“You’ll see.” Nico sticks his head in the back office to let his mom know we’re heading out.
We ride bicycles into town, passing families enjoying leisurely breakfasts on their balconies and cafés bustling with people ordering espressos at the counter. The sleepy streets are easing gently into the day. Tuesday, I soon learn, is the day Sorrento has its farmer’s market. It’s early, so the roads aren’t congested, and people are outside watering flowers and sweeping fallen leaves off their doorways and sidewalks. Nico takes a soft right and leads us down Via San Renato to a bustling market where locals haggle with the vendors, arguing animatingly until they get their discount. Vines of tomatoes and garlic and salami hang from the vendors’ booths. Everywhere you look, there’s a burst of color.
Nico points things out as we park our bikes and meander through the stalls. “We come here every week. It’swhere we get everything we can’t grow in the garden.”
We’re forced to stop by a woman’s errant purse. She’s yelling at a man behind one of the booths, swinging it at him. “Whoa. Is everything okay?”
“Oh, yeah.” Nico laughs. “Just Francesca. That’s her cousin Luca. She’s telling him that the price he’s charging for the zucchini is a crime and how could he steal like that from his own flesh and blood.” He pauses, listening. “And also, God is watching.”
Luca finally surrenders to his pushy cousin, bagging up the zucchini as they chatter on like they weren’t just fighting, hugging and kissing one another goodbye.
“See?” Nico nudges me. “All is fine. Francesca’s asking if he’ll be coming over for dinner this weekend.”
I laugh, but my heart gives a sour little pinch. If only that was how my fight with Anya and Mari had resolved itself, instead of days of silent treatment with no end in sight. Nico slows as we reach a booth with fresh produce. There are lemons and oranges the size of my head, and large, juicy grapes. Nico grabs some of each, putting them in one of the burlap sacks he brought along with us. The woman running the booth looks to me, smiling.
“Bella, bella, bella!” she exclaims.
I try my best to eavesdrop despite only being able to pick up every tenth word.
“She says you’re very beautiful,” Nico translates.
My ears ring. “Oh! That is very kind. Tell her thank you.”
She clasps her hands over her heart and descends intoa rapid burst of Italian before frantically packing up some juicy figs.
“No, no.” Nico shakes his head, but she insists, shoving them at him. Even with my rudimentary understanding I’m able to read between the lines—it’s on the house.
Nico is bright red when he turns away. “Everyone keeps thinking we are a couple. Or that we should be one.” He gives an awkward laugh, brushing it off, but his eyes linger on mine like he’s gauging my reaction.
“That’s funny,” I say. I hadn’t really been serious when I joked about him being a womanizer, but between his reaction now and how red he’d blushed yesterday, I’m forced to concede that it was a swing and a miss. But then—what about the girl on the beach?
I stop at a booth with beautifully designed ceramic souvenirs. “Wait, these are so stunning.” I hold up an olive oil dispenser with hand-painted lemons. The mosaic design reminds me of the tilework I’ve seen around town, almost identical to the B and B’s lobby floor. I already have a souvenir for Reza, but my dad would love this. I turn the dispenser over to see the sticker says twenty euro.
“Way overpriced,” Nico tells me. “Let me handle this.” Nico proceeds to barter before handing over twelve euro. Soon, the vendor is wrapping the olive oil dispenser in bubble wrap.
“How did you do that?” I ask, giving Nico my twentyeuro note.
He refuses to take it. “Think of it as payment for helpingout at the B and B. A gift. So you don’t forget me when you’re off having your grand adventures.”
“I could never forget you,” I say without hesitating. “Gift or not.” Nico’s eyes crinkle.
As I walk up the aisles, I swear for a second that I see the top of Wes’s head. I freeze. My heart starts racing. But when the boy turns, it’s someone else entirely, and I relax. I’m surprised to feel less jarred than I usually would. Last week, last month, maybe even last night, it would have ruined my entire day, but today, it passes. I make a few more purchases: a bar of scented soap and a tiny glass container of limoncello that is shaped like the boot of Italy, painted with notable landmarks and city names.
While I am picking those up, Nico adds some leafy greens and radishes to his bag. Nico’s mom has a small garden where she grows her own tomatoes and garlic, so he skips over those sections, but we pick up a small pint of cherry tomatoes and pop them like they’re M&M’s, a snack for the road.
We are just about to leave when a woman walks up to us and envelops Nico in a giant hug. “È Nico quello che vedo?” She switches to English once she realizes I don’t speak Italian. “So nice to meet you. I’m Lisabetta, Alessandra’s friend.”
“Soraya,” I introduce myself.
“So, you’re stuck with this one, eh?”
“Yes. He’s been dragging me around to all these horrible places,” I joke. “I told him to please walk a few feetbehind me so no one thinks I came with him.”
“You’re funny.” She gives me a once-over. “Come, help me talk some sense into the boy. Have you given any thought to that tour I told you and that stubborn mother of yours to start running?”
“Ah, Lisabetta, not this again,” Nico laughs.
But I perk up. “Tour?”
