little more vocal. And a little more adventurous. But no one is perfect—”
Hot Driver’s jawline tightens as he takes a curve a little too quickly and I’m thrown close enough to smell his deodorant. Slightly spicy with a hint of something soft.
“You smell good. Really good.”
Ugh, am I still drunk? He keeps on driving, his lips pressed tightly together as if he’s focusing hard on the road. With all that focus, you’d think he could drive a bit better. I sigh. Back to my rant.
“The saddest part of it all is that I thought he was going to propose. So stupid, right? Pathetic.”
There’s a sudden heaviness on my shoulders, like gravity has doubled inside the car. There’s nothing but the soft whir of the air spilling from the vents and I shut my eyes. Mom would know what to say. She’d wrap her arms around me. Let me feel sad, then say something brilliant and inspiring—or hilarious. There was always so much laughter.
A warm touch lands on my thigh and I open my eyes to see an impressive, bronzed hand lingering above my knee. I dimly register the fact that the car comes to a stop as I count the calluses against my skin. I pull my gaze upward away from the goose bumps forming on my thigh to find that we are parked halfway up a steep hill—the road we’ve been navigating has turned into nothing but dirt and stone that slips out of sight amid a cluster of bushy cypress trees.
Before I can ask where the hell we are, he whispers, “Siamo qui.”
I nod, even though he makes no sense to me, and study the stubble that runs along his jawline. His eyes are looking right into me. Siamo qui. My lips try out the syllables.
He pulls his hand away slowly from my thigh, nodding, eyes on my mouth.
Then his door is open beside him. The interior is suddenly flooded with sound. A woman’s voice. A dog bark-howling. Footsteps on gravel. The bleating of—goats?
I panic for a moment, suddenly sure my father’s fears have actually come true. I’m the victim of some farming sex-trafficking scheme, but then I remember I confirmed the license plate with the one my advisor had sent me. And unless my abductor is a brilliant hacker, I am not being sex trafficked to a lonely goat farmer.
I look out the front windshield and take in the middle-aged woman in a long earth-colored dress who is clearly scolding Hot Driver. A dog—no no—the Beast from The Sandlot is circling him, his tale whacking against Hot Driver’s thighs as he smiles down at it and scratches its dangling jowls. My head could fit in those jowls. The woman’s gesticulating hands draw my attention back to her—mesmerizing me. She’s the conductor at the Philadelphia Orchestra, but Hot Driver just kneels in the dirt and continues raking the Beast with those impressive hands, ignoring the woman’s symphony over his head.
I open my door slowly and get slammed with a wall of heat and the smell of fresh hay. I open my mouth to assure her she doesn’t need to yell at the driver—that I’ve taken care of that, but before I can make a sound, the angry Italian woman folds Hot Driver into her arms and then pulls away, mussing his hair with a deep laugh.
“I was worried, nipote! You are two hours late. Didn’t Massimo buy me this dumb thing for a reason?” She holds up an old phone and pretends to toss it over her shoulder, then kisses his cheeks before turning her attention to me at the same time the Beast does.
I’m repeating her words in my head, making sense of them like they were said in a foreign language. But they weren’t. My mind is muddy. The heat. The driver. The driver. All adding layers of muck to the swamp, but I know she’s speaking perfect English—heavily accented, yes—but perfect nonetheless. She smiles at me just as the dog rams its wet nose up the back of my shorts. I try to push him away, but he just keeps burrowing between my cheeks, sniffing and snuffling loudly enough for all to hear. He’s a horse. I spin, palm over rear, opting for agility over strength.
The driver whistles and the Beast retreats, satisfied with its knowledge of my ass, tongue happily lolling out of its massive jaws. Then the woman approaches with a single brow raised, slow steady steps on the dusty gravel drive. Her palms are out as if to say don’t run. I’m still covering my butt with one hand. Another goat bleats and I rub my temple with the free hand.
“You must be Ava. I am Nina,” she says, her smile stretching wider. Her hands land on my shoulders and I can see she has the same Italian eyes as Hot Driver—dark and knowing—but hers have fine lines that deepen as she smiles.
“What did you do to her, nipote?” She narrows those eyes at me as she kisses each of my cheeks. “You look a little—what’s the word, James? Che è la parola? Piqued, no?”
I swivel slowly toward Hot Driv—James? Weird Italian name. He shrugs, one side of his mouth twitching as he lifts his brows at me.
“There are quite a few words I could think of to describe her,” he says with a lazy smile.
My blood rushes to my face as he takes his time looking me over before continuing in eloquent, unaccented English, “But piqued works well enough, Zia.”