She nods and kisses me one more time. “See you.”
“I love you,” I tell her.
“I love you more,” she replies.
“I love you most,” Zale chimes in, blowing a kiss at us with his eyes squeezed shut.
I roll mine. “Time to get this child home.”
“I’m not a child!” he shouts as I start the engine.
Zalea’s laugh follows as I pull away.
“Drive safe,” she calls out.
“I will!” I promise.
Hours later,we’re back at the apartment and Zale is sprawled across the couch, scrolling through photos from the bonfire.
“I’m telling you,” he says, grinning at his phone, “there’s something so special about Italian women. Alessia was like a trojan battery, I could barely keep up by the end of the ni?—”
“Zale,” I interrupt slowly from behind the kitchen island. “As much as we’ve reached some kind of trust, I don’t want to hear about your wild night just as much as you don’t want to hear about mine with your sister.”
“Bro,” he shouts, fake gagging. “We need boundaries.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” I mutter, as I stare down at the three texts I’ve sent Zalea since leaving her in Varazze—all unanswered.
“Still haven’t heard back from her?” Zale asks, watching me now.
I shake my head. “She’s probably driving,” I say, locking my phone and putting it down on the counter. “She doesn’t text and drive.”
“Have you tried calling her?” he asks, tossing his phone into the air and catching it.
I hesitate before answering. “No,” I say. “Should I?”
He scoffs. “I mean, you’re clearly worried. Just call her.”
I stare down at my phone for a minute before I decide he’s right. I pick up my phone, pressing her name. The line rings three times before it finally connects.
“Pronto?”?*
I freeze. “Who’s this?”
“Questaè l’infermiera Anna dell’Ospedale Santa Viola, parla italiano?”?*
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand, is there someone there that can speak English?”
There’s rustling, and muffled voices speaking in Italian before someone new comes on the line.
“Hello, this is Doctor Ricci from Hospital Santa Viola,” a smooth feminine voice says in English.
My heart stutters as I dig my fingers into the counter. “Why do you have my girlfriend's phone?”
“Ah. You are her partner? We’ve been trying to identify her.”
My blood runs cold and I begin to shake. Zale, who must be listening, sits upright, his face tight with concern as he watches me from the couch.
“Identify her?”
