“Only an hour flight. Not sure why I didn’t make this trip sooner.” She turned to watch the people walk down the stone pathway again. There was a sandwich shop farther down, a local spot that tourists never visited because it was somewhat tucked out of sight. “I explored a bit the other day and took a lot of photos. A photographer’s playground.”
“Too bad your friend didn’t get to enjoy it.”
Her eyes came back to me, accompanied by a distinct flash of confusion.
I knew she’d lied before, but I gave her some grace and let it slide.
When she understood what I meant, she tried to brush it off. “Yeah, her loss.” Her eyes immediately went back to the street to watch the couples pass, holding hands. Potted flowers were outside every door, flowers overflowing from the balconies of the buildings above.
I was a remarkable judge of character, could spot the most skilled liar with a devil’s tongue within a few seconds, so when she’d hesitated and became visibly uncomfortable when she mentioned herfriendwho’d had to leave their holiday early ... I knew.
I didn’t respect liars, and anyone who chose to obscure the truth was someone I could do without, but she was so painfully bad at it that I knew it was one of the first lies she’d ever told. It wasn’t her character. Wasn’t who she was.
Now, I wanted to knowwhyshe lied.
When I’d felt her stare outside Rosticceria Da Cristina, I’d met her look. I’d expected a quick lock of the eyes and then an immediate dismissal. She was beautiful, obviously, but that wasn’t why my stare lingered.
It lingered because of the grief.
I could spot it on anyone anywhere, even in the middle of uproarious laughter over a dinner party. I could feel the cold from the ice shards in their heart. Hers was just so raw and deep that it made me forget everything around me for a second.
When I’d spotted her in the bar, I’d noticed the exact same thing. An unbelievably beautiful woman anchored to a tombstone of grief. She wore a little black dress with pink and blue seashell ornaments on the straps, a delicate addition of color to her dark silhouette. She sat with a strong posture, but she lacked the confidence a woman of her caliber should possess. It was a dichotomy that I couldn’t understand. She could hold my gaze when others would blink or look away, but when another woman approached to make a pass, she accepted defeat. Looked away and asked for the check so she could forget our stare had ever happened.
I didn’t know what had happened to her—but I knewsomethinghad.
At the end of the road to the right was the Greek theatre, so I took her there to see what the Greeks had built when they conquered the island, before the Carthaginians conquered them, and then the Romans conquered them.
That’s all history was—a series of conquests.
It was small, nothing compared to the Colosseum in Rome, but she seemed to enjoy it. Pulled out a high-end camera from her bag and snapped a couple photos, not of people or specific subjects, but angled shots, flowers, sometimes a broken piece of stone.
When we finished there, I took her to La Focaccia, a sandwich shop that was as popular with the locals as the tourists. With premium Italian meats like mortadella and capicola, along with pistachio pesto and burrata, it was always a stop on my list when I was in town.
“Those are big-ass sandwiches.” She watched a customer walk away with the square piece of bread covered in waxed paper. For someone of her size, the sandwich would take up two of her hands.
“Want to split one?”
“I mean ... if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. What do you want?”
“Uh ...” She stared at the menu through the crowd of people. “You’re the expert here.”
I smirked then moved through the cluster of customers waiting for their sandwiches, hearing the high-energy American music over their speakers.
“Constantine!” Umberto stopped making his sandwich to raise his gloved hands in the air.
Raphael and Angelo both released shouts of excited surprise. “About time you show that ugly face around here,” Raphael said.
Umberto ripped off his gloves, then came over to fist-bump me across the counter. “This your first stop?”
“You know you guys are the best,” I said over the music.
All three of them made another shout to the music, the two in the back still working and dancing at the same time. La Focaccia was always a fun time, the guys in a good mood and entertaining the tourists.
“The usual?” Umberto asked.
“Yep.”
