“So? You saw me kissing Dario in the pool,” Charlie says.
Beau appears as if he doesn’t remember that. “Right, yeah. That’s true…”
Charlie gets the impression that whatever Beau saw transpire between Dario and Selina was hotter and more substantial.
Charlie sighs. A touch of him wonders how the five of them were selected from what must have been hundreds of thousands of applications. They are an odd, disjointed bunch.
“I just don’t want to waste anybody’s time. Not Dario’s and not my own,” Beau says.
“Sure, but don’t you think you should still stick around until you can give this to Dario yourself?” Charlie asks, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. What if Dario really liked Beau?
“Yeah, uh,” Beau says, swiping a hand at the back of his neck. “The band is already outside in their van waiting for me. I timed this so if things got awkward, I could leave quick.” Beau’s phone beeps in his bag. “That’s them. Can you just give that to Dario for me and tell the others I said bye?”
“For sure,” Charlie says before biting the inside of his cheek. “Have fun.”
The air has cooled significantly by the time Charlie ventures outside after Beau’s departure. A light steam billows off the heated pool. Charlie rests on a cushioned chair beneath the striped awning that drapes down from the villa. He faces the distant shadow of the lake with Beau’s note shaking in his hands while he waits for Dario to come back.
At the first squeak of the side gate, Charlie bolts up. Angelo, off-leash, comes bounding toward him, letting out several small barks.
“Angelo, cosa fai?” Dario asks from around the corner. He appears right as Angelo flops onto his back, exposing his belly for Charlie to pet. “Oh, ciao, Charlie. Were you waiting for me?”
“Sort of,” Charlie says, standing again. “I’m here to give you this.”
Dario accepts the paper. “Did I drop this? Is this one of my grandfather’s letters?” he asks in a rush.
“What? No, this is from Beau,” Charlie says, trying to soften his words in hope it might cushion the blow.
“More song lyrics?” Dario asks. “He’s been slipping them under my door. They’re very sweet, but if I don’t get to them before Angelo, they end up slobbered upon, torn up and unreadable.”
Charlie gives a small, pained smile. “I don’t think this is a song.”
Dario’s brow furrows. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m not sure I do either, but Beau left a little while ago,” Charlie says.
“It’s late. When will he be back?” Dario asks.
“Uh, never?” Charlie says, then cringes realizing how indelicate that sounded.
Dario stops unfolding the paper, clearly embarrassed now. Charlie really wishes he hadn’t been put in this position. He hates the weighted frown on Dario’s face. “I see,” Dario says.
Now Charlie understands why Beau wanted to make such a quick getaway. The awkwardness of this encounter is torture, and he’s not even the one rejecting Dario. “How do you say ‘I’m sorry’ in Italian?” Charlie asks.
“Mi dispiace.”
“Mi dispiace,” Charlie echoes.
“Right on the first try,” Dario says, a soft encouragement.
“It was bound to happen eventually,” Charlie says with a slight laugh, then holds up his hands. “I meant about me saying Italian words correctly, not Beau—”
Dario shakes his head. “I understood you, Charlie. You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
Charlie shoves his hands in his pockets. “Buona notte.”
“Two for two,” Dario says with a weakish smile.
“I’m going to quit while I’m ahead,” Charlie says, turning back to the villa.
