Correct answer.
I look out in front of me, still mulling the situation over. The trip makes sense, but it’s also a risk. And risks haven’t typically paid out many dividends in my favor. But that’s not necessarily true, either. Going back to school and chasing my passion was a risk and it got me here. Here in Italy. Here with Matt.
A million scenarios flitter around my head, but somehow, it’s Marie and heramantetalk that pushes its way to the forefront. Why shouldn’t I go to Capri, capture the images for my fabric and then enjoy my time with Matt after? Why shouldn’t I work hard and reward myself? When will I ever be in Italy again? When will I have someone like Matt, who wants to take me on a romantic weekend getaway on the freaking Amalfi Coast?
The strict side of me says not to think about that now. I have way too many things to do and not enough time. I need to buckle down. I need to focus. I need to keep my eye on the prize.
But looking over at Matt, my stricter side starts to slip away from me, and I do nothing to stop it as I watch it fall. I’ll have plenty of time in my life to be safe. Right now I’m ready for an adventure.
Marie, you saucy minx—this one’s for you.
“Okay,” I tell Matt with an unmistakable air of certainty. “We’re going to Capri.”
14
When we step out of the taxi on the almost otherworldly island of Capri, my first thought is,This can’t be real. It’s too perfect. Too idyllic. How is it possible that people live here and don’t constantly walk around in a trancelike state? Even with business and hotels all around, the island still feels untouched. Protected by the gods.
Matt and I stand in a small square that overlooks the Bay of Naples and a crisp breeze sweeps across our faces. Sunlight sparkles off the water to an almost painful extent, but I can’t bring myself to shield my eyes or look away for fear of missing something. My gaze drifts to the formidable Mount Vesuvius that sits across the bay when Matt gently grips my wrist. He smiles and nudges his chin forward, gesturing toward the hotel.
Don’t even get me started on the hotel we just rolled up to. This is a full-fledged luxury resort, and if I was afraid of getting thrown out of the pool at Dino’s hotel, then I’m fairly certain sneaking into this place would get me locked away in a foreign prison for life.
We step forward through a walkway between white double gates with the wordsLa Sirenaemblazoned above in iron. A staff member is waiting to greet us and another strides to retrieve our bags from the taxi. Speaking to the first staff member in Italian, Matt tells her the reservation name and the woman prompts us to walk ahead to the lobby that’s nowhere in sight.
Matt thanks her and we stroll forward. I keep a Stepford smile plastered on my face as I move to keep his pace.
“What the hell, Matt?” I ask once we’re out of earshot. “Where are we?”
“La SirenaHotel,” he answers calmly.
“Yes, I read the sign, but this looks way too expensive. This place is probably only meant for celebrities and eccentric millionaires.”
“My mom stays here all the time,” he replies.
“Exactly.” I pause. “Wait, your mom isn’t really an eccentric millionaire, is she?” Matt doesn’t immediately respond and keeps his eyes trained forward. I shake my head. “On second thought, don’t answer that.”
A minute later we’re walking underneath a long, fairy-tale-like pergola covered in vines. An alfresco cocktail bar is set off to the right overlooking the sea, and each table has ample space even though the patio is filled with guests. I’m sensing major yacht-owning energy amongst the patrons and I’m not quite sure how I feel about it.
Soon enough, we come to the glass-enclosed lobby that’s decorated with couches and chairs that are so impeccably curated that they seem more like an art installation than practical seating. As we move deeper into the lobby, soft music is playing and I look for the check-in desk, but don’t find it anywhere. Instead, another staff member approaches us with a smile, confirming Matt’s reservation name.
“Buongiorno, Mr. Leoni and Ms. Luciano. I’m Marta. Welcome toLa Sirena.”
“Thank you,” we answer at the same time, I a little more eagerly than he.
“If you would be so good as to give me your passports, I’ll check you in, and in the meantime, please feel free to visit our relaxation lounge where you can enjoy complimentary drinks and appetizers.”
I freeze up a bit at the idea of just handing over my passport, but Matt quickly leans toward me.
“Don’t worry, it’s fine,” he whispers.
I nod and we both hand our passports over to Marta, who I sincerely hope isn’t a clever ex-con impersonating a hotel worker to steal our identities. She takes them with a grin and directs Matt and me toward the relaxation lounge.
Once we get there, there are two things that specifically jump out at me. One, we have the glass-enclosed room that essentially looks like a lavish mini buffet all to ourselves, and two, I have died and gone to snack-snack heaven.
“We’re allowed to eat whatever we want?” I ask Matt, almost dreamily. “We don’t have to pay for anything?”
“Nope. It’s all complimentary.”
My eyes instantly scan the room like a data-collecting robot. There are three mini food stations—one with cold antipasto, one with pasta options, and the other with bread and cheeses. Another table sits in the center of the room that’s set with wineglasses and chilled prosecco. Built-in mini fridges along the wall are stocked with waters, juices and soda. And I’m not talking cans of soda; I’m talking soda in mini glass bottles. I have no idea why, but I can’t resist a glass bottle of soda, and the fridge is my first stop. I grab three bottles. One each for Matt and me now, and an extra one for later.
