“Che cosa?”
I turn. The driver’s dark brows are pulled upward beneath his wavy hair, as he glances at me expectantly. Where does one get brows like that? Is there microblading in Italy?
Shit. I’ve been talking out loud.
“Oh, nothing, I’m just bitching about my boyfriend …”
The driver presses his full lips together. His nose is slightly crooked, “character crooked” as my mother used to call it. She’d make up an absurd story to explain.
Perhaps he’d busted it in a fight defending an old man from a purse snatcher.
Why was a man carrying a purse, mom?
Don’t be small minded, Ava. Gender bias is so 1980.
What about a poorly timed head-ball in overtime of the World Cup?
She’d want to know which country he’d played for. Italy, obviously. Bronzed skin, thick lashes, dark eyes, lean build—Italianmen are nice to look at, and this one is no exception. Terrible driver, but a fine specimen. Maybe I’ll take a selfie with him to make Ethan suffer.
His mouth quirks up on the side and then he meets my gaze for a moment. We might not speak the same language but it’s obvious he just caught me admiring the goods.
“It really is a shame you don’t speak English because then you might be able to tell me what to do about my moronic man. You seem worldly. Like you’ve been with a few—”
His eyes are narrowed on the windshield. Am I really calling hot driver a manslut? This is Ethan’s fault. And Tammy’s for giving me drugs. My thumbs peck away at my phone, my eyes focused on her response to my “landed text,” writing and rewriting the same question over and over.Did you know?She couldn’t have. Oh God, what if she knew? I’m not sure what hurts more—that thought or the break itself. I quickly delete the words on the screen and recommence my babblethon.
“Well, you know what I mean. Italians are well-reputed lovers. So I’m sure you’d find my general tendency toward monogamy tedious and American. Apparently my boyfriend feels the same way. ‘Experience the world,’ he says. ‘Oats to be sown,’ he says.” I let out a ladylike snort and look his way. “Got oats? Maybe, I should make a T-shirt.”
I pull my attention away from his crooked grin and its culminating dimple to the hillside we are currently climbing, preparing myself for the switchbacks that are churning the champagne in my stomach. I go to grip the center console, but my hand lands on his hand on the gear instead as he shifts down. I pull away quickly and he chuckles.
“I know. Prude, puritan Americans. You have very nice hands, though. Very big. Are you driving me to Greece?”
We’ve been driving for well over two hours. Not that I can complain about the scenery. Just endless layers of green sloping up, up, and away into blue skies. I can see why this place produces artists like bunny rabbits.
Here and there the hills act like a pedestal for whatever architectural dream sits atop the bluff. The town we pass now appears to be a breath away from toppling over into the pasture below, soft earth-colored bricks defying gravity—an illustration from a Dr. Seuss book. The sun behind us lights the clinging village with an orange glow, and a shadow city spills across the valley behind the hill. It’s all a bit like a fantasy novel—a land beyond Middle Earth. I can almost understand why my mother made me promise to travel here when my study abroad program became—impossible.
I swallow hard and reach for my purse and dip my hand into the front pocket, fingering the soft, worn edge of Mom’s postcard, then turn my attention back toward hot driver. His obliviousness is a welcome distraction. The whole one-sided convo thing is kind of freeing. Talking to a man who can’t understand a lick of what you’re saying. If I wanted to sow those aforementioned oats, perhaps a language barrier would help. Something about the physicality of that would be extremely liberating. No words. Just bodies.
I’m feeling flushed and this car is absurdly small, so I pull one of his vents back toward me. He doesn’t slap my hand away—just looks—amused?
“Ethan wants me to get it all out of my system—like there’s a stockpile of sexuality somewhere inside of me that I can just sprinkle like seeds all over Urbino. Like I’m an Amazon warehouse just awaiting the right delivery men,” I snort. “Such a man. No thought of the things that matter in bed. Like connection and respect and trust. Not that I’m complaining about Ethan in bed, though itwould be nice if he was a little more vocal. And a little more adventurous. But no one is perfect—”
Hot Driver’s jawline tightens as he takes a curve a little too quickly and I’m thrown close enough to smell his deodorant. Slightly spicy with a hint of something soft.
“You smell good. Really good.”
Ugh, am I still drunk? He keeps on driving, his lips pressed tightly together as if he’s focusing hard on the road. With all that focus, you’d think he could drive a bit better. I sigh. Back to my rant.
“The saddest part of it all is that I thought he was going to propose. So stupid, right? Pathetic.”
There’s a sudden heaviness on my shoulders, like gravity has doubled inside the car. There’s nothing but the soft whir of the air spilling from the vents and I shut my eyes. Mom would know what to say. She’d wrap her arms around me. Let me feel sad, then say something brilliant and inspiring—or hilarious. There was always so much laughter.
A warm touch lands on my thigh and I open my eyes to see an impressive, bronzed hand lingering above my knee. I dimly register the fact that the car comes to a stop as I count the calluses against my skin. I pull my gaze upward away from the goose bumps forming on my thigh to find that we are parked halfway up a steep hill—the road we’ve been navigating has turned into nothing but dirt and stone that slips out of sight amid a cluster of bushy cypress trees.
Before I can ask where the hell we are, he whispers, “Siamo qui.”
I nod, even though he makes no sense to me, and study the stubble that runs along his jawline. His eyes are looking right into me.Siamo qui.My lips try out the syllables.
He pulls his hand away slowly from my thigh, nodding, eyes on my mouth.
