“I’m sure that’s not easy to do.” I want to tell Nico I know about the pre-foreclosure letter, that he can talk about it if he needs to. I want to say that I get it, kind of—up until college, I’ve always been able to find a way to make things turn out how I wanted them to, but now it feels like I’m running headfirst into an unshakable wall. Iwant to tell him that this is a huge burden to carry alone. But I don’t know how to broach the topic.
“You’re the first person I’ve admitted this to.” He sighs. “Everyone else thinks I’d be crazy to pass on the opportunity.”
A wave of guilt comes over me at my epic tantrum when we checked in. Nico has been spending every spare minute trying to do maintenance and repairs and all I had were complaints. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You want to help? You’re on vacation.” Nico stares at me. “Who does that?”
“I do. I do that,” I say. “Think about it.”
“Well, let it be said that you’re definitely not like anyone else, Soraya.” Nico pops up, diving into the water to go join the group.
“I’m going to take that as a good thing!” I shout after him.
“Oh, it is,” he says, then turns, pausing. “Your back is very,verysunburned, by the way. How did that happen? You should put on some sunscreen.”
CHAPTER 13
“I’m sun-kissed.” Later that night,back at the restaurant at the B and B, Marisol holds her bare arm out over the dinner table. She has diagonal bikini lines across her collarbones and the tip of her nose and her cheekbones are tinged a poppy red. “Mission accomplished.”
The single votive candle illuminates our tanned faces as we slump back in our chairs, scrolling through all the photos we’d taken. It’s been a long day and we’re exhausted, but we’re happy and absolutely famished. I’m wearing a slouchy navy-and-white-striped sweater over white gauzy pants that flutter against my ankles, my hair thrown in a messy bun on top of my head. Salt water and jasmine hang in the air, mixing with the aroma of simmering San Marzano tomatoes floating from the direction of the kitchen. I smear burrata onto a piece of crusty bread and take a bite. It’s creamy and the perfect amount of savory.
I still haven’t heard back from Wes, though, so I quickly shoot him another text:Fun day?
Alessandra drops off our orders. Each plate is piledhigh with bucatini and a spring of basil with three leaves artfully arranged on top. “I told the chef to throw in a little extra,” she jokes. She’s the only chef on staff and the type of woman who makes her own rules.
A large wedge of parmesan is shaved over each plate until we each hold up our hand to say when. She has the same dark curly hair as her son and the same warmth too, but despite that, a heartache washes over me. She hasn’t had it easy—losing Nico’s dad, and now potentially the B and B? It’s obvious this place is her life, and she takes great pride in it.
“Grazie mille,” I tell her, because while it’s fun to push Nico’s buttons, I respect my elders.
We dive in right away. We twirl the noodles around our forks and slurp it up. It’s life-alteringly delicious; I can taste the freshness of the tomatoes, and there’s a sweetness to the sauce, an aftertaste of brown sugar, that makes it addictive. I keep eating until it’s all gone, trying to salvage every last remnant of sauce by scraping my fork against the plate.
“Today was a really good day,” Mari says.
“One for the books,” Anya agrees. They both stare, waiting for me to chime in. “I’m going to need to hear you say it, Soraya.”
I huff out a dramatic sigh. They love it when they’re right. “Thank you for getting me up this morning. I’m glad I came.”
“Come again?” Anya leans in, cupping her ear.
“I’M VERY GLAD I WENT!” I yell. We throw our heads back and cackle.
Mari leans in conspiratorially. “You were spending alotof time with Nico on that boat,” she says, waggling her eyebrows like a cartoon character.
“I was not!” I protest. “And anyway, he’s not really my type.”
“Who cares?” Anya says. “We’re on vacation! He’s hot, he’s here, he has that sexy thigh tattoo. Plus, he seems crazy into you.”
“He seemed crazy into that girl at the beach too.” I tear a long strip from my napkin and focus on ripping it into little squares of confetti. “I bet he hooks up with a different tourist every week. Anyway, that is the point—we’re on vacation. Why start anything now if we’re going to be leaving soon? I want something serious. I want somethingreal.”
Anya and Mari exchange a glance. “I’m glad to hear you say that,” Mari says carefully.
“We were worried that with Wes at Armstrong that you might slip into old habits again,” says Anya, blunt as ever. “But you’ve really grown, Sora. We’re proud of you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I roll my eyes, but a pocket of guilt settles in my gut, and so too does annoyance. When it comes to Wes, it sometimes feels as if they think of themselves more like my parents than my friends, and I ponder adding them to my parental privacy policy.
A glance at my phone reveals that the boy in questionstill hasn’t responded, so I text him again.What are you doing tonight?
“On the house, signorine.” Nico’s mom drops off a slice of tiramisu with three tiny spoons as she clears away our plates.
