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One day he might go back, and suddenly the future I was brave enough to put him in doesn't feel quite as certain as it did a minute ago.

“Oh.” I try to smile, but it comes out wrong.

“I want to go there with you, vita.” He takes my hand. “I run the restaurant and you write.”

My eyes drop to our joined hands.

“But only if you want to,” he adds. “If not, we open one here.”

“We?”

“Yeah, we.”

“What would you call it?”

“Call what?”

“Your restaurant.”

He leans back on his elbows.

“So?” I nudge him with my shoulder. “What's it called?”

“I don't know.”

“Liar.”

“I genuinely don't know.”

“You've definitely thought about it.”

“Maybe.”

I gasp dramatically. “Ha!”

“Don't look so proud of yourself.”

“I am proud of myself.”

His shoulder bumps mine.

For a moment he watches the sailboats drifting across the water.

Then he shrugs.

“Tirreno.”

“The sea?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because Sicily and Calabria spend half their time arguing about who's better.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “But they're both looking at the same sea.”

Something about the answer settles deep inside me.

“Tirreno,” I repeat softly, letting the word roll around in my head. I like the way it sounds, and somehow I like what it means even more.