“Yeah, like a little bit of a dick, but also cool.”
He laughed and turned back around, walking so close beside methat our arms, which were wrapped around shopping bags, started to graze each other.
“You struck out,” he responded. “I studied law and business administration with a certificate in enology. And after that, I started working in the family business.”
“What’s the family business?”
“Wine. My family has a winery in La Rioja. They also export fancy olive oil, and I think they just opened a hotel in the countryside in Huelva. One of those high-end getaways.”
ThatI thinkstruck me as odd, and I could tell there was more to the story. It was hard to imagine him sniffing a wineglass or sitting in an office keeping the books, calculating revenue vs. profit, and that kind of thing. It just wasn’t him.
“What did you really want to do, though?”
That question made the air seem to thicken around us, and he turned tense, as if I’d overstepped a line.
“Why did you ask me that?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“No,” he interrupted me. “I’m serious, why?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Maybe I just liked the version of you I made up more than the real one. Wine snob… I don’t know, it just doesn’t suit you.”
I saw a mix of emotions on his face as he looked away and kept walking. Something had happened, but I didn’t understand what, and I wasn’t sure whether things were OK with us or whether he was mad at me. We crossed the square and made our way to another street full of shops with their wares on display outside, stepping into a doorway to let a man with a baby carriage pass.
“Same,” Lucas finally said in a soft tone.
“Same what?”
He grinned, and that allowed me to recover a bit of myself-confidence as he continued, “I prefer your version, too. I don’t even like the taste of wine. I mean, I hate it, actually. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d had other options. I didn’t, so I never thought about it.”
His vulnerability just then made me curious. His story and mine had a lot in common, and I wanted to know more.
“So what now?” I asked him.
“I don’t know. I haven’t found what I’m looking for. So I’m just living for today until I do.”
“You really don’t know what you want?”
“Is there something wrong with that?” he responded.
“I don’t know. Youaretwenty-seven.”
He laughed, and that gave me a jolt of adrenaline.
“Sorry, is there a maximum age on that? If I reach thirty without knowing, will someone force me to go live on a desert island with the other failures?”
“Of course not,” I responded, blushing and feeling a little stupid. I was judging him, and of all people in the world, I was the person who had the least right to.
We walked back to the main road, and after seeming to meditate, Lucas said, “The thing is this, Maya: I don’t know what I want to do with my life, but I’m also not worried about it because right now, this is perfect. Plus, I do know what I don’t want to do.”
“And that is…?”
“I don’t want to be the person I was before I ended up here. And if I can stick to that, I’ll be satisfied.”
I remembered what he’d told me that morning:Pay attention to someone who came here for similar reasons.He thought I’d come to Sorrento fleeing the disaster in my life, looking for space, looking to forget. What was he running from, then? And what was he looking for? And had someone told him to just let things be, too?
“What would you have done if you weren’t a ballerina?” he asked me.
