“I thought we were not going to make this awkward. Italy and all.”
Adam pauses. “Am I making this awkward?”
I look up at him. His face is relaxed, his body casual. “No?” I admit.
“No. So, last night.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that.”
“Which part?”
“I don’t know. Kissing you? I shouldn’t have done that.”
He nods. “I guess it occurred to me that I didn’t ask you what you want.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’ve told me you’re married and that you’re maybe separating and that you’re heartbroken, because you’ve lost your mother.”
He says the last part delicately, tenderly, and I wince.
“I guess I just thought I should ask what you want. Whether you want your marriage to work out, rather. Whether you want to go home to him.”
This wasn’t what I expected him to say. I expected him to apologize for kissing me, maybe. Or to accuse me of bailing. Now I don’t know how to answer.
“Because, the thing is, yeah, we’re in Italy. Shit happens, like I said. This isn’t about me. I don’t even know you, and you don’t know me.”
“Right.” I feel a pang of something. Disappointment, maybe. Interesting.
“But you could,” he says.
“I could know you.”
He nods. “You could.”
I take an unsteady breath. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, I think you do.” Adam’s gaze sits heavy on mine. “LikeI said, it’s not about me. But it would be a shame if you kept doing something only because you’ve done it before.”
I think about the routine of my life back home. The coffeepot, the mail, the market. The same four shows on the DVR.
What got you here won’t get you there.
“What are you doing tonight?” I ask Adam.
“Having dinner with you,” he says.
Chapter Eighteen
Adam and I meet in the lobby at seven-thirty. It’s still sunny out, but a bit cooler than the day. I chose a long Poupette silk slip dress in bright blue with an off-the-shoulder top. I put on a chunky rose quartz and topaz necklace, no earrings, then sweep my hair up into a topknot. Gold sandals and my Clare V. clutch—one of my mother’s favorite local LA brands.
“You look beautiful,” Adam says when he sees me.
He’s wearing a white linen shirt, khaki shorts, and a beaded mala necklace.
“You too,” I say. “I mean, you look nice.”
“Hey,” he tells me. “I’ll take beautiful. Nothing wrong with beautiful.”
