“Do you know how to ride one?” he asks.
“I never even learned how to ride a bicycle.”
“Really?”
"My mother didn't think it was important," I say. "My sisters and I were homeschooled, so we didn't have a reason to go anywhere outside the compound."
"The compound?" he asks.
"My house," I say.Although it felt more like a prison than a home.
There's a pang of sorrow when I think about my sisters. As long as my mother is out there, she'll move heaven and earth to make our lives miserable.
I stare at the bright jewel blue of the ocean until it's imprinted on my retina.
"There was a family that lived across the street from us," I say. "They had two girls who were around the same age as me. Both of them had pink bicycles with wicker baskets. I used to think they were the luckiest girls in the world."
"Are you close to your sisters?" he asks.
"I love them," I say. "But they're different from me."
"How so?" he asks.
There's a knot in my stomach now. There always is whenever I compare myself to my sisters. Both of them are effortlessly beautiful. And unlike me, they're also strong and courageous.
"In every way that counts," I say.
"I’m guessing your mother liked to pit you against your sisters?"
"It was one of the ways she used to control us, yes."
That's just the tip of the iceberg.
Every single day, I had to hear about how beautiful my sisters were compared to me. A part of me wanted to resent my sisters for it, but I knew it wasn't their fault. I also knew that my mother was trying to divide us because she couldn't stand how close the three of us were.
"She sounds like a bitch," he says.
A laugh bubbles from my throat.
"Sheisa bitch."
"Fuck her."
"Fuck her," I repeat.
It feels scandalous to say that out loud, but it's also so liberating.
We stop in front of a restaurant that's tucked into a narrow, cobbled lane. The aroma of rosemary and freshly baked bread drifts to me, mingling with the salty spray of the ocean.
I step off the Vespa. Dante helps me with the helmet clasp like I'm a toddler. My cheeks burn with embarrassment, but he pretends not to notice.
With his hand over the small of my back, he guides me inside. The staff greet him with cheery smiles as soon as they see him.
I glance around the restaurant. It appears to be a small, family-owned business. There are black-and-white photographs of the owner's large family on the walls. There are also only about seven tables in total—three of which have magnificent views of the ocean.
"It's gorgeous," I say, marveling at the view.
"It's Praiano's hidden gem," he says. "Only the locals know about this spot."
