Chapter Ten West #3
We both sit up abruptly and find that straight ahead, floating in deeper water where rocks under the surface aren’t a threat, is Paolo on his boat, carrying all our fellow passengers, who’ve already redressed in cover-ups, clothes, and life vests.
I scramble to my feet while Cammie waves, calling out, “Oh god, yes, sorry!”
Paolo waves back, “It is all right, just lost track of you—but I’ve received word that there is no wait at the Blue Grotto, so we must hurry if we are going to see it.”
Cam accepts the hand I offer and I help her stand. Eyeing the way we climbed up here, I grimace, saying for her ears only, “I don’t love the idea of making that trek with an audience.”
“Time to throw ourselves off the cliff, then,” she answers cheerfully, not an ounce of sarcasm or anything else in her tone to imply she’s joking. When I look at her incredulously, she gestures toward the boat below. “Come on, it isn’t that bad. And it’ll be much faster.”
I peer over the edge of what suddenly feels like a high-dive platform on the moon. “Won’t we hit the rocks down there?”
“Nah, it’s deeper than it looks,” she counters with a confidence I know doesn’t come from real knowledge. “We just have to jump out as far as we can, and we’ll be fine. Here, let’s go together.”
Cammie holds a hand out toward me, and I don’t know what possesses me to take it.
Probably my desperation for any excuse to touch her.
So desperate I will actually risk my one and only life for it, because deep down, some part of me thinks it couldn’t be the worst way to go, if I’m holding her hand.
“Ready…” she says as she steps scary-close to the edge.
“Not in the least,” I answer, belied by my slow approach at her side.
“Steady…”
“I know you can feel me shaking.”
I meet her blue eyes, glimmering under lashes still wet from her laugh-tears.
“Gooo!”
“OhmygodCamillaohmy—”
My stomach lurches when, as one, we leap.
Every part of me is weightless for a beautiful half second while we fall, an adrenaline rush unlike any I’ve experienced in years.
It’s terrifying and exhilarating and I can’t decide if one outweighs the other before I’m plunging into the chilly water.
I pull my knees to my chest as I sink, my descent slowing until I extend my legs and find I’m just close enough to the bottom to give myself a push back up.
That’s when I realize I’m still clutching Cammie’s hand like my life depends on it, now dragging her back up with me.
When we break the surface, I hear the nearby cheers of our boat companions, but I can’t tear my eyes from the girl beside me, catching her breath while giving me the biggest smile I think I’ve ever seen on her face.
She’s as bright and radiant as the sun itself, and makes me wonder how I lived for so long in the shade.
“I feel like I should get a souvenir to remember this day,” Cammie muses as we shop in a touristy kiosk by the marina on Capri. “You know, something other than a name to possibly add to my birth certificate.”
I snort out a laugh. “What’s that saying? Take only photos, leave only memories.”
Cammie sticks out her tongue and blows a raspberry in the air in my direction. “Booooo. Anti-souvenir propaganda.”
I laugh for what feels like the millionth time today and feel another pound of tension lift from my shoulders.
Our conversation earlier unlocked something, like a barrier that’d been blocking us from fully being ourselves in each other’s presence.
The result has been an afternoon full of joking and talking with refreshing ease, both of us gradually finding our footing in this new-yet-old friendship.
We saw a few more grottoes and other gorgeous scenery from the boat before Paolo brought us to the marina for some free time to explore Capri.
Cammie and I had lunch—caprese salads, which neither of us knew were invented here, and a few other small plates shared between us, washed down with glasses of sparkling water that Cammie insisted on drinking to be “like a local,” determined to train herself to enjoy it, even though she still makes a disgusted face after every sip.
We walked around the narrow cobblestone streets filled with luxury shops and fellow tourists, and took in more views of the island and the sea beyond. And, once again, ate gelato.
We’re now killing time until we meet back up with Paolo in a few minutes, and while I don’t typically enjoy cheesy souvenir shops, I do enjoy how much Cammie enjoys them.
“What about this?” she asks, holding up a mug from a spinning rack of monogrammed Capri drinkware.
Fittingly, all the name options are Italian—Giulias and Fabios instead of Emilys and Johns.
The one Cammie holds says “Papa.” Her face is trying and failing to hide her amusement with herself. “Darkly funny, or just dark?”
“Is that the title of your memoir?” I ask in return, and Cammie gives in to the giggles again.
I’m not really paying any attention to the spinner rack I’m slowly scanning, turning it this way and that, too wrapped up in thoughts of the girl I’ve spent the day with and how wonderfully normal it’s felt. Finally.
But suddenly, a woman is at my side, gesturing to a row of necklaces.
“You know the cornicello?” she asks in thickly accented English. All the necklaces in the row she indicates are gold chains, each of them strung with a red pendant in a shape resembling a chili pepper.
“No, I don’t,” I answer, perpetually wishing that I could meet the multilingual skills Europeans seem to have.
“It is an Italian horn, a token of good luck, found in Naples, Capri, and other parts of Campania.”