Giovanni looks up, flushed.
“Sounds great, Lynn. Have a good journey, thanks for all the photos. I'm getting so many subscribers,” he says in his thick Italian accent. “We're off to the pool.”
He strides over and we kiss each other goodbye on both cheeks.
“Until next time, Gio.”
“Ciao, ciao, maybe we’ll catch up in Berlin,” he says as he and the woman walk toward the door that leads to the pool.
Berlin.I wonder what's happening there and when.
I sink back onto the white leather sofa, straightening my sky blue caftan I'd bought at a boutique in town. My phone pings with an email notification.
“Oooh, Kate,” I whisper. I love hearing from my best friend. Of all the people back in the United States, Kate's the one I miss most. Even more than my own family, who mostly make contact when they need something. I love my mom, dad, and three younger siblings. I learned recently that loving my family and being available to them were two different things.
Hey L. Where are you? I tried reaching you the other day but couldn't get through. I really need to talk with you. Can you call me when you get this? ASAP. Any time of the day or night. Love you. K.
I frown. A sinking feeling takes over. What’s wrong with Kate? Instead of staying in our old loft in Chicago, or joining me on my travels like we'd planned, she moved back to Florida to help her mom and her business. It was only supposed to be for a few months and Kate had been hesitant to go home.
I check the time. Still fifteen minutes until my hired car comes, probably longer in Amalfi Coast tourist traffic. I tap Kate's number.
She answers on the second ring. “Lauren,” she squeals.
I scream when I see her sun-kissed face. “Oh my God, you look so good! So tan! You’re glowing. Have you been living outside? You look incredible!”
She laughs. “Shut up. I look like a trash panda. I have been running every day, though. And working in the bar, on my feet for hours. Mom's been able to get some rest, though, which is good. I can’t believe how hard perimenopause has hit her.”
Kate's mom owns a tiki bar in Cypress Grove, a small town in inland Florida built around a natural spring. An actual tiki hut with a thatch palm frond roof and everything, like in the movies. Kate had shown me photos when we lived together.
“Running? Wow, that's new. What's going on? Are you okay? Something about your tone worried me. I could tell that you’re a bit off. Intuition, you know?”
Kate unties and then ties her long brown hair. That means something is, indeed, wrong. She's nervous. Four years in adorm and then years in our Chicago loft means I know every mannerism and tic.
“Okay, ah, well...”
“What is it?” I bring the phone closer to my face. Kate's usually blunt as a sledgehammer.
“I'm getting married,” she blurts.
I stop breathing for a second.
“What?” My voice echoes through the minimalist living room. This is a little too blunt. Kate, married?
Kate, who loves nothing more than casually flirting with every man in sight? Kate, who fiercely guards her independence? Kate, who said she was going to Florida for only a few months and promised to meet me in Europe eventually? Kate, who said she wanted to be a digital nomad while doing her graphic design business?
Married?
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
She rubs her lips together. “It kind of...happened.”
“Getting engaged doesn'tkindahappen.” I make air quotes. “Last time I talked with you, which was, what, a week ago?—”
“Two weeks.” Her mouth slants.
“Sorry. Two weeks. But we've been emailing and texting.” I lose track of time when I'm traveling, and she knows it. “Who is he? Where did you meet him? Does he live in Cypress Grove? What about our plans? What’s going on?”
She glances to the side, and I realize she's in the bar. There's a framed autographed photo of Elvis behind her, and a row of oversized hot pink plastic glasses, the kind tourists use for frozen cocktails.
