TWENTY-SEVEN
Luca
The moment I offered to take Charlie on a local tour of Positano, something stirred deep inside me—an urge to show her my world, to share everything that made this place feel like home. I wanted to give her more than just the tourist highlights. I wanted to make her see what I loved about it, to feel the same pull I had for this beautiful, chaotic, timeless place.
We started at the top, overlooking the cliffside village, the pastel buildings clinging to the mountainside like a painting. The view stretched out to the deep blue of the Mediterranean, the sun casting a golden glow across the water. I could feel the heat of the day on my skin, but the sea breeze carried a freshness that helped it feel like we were standing in the middle of a dream. I could tell she was enchanted.
“How do you get used to this?”
she asked, her voice full of awe as she took in the scenery.
I shrugged, unable to explain how it felt like part of me. “You don’t. Not ever.”
I noticed the way she tilted her head, studying the landscape with an intensity I liked. I had to fight the urge to reach out and touch her then, to brush the stray lock of hair that had fallen across her face. But I kept my hands at my sides, wondering if she felt the same pull I did.
We wandered down the narrow, winding streets, the cobblestones underfoot polished smooth by centuries of footsteps. The scent of saltwater mixed with fresh pasta and grilled seafood wafted from the tiny trattorias tucked between shops. I heard the buzz of voices, the laughter of tourists, and the chime of distant church bells. Every corner of Positano had its own melody.
We stopped for a quick lunch at a little café with tables spilling out into the street, shaded by an awning of flowering bougainvillea. I ordered us some local bruschetta with tomatoes that tasted as though they’d just been plucked from the garden, drizzled with rich olive oil. The tomatoes were sweet and tangy, and I noticed Charlie’s eyes close for a brief moment as she savored the taste.
“It’s so good,”
she said, taking another bite. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and I found myself smiling more than I had all week.
I was intrigued. “Everything here is good.”
“I understand why I’m single, but why are you,”
I abruptly asked.
Charlie laughed at my hasty question, but didn’t miss a beat. I liked this about her—she was easy to talk to about everything.
“I’m happy. If I meet someone that disrupted my happiness and made my life better, maybe! I’m not currently looking. My life is full and I’m not giving up those things for someone. Single life might be my new normal,”
she stated as factual.
I felt similarly. There wasn’t a place in my current life pace for anything serious.
“Lena has set me up on a few dates. They have pretty much solidified that single life is the better option at this point,”
she explained. “Want to hear about one of these winners?”
“Of course.”
I leaned in, entertained.
“I’m confident that dating is not one of my strengths—so, I walked into this dimly lit, very chic New York restaurant, and I spotted him right away. Tall, salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in a fitted suits—like, he looked the part. I could speculate the type of art he bought. Modern. Black and white. No color.”
She raised an eyebrow and took a sip of wine. “I thought, okay, maybe this won’t be so bad.”
“Let me guess—things didn’t go well?”
I inquired.
“Absolutely, not! We started chatting, and at first, it’s fine. But then he launched into this whole story about his ‘spiritual awakening’ on some meditation retreat in Costa Rica. I nodded along, sipped my wine, tried to be polite. But then he told me how he starts every morning chanting under the stars—oh no, not the night sky kind of stars, but the glow-in-the-dark stars plastered all over his apartment ceiling. The same ones I had when I was nine! I can’t even make this shit up.”
My eyes widened and I let out a real laugh. “No…”
“I know!”
she shook because she started laughing at herself. “And he asks me, ‘What do you do to stay centered?’ So, I’m like, ‘Uh, I run a business and maybe do yoga sometimes?’ And he’s all serious, like I just said something profound. ‘You should try chanting,’ he tells me. ‘Really open up your chakras, get real guttural.’ I’m sitting there thinking, how did Lena miss this? Is she fucking with me? She knows I hate all that woo woo stuff and the smell of patchouli. Suddenly, I realize my art curation speculation is wrong. Completely. I can no longer proceed with a hundred percent accuracy in my bitchy judging of people’s art selections. This guy, he’s totally buying hippy dippy art labeled ‘breath’ or ‘soul journey’ or some bullshit. It’s fine that people love that, I love that for them, but not fine for dating me.”
“I love this experience for you,” I mocked.
“Thank you for that,”
she glared at me. “Oh, it gets worse. So, just when I’m thinking it can’t get any more awkward, he pulls out his phone and says, ‘I brought something I think you’d really appreciate.’ And I’m like, you know nothing about me and what I like but okay, what now?”
“What did he show you? Do I want to know? This feels like a trap.”
“A video,”
she paused for dramatic effect, “of himself chanting. In the woods. Shirtless. And this is seven minutes into the date! I’m sitting there, blinking—thinking, am I an asshole if I just walk out? Or fake an emergency call? Do I hate Lena now? Is our lifelong friendship coming to end on this day?”
I can’t help but laugh at her. “No way!”
“I will never get those minutes back,”
she emphasized, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes. “He’s beaming, telling me I should join him next time. ‘It’s life-changing,’ he says. I’m half tempted to text Lena under the table for a rescue mission, but no, I tough it out. I’m a grown woman; I can handle it.”
“Impressive.”
I raised my glass to celebrate her. “You lasted that long.”
“Barely.”
Our glasses clanked as we cheered.
Charlie continued, “By the time dessert comes, he’s leaning in, asking how I feel about essential oils. I’m mentally checked out at this point, so I tell him, ‘I think they smell nice.’ He doesn’t catch the sarcasm at all. He starts going on about some special blend he has for balancing energies.”
“I feel like this was a love match. You missed the opportunity.”
She feigned outrage at my jab.
“I rather be single, alone and sad for the rest of my life. I made up some excuse about an early start, and he looked disappointed but tried to recover. ‘Let’s do this again,’ he says. And I’m like, ‘Yeah, sure.’”
She mimics an eye roll. “But I’m never doing that again. Not ever.”
I asked, “So, no naked yoga in the woods for you?”
“Not with that guy—absolutely not!”
She crossed her arms in a mock refusal to let the conversation continue.
After lunch, we explored the town more, popping into shops selling handmade ceramics and local linens. At one point, I reached out, brushing her hand with mine as we walked side by side through a particularly crowded alley. She looked up at me, startled for a second, and then her lips curled into that smile—the one I couldn’t stop thinking about. It was like an invitation to come closer, and I nearly lost myself in it.
“Tomorrow might be a day I spend at the beach enjoying the sunshine,”
she suggested closing her eyes and soaking it all in.
We headed to a small, local olive grown owned by the family of a close childhood friend. I knew Charlie would love this kind of outing.
I nudged her as we started walking down a rustic stone path, “What do you know about olive oil?”
She grinned, “Enough to know that not all of it’s good. What? Are you going to educate me?”
“Something like that. My friend Davide’s family has been making olive oil for generations. They’re sorting olives today—nothing glamorous, but they’d be happy for an extra set of hands. Also, it end with snacks.”
At the grove, we worked side by side, laughing as we sorted olives into baskets. We listened to stories about my mischievous youth—thanks to Davide’s family. We ended the afternoon all sitting at a long, wooden table under the trees, enjoying local cheese, ripe figs, olives and a glass of local wine. Charlie caught me staring at her while she talked to Davide’s family. She blushed and I loved that I made it happen. It was enjoyable watching a woman beautifully thread herself into other people’s lives with such ease. I couldn’t imagine a person who wouldn’t adore her.
It was time for us to go, so we said our good-byes. As we walked back into town, I pointed, “You see those trees? Some of them are older than my great-grandfather. Davide swears the older the tree, the better then oil. It’s like wine—the age gives it character.”
I watched as Charlie ran her hand along a low-hanging branch. She teased, “So what you’re saying is, the trees here probably have more stories than even you?”
She knew my game already. I was in trouble. “Oh, absolutely. But I’m more entertaining.”
She rolled her eyes, “We’ll see about that.”
With confidence, I insinuated, “I know my strengths.”
I left that to linger between us knowing it would make her think about all the dirty things I did to her.
Her cheeks flushed, but she met my eyes with sincerity, “Luca, thanks for today.”
“Prego,” I said.
I gestured toward the cascading pastel buildings as we weave through the narrow streets monologuing the history from some hidden memory bank. “See that balcony up there? That’s where the best limoncello in Positano is made. Family recipe, but I’ll warn you—it’s strong enough to make you forget your own name.”
Charlie took a moment to snap some pictures with her phone. “Good to know. I’ll make sure you’re around to remind me who I am after.”
I chuckled, stepping aside to let her take in the view of the sparkling coast. “That’s the beauty of this place. Even if you forget everything, you’ll always remember how it made you feel.”
Charlie whispered, more to herself, but I heard her. “It’s impossible not to fall in love with it.”
With those words, I glanced over at her. “Positano has that effect. But don’t get too lost in it—we’ve got a date with my mamma. She doesn’t take kindly to late arrivals.”
“I am never late,”
she offered. “Will you stay and join us?”
“Yes, I have strong reservations leaving you alone with my mama,”
I said, shooting Charlie a mock-serious look as we wound our way up the hill toward my childhood home. “She’s probably already enjoyed a glass of wine, and she has three very single sons. That isn’t a safe place to leave you alone, no matter how sweet she may be.”
Charlie smirked, her eyes glinting in the golden light of the setting sun. “Sounds like you’re worried I’ll pick a favorite.”
“I am,”
I admitted, only half-joking.
When we reached the house, there she was, exactly as I’d predicted—my mother stood in the open doorway, a glass of red wine in her hand and an apron tied around her waist. The scent of garlic and roasting meat floated out to meet us, warm and inviting.
“Luca! Charlie!”
she called out, her voice ringing with the kind of joy that made everyone feel like family. She pulled me into a tight hug first, then turned to Charlie with the same enthusiasm. “You must be starving. Come, come. You’re just in time,” my mother announced, setting down her wineglass and grabbing Charlie’s hands. “We’re making fettuccine tonight, cara mia. Do you know how to make pasta?”
“A little,”
Charlie said, glancing at me with a small, nervous smile.
“Oh, don’t worry, Luca will help,”
my mother said, waving her hand dismissively as if I had any choice in the matter.
Charlie looked at me, clearly amused. “Do you even know how to make pasta?”
I scoffed, pulling off my jacket. “What kind of Italian do you think I am?”
We gathered around the counter, my mother diving into a rapid-fire explanation of technique as she sprinkled flour onto the workspace. Charlie’s eyes lit up as she followed along, rolling up her sleeves and getting her hands into the dough. I couldn’t help but watch the way her fingers worked the mixture, her focus shifting between my mother’s instructions and her own growing confidence.
“Not bad,”
I said, leaning closer to inspect her progress. “You might have a future in this.”
She smirked, rolling out the dough with more determination. “I thought you were supposed to be helping.”
“I am,”
I said, grabbing a handful of flour and dusting it over her work. “Moral support.”
It was just fun, I told myself. This was what we were good at—banter, shared moments, keeping things light. And I liked it that way. Relationships weren’t something I did. They were messy and full of expectations I wasn’t ready to meet.
But damn, if Charlie didn’t make it hard to stick to that.
By the time the pasta was cooked and plated, the room was filled with the kind of warmth you couldn’t manufacture—laughter, wine, the clink of plates and forks. My mother kept the conversation alive, her eyes darting between Charlie and me with barely veiled curiosity.
“So,”
my mother said eventually, her gaze landing squarely on Charlie. “What’s a woman like you doing spending so much time with this one?”
Charlie’s cheeks flushed, and she laughed softly. “What do you mean, ‘this one’? He’s been a perfect gentleman.”
My mother raised a skeptical brow, her expression full of mischief. “Is that so? Luca, are you being good, or is this all part of your charm?”
“She knows Italian,”
I reminded her, leaning back in my chair.
“Of course she does,”
my mother said with a wave of her hand, switching languages seamlessly. “And don’t think I don’t see how you look at her.”
The comment made Charlie glance at me, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. I quickly turned my attention to my wine, the weight of my mother’s words pressing against the easy dynamic I’d tried to maintain.
We weren’t looking at each other like that. Were we?
But my mother, of course, didn’t let up. “Luca, this isn’t business, is it?”
I shrugged, forcing a grin. “She’s a friend. We’re just having fun.”
Charlie’s smile faltered for just a second—so brief I almost missed it—but she recovered quickly, leaning forward with a playful glint in her eye. “Fun is good,”
she said lightly, reaching for her wineglass.
My mother had endless questions for Charlie. Impressively, she didn’t stumble once or even seem to mind the deep interrogation.
“Where did you learn Italian,”
she asked Charlie.
“My grandpa was from Trieste,”
she answered.
“You’re nonno was Italian,”
she acted like it was an unbelievable statement.
“Yes. My grandma—she was French. They lived in France most of their marriage, but every summer growing up, my mother’s family came down to Italy for holiday. We did the same until we moved to the United States,”
she easily kept pace with my mama—that was a difficult thing to do.
My mama mumbled something about how this was meant to be, especially since Charlie came from an Italian bloodline. Honestly, this woman watched for any sign leading to the marriage of her children.
The conversation shifted, but the undercurrent of tension remained. Maybe it was just my own tension trying to steer this night into business territory while at my family home. I kept watching her—how easily she fit into this world, how her laugh felt like it belonged here, how she held her own with my mother. It made me feel things I didn’t want to feel, things I wasn’t ready for.
By the end of the night, as we stood in the kitchen cleaning up, I couldn’t help but feel the pull again. Charlie turned to me, her face still glowing from the wine and the evening. “Your mom’s incredible,”
she said, her voice soft.
“She is,”
I agreed, leaning against the counter.
Charlie met my gaze, holding it for just a second longer than usual. “I can see where you get it from.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Don’t let her hear you say that. She’ll never let me live it down.”
She smiled, but the air between us felt heavier now, like something unsaid lingered just below the surface.
Fun. That was all this was supposed to be. And yet, as she turned back to wipe down the counter, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was lying to myself.
“I promised mama I would stay the night, but let me walk you back to your hotel,”
I insisted.
“Don’t worry about it. Stay with her—it’s obvious how much she misses you,”
she shocked me. “I’ll be fine, Luca.”
“Lunch tomorrow,”
I suggested as we walked to the front door. The farewell with my mama took fifteen minutes longer than needed.
“Yes, please,”
Charlie agreed, inhaling the crisp night air. The city was vibrant below, but the night still twinkled bright like nothing else existed. Nothing else matter except this moment.
“Charlie,”
I said but wasn’t sure if it was in my mind or out loud.
“Luca,”
she copied me. It made me smile. For the first time in maybe forever, I didn’t know what came next with a woman. I had ideas, plenty of them.
“Good night, Luca. I’ll see you tomorrow,”
she said, starting her walk down the hill.