“What are you—”
“Ava, the water taxi is here,” James says, gesturing to a handsome man standing beside him with a sign that reads Massini.
I look back at Tammy, my question still sitting on the back of my tongue like a timid child on a diving board, but she has already engaged herself in conversation with a porter who is struggling to wrangle her obnoxiously sized luggage.
She meets my gaze one last time and then winks at James. “Arrivederci!”
Part of me wants to run after her—grab onto the hem of her long skirt and tell her I need her here to tell me what to do. But she’s already passed through the glass doors, laughing at something, moving merrily along as Tammy is wont to do. And I’m frozen at the departures curb, feeling far too panicky about getting on a boat to Venice with James and a thousand unnamed emotions.
A warm, solid hand lands softly on my shoulder, and my thoughts settle like a blanket laid over a sleeping child.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
I nod once and turn toward him. The moment I meet his eyes, I forget all about Tammy’s weird behavior in the car because the answer to his question occupies all the space inside of me.
I’m alright. With you.
I don’t need to say the words, because he smiles down at me, laces his fingers in mine, and then leads me where I need to go.
I’ve seen beauty. I’ve spent the last four weeks steeped in it, like an oversaturated tea bag ready to burst. But this—this is something else. This is otherworldly.
The briny spray that misted us as the boat sped across the choppy, dark blue waves has subsided and the motor drops from a roar to a purr. James has me pulled tightly into his side where we are perched on the shiny mahogany ledge at the stern of the motoscafo; one of his fingers is securely threaded through the belt loop of my jeans, the other squeezing my thigh as if I might plunge into the Adriatic at any moment. Venice rises above me—Aphrodite standing from her foam—her allure so palpable that every limestone curve and marble arch, every bronzed duomo and iron terrazzo sends a pang of some unknown sensation through me. It feels like desire infused with danger, darkness, and melancholy. It’s unnamable.
As we approach, the sound of water laps softly against the stone foundations of the buildings, leaving dark stains that remind me of the things this city has seen. The great wars and great tragedies. The great joys and loves. The great Mini Cooper race with Charlize Theron and Marky Mark.
We turn from the Grand Canal down a narrow waterway, only just avoiding a gondola coming in the opposite direction. A young couple stare up at their gondolier, whose deep voice serenades them from beneath his wide-brimmed hat.
I’m in a novel.
“How are you not taking pictures of this?” I ask, just loud enough for my voice to be heard over the thrumming of the motor.
James leans in so that his mouth grazes my earlobe.
“If I were to get my camera out right now, I would only be taking pictures of you,” he says, and I shut my eyes and let his words warm me.
I feel a shadow pass over us from behind my lids and open them to find the underbelly of a stone bridge. I could stand and run my finger across the smooth stone, grab onto the parapet and dangle over the water like fish bait.
“I’ve done plenty of shoots here over the years,” James murmurs as a slosh of water broadsides the boat and sends us drifting toward a gray stone building with lilacs dripping from the window boxes. Our taxi turns down another narrow canal, this one empty and quiet, almost eerie if it weren’t for James’s arms around me. “Couples love to stage their engagement in Piazza San Marco,” he finishes.
“With all the pigeons?” I ask.
“Yup. Pigeon shit and all,” he laughs, and the sound of it sends a rush through my blood. “I’ll take you there tonight if you want. It’s far more enchanting in the dark—”
“When you can’t see the pigeon shit,” I venture.
“Exactly.”
I release a small sigh and say, “My mother loved St. Mark’s Square. Made me promise to sit at the white-clothed tables and order dessert while listening to dueling pianos.”
James kisses the side of my head and whispers his condolences into my hair.
“If you’d like to do that—we could,” he says.
Would I?
Yes, Ava.Say yes to all of it.My mother’s voice drifts up from the depths of the dark water beneath us.
“I’d like that,” I tell him.
