Anya pulls her shirtsleeve back, looking at her watch. “It left three minutes ago,” she says all deflated, dropping her bag to the ground and slumping down against the wall until she’s seated.
Nausea sets in. “I’m really sorry.” I sit next to Anya and link my arm inside hers, trying to get her to soften. “I really mean it. I’m so sorry if I caused any of the delay. Does this make up for it?” I hold up a bag with the three slightly crunched cannoli and the shirt I bought for Mari that saysYOU CANNOLI LIVE ONCE.
Anya avoids eye contact. “It’s not your fault.”
“Thanks, Sora,” Mari says, taking the shirt and a cannolo.
But Anya doesn’t crack a smile, or reach for a cannolo, and I know a part of her blames me for missing the train. I feel horrible. I wish I could explain how urgently I needed the SIM card and why. But Wes’s name would turn this crisis from a four into a ten.
“I promise to make it up to you guys. I swear.” I swallow. “Bus tickets are on me.”
CHAPTER 3
“I don’t want to die.”Anya’s eyes are closed, and her knuckles are ghost-white as she grips the guardrail on the SITA. We are only fifteen minutes into the bus ride and her face is already drained of color. I fear it’s that same paleness that hits Anya when she’s had too many White Claws, destining her night to end with me holding her silky blond hair back over the toilet. We are all standing, lurching from side to side, as our bus speeds toward Sorrento, because it’s tourist season and an actual seat is a harder find than Masters tickets. “This is worse than a roller coaster.”
We had heard about this drive beforehand—even watched a YouTube video of it. It’s infamous for making you feel like you’re dangling over the edge of the jagged cliffs set four hundred feet above the Tyrrhenian Sea. It takes over two hours to go the eighteen miles from the Naples airport because of the traffic and narrow roads and death-defying turns. The bus drivers, who I am fully convinced are Formula One retirees, take curves tighter than the villains in James Bond car chase scenes. At anygiven moment, the bus is inches from tumbling over the small concrete barrier, sending everyone on board to an early grave.
It’s why we had booked the train.
“A beautiful place to plunge to your death, though, no? I mean if we had to?” I try to sprinkle in some positivity and lightness, because the truth is once we left lively Naples and its garbage-lined streets, we were catapulted through lush cliffsides where orange and lemon trees arc over the roads like arms. The cliff-tucked homes are painted every shade of pastel, and the water glows a blue none of us have ever seen before.
“I can’t open my eyes right now, Soraya,” Anya says, her tone curt. “I’ll puke all over your shoes.”
“It really is beautiful,” Mari concedes, but even she seems to be getting a tad pale.
The bus takes a corner especially tight and fast, and I nearly fall over onto a pair of elderly women carrying burlap totes bursting with fresh vegetables. When I get upright again, I make another attempt to lift their spirits. “Beyonce is missing out. With all her private jets and yachts? Nowthisis LIVING. I don’t envy her at all.” We tilt around another curve and Anya puts a hand over her mouth, in case. I wait for things to settle, but no one responds to my pretty creative attempt at humor.
Well, I tried.
I wipe beads of sweat off my forehead because one thing this bus does not have is air-conditioning. At leastI got my SIM card—although I had sent Wes a few texts that show as delivered but hadn’t been responded to yet, so hopefully it wasn’t a lemon, pun intended. The bus is packed with tourists and locals heading back from the city. This isn’t ideal, but we are in the home stretch. Soon we’ll be at our five-star hotel, immersed in luxury. We had splurged on this place for a reason—to start this trip off with a bang. It’s what I’ve been looking forward to most on this entire trip.
After what feels like an eternity, the tires squeak to a stop at our drop off. The only perk to standing is that we’re some of the first ones off the bus. Anya gulps in the fresh sea air as soon as she touches land, then keels over, bracing herself. “I’m not going to throw up.” She repeats this mantra until she wills it into reality.
“You guys, we’re here!” I feel all jittery. “We can lounge by the pool—be waited on? Finally relax!” It isn’t yet five p.m. and the sun is still hung high in the cloudless sky.
Anya stands back up. A rosiness has returned to her cheeks. “Thank God. Let’s do this.”
“That’s the spirit!” I grin. Our hotel is down the cliffside, closer to the beach, so we start the treacherous hike in the unrelenting heat. I glimpse slivers of the Mediterranean Sea through stucco buildings; boats and yachts and swimmers dot the blue like confetti. “I cannotwaitto get in the water.” I can almost feel it, beaded on my sun-torched skin after emerging from a plunge. How refreshing it must feel.
We were told our hotel is mere steps from the bus stop, but it seems this has been slightly exaggerated, because I’m soon getting blisters on both heels. Google Maps suggests we still have a few more blocks. We’re lugging our suitcases down cobblestone streets and uneven steps, and my bulging suitcase zippers are being tested to the max with each brick I hit.
“It’s so picturesque.” Mari takes advantage of having to carry only her backpack to snap a Polaroid of Anya and me with the Mediterranean in the background.
“It really is. Good call, Sora.” Anya manages to muster up her first smile since we’ve landed. A stray white cat speckled in orange starts following her and she kneels, extending an open hand for her new shadow to smell.
Mari bends to pick a stem of violet bougainvillea, cradling it gently in her palm. She has pressed and preserved flowers for as long as I can remember—her way of creating tangible memories. I still have a small, framed art of flowers she collected from our school camping trip. It was mostly dandelions.
I get excited seeing them get excited. “Just wait until we get to the hotel! You’ll really be thanking me then.” We pass more cats, nestled in doorways; magenta flowers spilling out of window planters; and restaurants with tiny tables for two set up outside. I can already envision Wes and me sitting across from each other at one of those candlelit tables, leaning in close, whispering and laughing as we split a tiramisu. I check my phone again; navigationsays we are fifty feet away. I spin, looking for the sign to Santa Angelica.
“Is this it?” Mari asks. We reach a tiny hotel with a faded green awning over the rickety front door and an overhead light that’s flickering on and off, so narrow and small it could only house a handful of rooms.
“No, that can’t be it.” I take another look at the map. Is there a different Santa Angelica hotel? This isn’t at all what five-star hotels should be. Five-star hotels have bellmen in cute white outfits with little caps waiting outside. Five-star hotels are ornate and immaculately pruned with cascading orchid floral arrangements flanking the door.
“What’s the address?” Anya asks. The orange-speckled cat stands beside her like a bodyguard.
“Via Capo twelve.”
Mari points to a series of broken tiles on the wall adjacent to the front door. “I think we’re here.” Despite the cracking and fading, it’s easy to make out the twelve.
