I couldn’t help but glance up quickly at that mole on his brow. I wondered if he’d noticed mine, too. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he thought it was just a feature of my face, while I thought it was the key to half of who I was.
Giulio grinned, waved, and took off downstairs, and I felt myself start to tremble as I shut the door and leaned against it. I’d been in Sorrento a week, and every day I kept coming up with differentscenarios in which I’d confess to Giulio that I’d come there looking for him. These dialogues would come to life in my mind, but in the real world, I couldn’t do it. I fell silent whenever I saw him. The fear—the possibilities—paralyzed me.
I opened the door back up and looked at the bike again. It was cute, even if the pink helmet was awful. Who cared, though? I sure as hell didn’t.
I felt so free, pedaling around and soaking in the landscape. I still couldn’t get over the views. Sheer cliffs dropped straight into the clear blue waters of the Mediterranean, a sea I had seen but felt as though I’d never really known. From up high, I could look down on the tiny idyllic beaches bordered by rocks, the houses on the hillsides, the orange and lemon trees in terraced fields like balconies overlooking the bay. All of it bathed in a blinding light that made the colors almost burn my eyes.
I turned off the main road and took a small street into town.
July had brought mobs of tourists in, and it was hardly possible to walk in some places. The parks and squares were full of people waiting to pounce on a patio table or step into the shadows to get a break from the heat.
I walked my bike through there and looked at the stalls selling clothing and shoes on a street parallel to Via San Cesareo, which, with Corso Italia, formed the backbone of Sorrento and housed many of its stores.
I found a small shoe shop that sold gorgeous sandals. I saw a red pair, flat, with little crystals on the straps. I felt something strange as I looked at them and then down at my own ugly feet in their socks and sneakers. I’d had a complex about them for as long as I could remember.
But I told myself to stop letting it get to me, and I bought them and a pair of flip-flops, too. At another stand, I got some bikinis and other stuff to wear to the beach. Finally, I stopped in at a funky shop to buy a couple of dresses marked down from the season before and a flouncy lace skirt and matching top.
I hung my bags on the handlebars and checked the time. I was thinking of grabbing a bite to eat, but then I heard someone shouting my name and found Monica waving at me. I waved back and said, “Hey!”
As she reached me, she responded, “I wasn’t sure that it was you.”
She stopped and rested her hands on her hips, and I noticed her belly was popping out. I hadn’t realized during the barbecue that she was so far along. She was huffing and puffing and evidently fatigued, and I felt a little worried for her.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s just the heat and all the extra pounds.”
“How far along are you?”
“Six months, if you believe it, but I’m going to have twins. That’s why I look like a balloon.”
I chuckled, then covered my mouth and said, “Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh.”
“Relax, I would too if I it didn’t make me piss myself. What are you doing around here?”
“A little shopping. What about you?”
“My flower shop is down that way,” she said. “I just closed for midday. Have you eaten?”
“No. I was just about to look for someplace.”
“Forget that,” she replied. “You’re coming to my in-laws’ with me. When Tiziano has to go to work in Naples, I always eat lunch with them.”
“I don’t want to be a bother, though.”
She took my arm. “They’ll be overjoyed to have you. You’ll see.”
Monica’s in-laws instantly made me feel like part of the family. They were kind, gentle, a little saucy. I was stuffed to the gills, but I didn’t complain. Everything was delicious. For the first time, I had a pasta frittata and a gateau di pattate. For dessert, we had sfogliatella, a dessert of layered puff pastry filled with cream.
They had just poured the coffee when Monica got a call from a deliveryman waiting in front of her shop. After saying goodbye to her in-laws and promising to visit again soon, I accompanied her back to work.
“I told them last week over the phone that I was only opening in the morning and that the deliveryman had to come early,” she told me, getting angry.
When we arrived, the deliveryman looked irritable from waiting. But Monica didn’t bend. They argued briefly—I could hardly understand a word of what they were saying—and he opened his van and took out several plastic buckets full of flowers, carrying them inside and apologizing.
“Don’t leave your bike outside,” Monica told me once they were done.
“Are you sure?”
