I nod. “Maybe.”
Adam considers this. “What’s he like?”
“Who?”
“Your husband.”
“Oh,” I say. “We’ve been together since college. He’s, I don’t know, he’s Eric.”
Adam inhales. “You know what I think your problem is?”
I clear my throat. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or pissed off. “Seriously?”
He looks at me likeCome on.
“Fair, fine. What’s my problem?”
“You don’t feel like you have any agency over your life.”
“You’ve known me for two hours.”
“We had breakfast, lest you forget. And you were late to dinner. Let’s call it thirteen.”
I wave him on.
“You act like you don’t know how you got here, like you just woke up and looked around and thought,Huh—but I have news for you. Even inaction is a choice.”
I just sit there, staring at him. It’s a strange thing, to have a stranger tell you off and then be right.
“Is that all?”
“Yeah, you’re cute, too.”
I feel that blush again. My toes tingle. “That’s a problem?”
He leans forward. So close I can smell the sweet berries and espresso on his breath. “For me? Definitely.”
Chapter Eleven
I wake up early again. The sun is just barely cresting the horizon; it’s not even 6 a.m. I take some tea out onto the patio, overlooking the sea, the whole town bathed in that same hazy blue light.
I parted ways with Adam at the elevator last night. He’s on floor two—a suite, he said, with a great view. I laughed. Everywhere has a great view in this place.
Right now, this morning, all I can think about is her. I’m anxious to see her tonight, anxious to know if she’ll show up, anxious to discover whether yesterday was all a lucid dream, just a little too real around the edges. I feel the caffeine hit my system, but instead of making me jittery, it seems to make me more alert, like I’ve just put on glasses. And I know, in the way only certainty can present, that it really was her, that she’s here. That somehow I have stumbled into some kind of magic reality where we get to be together. That time here does not only move slower but in fact doubles back on itself.
It doesn’t even seem that unbelievable. The crazier thing, the far more baffling, is that she is gone.
I go back inside and set my mug down. I go to pull some ChapStick out of my carry-on when I see our original itinerary for the trip, the one I stuffed down in the bag just a day ago. I take the crinkled paper out. There are restaurants on there—Chez Black, of course, the lemon tree restaurant in Capri. And then written on this morning’s agenda ishike up to the path of the gods.
I remember my mom telling me about this. How when she was here she’d take the steps all the way up to the top of Positano, to where there is a path that links Bomerano and Nocelle, the towns above.
I pull out my tennis shoes, a pair of shorts, and a sports bra. I’ve never been super athletic, but I’ve always enjoyed exercise. I started playing soccer in elementary school and didn’t stop until junior year of high school, when I tore my meniscus. In college I discovered swimming, and when we lived in New York, bike rides along the Hudson kept me sane. For the most part these days, I go to the gym or the Pure Barre studio around the corner from our house.
I grab my baseball hat, douse myself in sunscreen, and slip downstairs.
It’s just Marco at the desk this morning, looking perky for such an early hour.
“Buongiorno!” he tells me.
