“Freddy was handing me drink after drink,” he continues. “It was lethal.”
“I believe it,” I say dismissively.
“I woke up in our bathtub, if that helps paint the picture.” Wes runs a hand through his hair.
“For real?” I cast a side glance at him, trying to imagine his tall, athletic body folded into a bathtub.
“I’m not proud,” Wes laughs, massaging the back of his neck. He slows as we approach a tiny restaurant with four patio tables set up under a pergola of jasmine vines. He leads me to the host stand, and I close my eyes as I inhale the sweet smell of the blooming flowers. “Buona sera, we have a dinner reservation for two? Under Wes?”
I bite back my smile. Wes made a reservation, putthought into this. Picked up these flowers—and not just any flowers.Meaningful flowers. Made a real effort. He’s not out of the woods by any means, but as I gaze up at him and admire how the soft patio lighting casts him in the most gorgeous glow, I feel myself getting dangerously close to slipping, yet again, into Wesphoria.
We’re led to one of the tiny tables, and I hang my purse over the back of a chair. Wes pulls out my seat and I squeeze in. The restaurant is perfect: quaint and romantic and cozy. The host notices my bouquet, and he brings out a vase, snipping a quarter inch off the ends before plunging them in water.
“You really do look incredible.” Wes grins from across the table. “How did I get so lucky?”
“Thank you.” I look down, letting my cheeks flush. It’s surreal, being here with him, like a scene out of a daydream. We haven’t had many dinner dates—back in Savannah, the majority of our nights together consisted of parties, or movie nights in his parents’ basement. But this, right here, feels like we have finally arrived.
“Do you care if I order a few apps for us?” Wes asks.
“Go for it.” I scan the menu. It’s handwritten in loopy cursive, with the Italian on top and the English translation underneath. They have melon wrapped in prosciutto and fresh-made burrata and fried zucchini flowers filled with ricotta. Everything looks amazing. I order the lemon risotto, despite the server trying to explain that pasta courses aren’t meant to be entrees, while Wes orders thefish and an entire bottle of white wine. It isn’t chardonnay, so I’ve never heard of it. In fact, I’ve never been out to a dinner where anyone’s ordered an entire bottle of wine before. It makes me feel grown up.
“So, your trip has been good so far?” Wes asks.
“It has. Sorrento is amazing.Italyis amazing.” I take the first sip of the white wine, which is light and fruity and refreshing. It almost tastes like juice. “What about you?”
“The guys and I have been having such a blast. We’ve been out on the water during the day, closing down the clubs almost every night.” Wes leans back slightly to make room as our appetizers—figs stuffed with brie and wrapped with prosciutto, and a plate of arancini—get dropped off. “And God, the food. It’s so fresh. I don’t ever want to go home.”
“Totally agree.” I attribute the lack of follow-up questions to him being hungry, because he really digs in. I happily join him. The figs are juicy and bursting with flavor. Set against the saltiness of the cheese and prosciutto, it is the perfect combination of salty and sweet. The arancini balls are even better—strings of cheese ooze out of them when I bite in and the risotto inside is soft against the crunchy breading. Dipping the arancini in the flavorful marinara sauce means I’m left to lick every last bit off my fingers. “What’s been your highlight?”
“Wow, that’s tough—there are so many to choose from.” Wes tries to scrape up marinara sauce with his half of an arancini. “I want to say everything, but if I had to pick? It would be checking out all the new places, goingout at night.” Wes drinks from his wineglass. “You?”
I don’t know if I was expecting him to say I was the highlight—I guess I wasn’t, but I gloss over how it stings that I wasn’t even included in the running for top billing. “I had a really good time out on the water. On our fishing trip.”
“Yeah, I mean, you know my friend Bryant?” Wes starts laughing uncontrollably. “He met this girl last night—spent the whole evening trying to woo her. Drink after drink. Two hundred euros later she leaves with another guy.” Wes leans over the table to deliver the punch line. “Best part is, he doesn’t remember any of it.”
Everything about Wes’s story gives me the ick. I don’t know how much more I can hear about the wild night of debauchery that left him so drunk that he passed out in the bathtub and ignored me all night. I politely pretend to laugh and distract myself with the appetizers. The waiter stops to check on us and refills my glass. “Grazie,” I say, immediately taking a sip.
I refold the napkin in my lap, smoothing it out, and take yet another long swig of wine.
“I lied,” Wes says abruptly, staring at me.
“Come again?”
“I’m an idiot. The best part of the trip has been you. Hands down. Not even close.”
All the blood in my body rushes to my face. “For real?”
“Do I have to say it? That’s why I don’t want to go home, Soraya. Being here, in paradise, with you? Life could literally not get any better.”
My heart swells. I’ve been waiting so long to hear him say things like this. “That’s really sweet, Wes.”
“You know I thought about you nonstop this entire year? Any girl I’d meet—she was never you. Could never make me laugh like you, doesn’t have your spirit, your energy.” Wes leans in. “Plus, those photos you’d send?” He whistles all low. “Hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I blush. Wes is the only guy I’ve ever sent anything risqué to. If only he had any idea how many trial photos wound up in my deleted bin. There were probably a hundred throwaways for every one photo that I sent. Maybe more. I had to summon up so much courage to hit send. But knowing they had such an impact? I’m barely in my own body. I’ve been waiting two years to hear Wes admit he feels anything at all for me. For him to validate that this was real. To not feel like such a crazy person, making something out of nothing.
“It’s been hard to tell sometimes.” I look out from under my clumpy eyelash extensions. Something in the saltwater air has made them stick together, despite my best efforts, but it doesn’t even matter. It’s so freeing, laying all our cards out on the table.
“Freshman year when we weren’t talking, there was this massive void in my life. Once we started hanging out again, and then seeing you here… I want you to know that I’m so lucky to have you in my life.”
