“Good, right?”
Adam grins at me as he watches me eat.
“Certifiable.”
From there we hit up another favorite of Adam’s—a small shop that is no more than a window stand about ten minutes walking from Oliva. Unlike the last place, this one is all traditional. We get a classic Margherita pizza, and then Adam motions for me to follow him down to the sidewalk. He takes a few paper napkins and lays them out, gesturing for me to sit. I do.
In the street there is pleasant commotion. A few teenage boys talk in fast Italian, kicking a soccer ball back and forth.Two women in their forties linger in front of an apartment entryway, gesturing with their hands. Bikers pass by. It’s peaceful, a word that, a few short hours ago, I’d never think I’d use to describe Naples. The day has ebbed.
“What do you think?” Adam asks me.
I take a big bite. Absurdly good. “Oh,” I say. “Heaven. How many more of these do we have?”
Adam shakes his head. “No, I mean about Naples. Are you glad we came?”
I look over at him. He’s folded a slice in half and eats from the bottom. Some grease drips onto the sidewalk below us.
I see us as if I am above us. I see a man and a woman, out on a pizza crawl, on vacation in Italy. Honeymooners, maybe. Two people celebrating the middle of their relationship. You’d never know we were practically strangers.
How much of my life has been open, really? How much has ever lent itself to its own natural development?
I feel a sensation that is wholly unfamiliar begin to awaken down deep. It rustles, stirs, stretches, and then sits up here, right next to us.
I set my slice of pizza down. I wipe my fingertips, and then I reach over and take Adam’s hand. His fingers are smooth and long—like each one is its own body, has its own organs, its own beating heart. A map of everything.
I squeeze once, as if in answer.Yes.
Chapter Twenty-Two
When we pull back into Positano, it’s after six o’clock. Adam opens my door and offers his hand out of the car.
“Thank you,” I say. “That was a really great day. The best I’ve had in a while.”
“I’m glad you liked it,” he says. “I haven’t been in too long. Thank you for agreeing to come.”
A moment hovers between us. The air feels thick with it. Possibility. Heat. The impending night.
“You’re welcome.”
“I have to run a quick errand,” Adam says. “But I’ll call your room when I’m back?”
I nod. “I might wander a bit.”
Adam leans in close and in one swift movement kisses my cheek. “You’re really special,” he says. And then he leaves.
I walk back up to my room. I strip down and get in the shower. The hot water feels good on my salty, sweaty skin, and as I scrub I feel more and more refreshed. I step out, naked, and survey my body in the mirror. It feels like forever since I’ve looked at myself like this. I can’t remember the last time.
My tan lines are visible, more pronounced than they’ve been since the summer I spent at Camp Ramah freshman year of high school. I’m bronzed and freckled, and my face looks just a little bit pink.
I towel off my hair and apply some moisturizer to my body. The room is now steamed up, and I go to the balcony doors and throw them open, inviting in the evening sunlight. Then I go and stand in front of my closet. Hanging there are the sundresses and tops I brought—bright colors, patterns, prints. I take out a long silk dress that’s looped around the last hanger.
It’s white with a spaghetti-strap top. I pull it on. It skims my body and pools at the bottom. A faint embroidery dances down the left side. It’s yellowed at the hem and frayed under the armpits. It fits perfectly. It was my mother’s.
I slip on a pair of canvas-and-gold espadrilles and head downstairs. When I reach the lobby, I see Marco beginning to set up dinner service.
“Bellissima!” he calls to me.
I smile. “Thank you.” I glance around the empty restaurant. “Is Nika here?”
