Neither of us speaks for a long while, not until the city is far behind us. Then as if the air has suddenly thinned out, we exhale in perfect unison.
“Tell me something not awful,” I blurt. The inside of my head is all sharp edges I can’t seem to tame.
He glances over, corners of his mouth lifting. “Not awful? I’ve got one.” He clears his throat, eyes back on the road. “Our first date.”
I arch a brow. “That wasn’t a date. That was you stalking the bar I worked at like a stray cat.”
“That’s defamation.” He almost sounds wounded. “I was a very charming stray. Also, I left a tip that could feed a village.”
“You left a handful of Euro and a seashell.”
“Exactly.” His smile warms. “Okay, fine. Theofficialfirst date, not the ‘you refused to answer my texts’ prequel.”
I bite my lip to hide the smile. “Proceed.”
He settles into the story like sliding into warm water. “I showed up at yourpensionewith a Vespa that started most of the time and a grand plan written on a napkin. You opened the door in that white sundress?—”
“It was cream.”
“Semantics,” he murmurs. “The point is, you looked like the good decision I was absolutely not going to make. You folded your arms and said, ‘I’m not a summer mistake, Rossi.’ And I said, ‘Perfect. I’m not a mistake, I’m an itinerary.’”
I snort. “God, you were insufferable.”
“Some say I still am.” He lifts a shoulder. “Rule one on the napkin:No agendas.Rule two:If there’s music, we dance.Rule three:Always stop for granita.Rule four—this is important—steal one lemon.”
“Of course it was.”
“Then we puttered down to the marina. The air smelled like diesel and frying sardines. You pretended you didn’t like the wind in your hair, but you absolutely did. We stopped at Signora Bellini’s kiosk, and I ordered you lemon granita with a tiny spoon, remember?” His voice softens. “You ate too fast and got a headache and refused to let me hold your hand while you suffered.”
“I didn’t refuse. I evaluated the risk.” My mind is already lost in the past.
“You allowed contact after the pain subsided,” he corrects, deadpan. “Then we followed the alleys uphill. Through the endless laundry lines, kids with plastic soccer balls, and a chorus ofnonnaseyeing me from their balconies. Then we wandered into that church courtyard where the orange trees drop blossoms like confetti.”
I feel my fingers lift, automatically pressing over the ink beneath my shirt. He doesn’t look, thankfully and just keeps talking.
“There was a wedding…” He pauses dramatically. “You said we should leave, that it would be rude to stay. Then I reminded you that in Sicily if you pass a wedding, you’re legally obligated to steal a cannolo. Anonnasmacked my arm when I did but gave us two anyway.”
A chuckle slips out before I can tame it. “She gavemetwo. She told you to pull your shirt straight.”
He grins at the windshield. “We sat on the low wall and ate them in front of the sea. Powdered sugar speckled down your shirt. You tried to wipe it away with your palm but only made it worse, then you declared you were a disaster. I told you it looked like a constellation. You rolled your eyes but didn’t move when I—” He stops, voice dropping. “When I leaned in and brushedthe sugar off your lip with my thumb. That was the first time I thought:okay, I’m done for.”
Silence fills the car, soft as wool. The wipers tick once, then rest.
“After that we followed the music…” His voice sounds rougher somehow. “Some kid with a busted speaker had turned the piazza into a dance floor. Rule two invoked. You said you don’t dance. I said you don’tnotdance in Sicily. You finally agreed, but if I stepped on your toes you vowed to push me into the fountain.”
His smiling, mischievous eyes push to the forefront of my mind. “I stand by that.”
“You put your palm right here—” He taps the spot on his chest where my hand fits, like muscle memory. “And you let me lead. You were stiff for three steps, then the laugh happened. You know, the one that knocks your head back just a little, and I swear the lights strung across the square got jealous.”
I stare out at the slate water, cheeks hot and throat tight.
“We walked down to the sea after,” he whispers now. “Past the gelateria and the shop with the postcards no one buys. I ‘borrowed’ a lemon from the old tree that hangs over the wall by the stairs.”
“You leapt like a criminal and tore your shirt open doing it.”
“I’ve never looked better.” He’s laughing under his breath now. “You said it was the dumbest thing you’d ever seen, and then you tucked the lemon into your bag like it was treasure. We climbed down to the little cove with the broken steps. You took off your sandals and swore the hot sand had a personal vendetta. We sat with our feet in the water and made a pact we didn’t say out loud.”
“What pact?” I ask, even though my heart already knows.
