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I chase the question away with a gulp of wine. A strange feeling swirls in my gut as I refocus on Luka. Maybe we’re not as different as I thought.

“What about you?” he asks, nodding toward my camera. “What got you into photography?”

A simple answer rushes to my lips, the one I typically share. I took a class in high school and it was fun. But that’s only one fraction of the story, barely scratching the surface. The way Luka shared something so personal makes me want to reciprocate, to pay him back with some honesty of my own. And something about the peaceful calm of the cove makes it feel safe. Like I can say anything, and the island will keep it secret. “Actually, it was my dad too.”

I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. I shouldn’t be so anxious talking about this memory, but anything involving my dad always elicited such a sharp reaction from my mom. As if the word dad was made of barbs. “He did photography. It was one of the only things I knew about him. When I was about nine years old, I was looking for a toy or something, I can’t remember what. Anyway, I couldn’t find it anywhere, so I went to search in my mom’s room. I looked everywhere and was about to give up, but then I found this box in the corner of her closet, hidden beneath a blanket.” It had only one word scrawled across the top, like a beacon glowing in the darkness. Jadran. “Inside was an old camera.”

I think back to the way my hands trembled as I picked it up, traced the engraving on the back. Made in Yugoslavia. It felt like I was holding an ancient artifact from some lost, mysterious land. My dad, who had always been a vague figure of the past, suddenly felt real.

“I started playing with it, trying to figure out how to take a photo. But then my mom found me.”

“She wasn’t pleased?” Luka asks, arching one brow.

I shake my head. “I’ve never seen her so angry. She told me I wasn’t allowed to touch it again because I might break it.” Even back then, I knew the real reason: Dad was off-limits. He belonged to the past, to Yugoslavia, to Tolba. It made me bitter, the way she kept pieces of him locked away, out of reach.

“But, little did she know, this only made me want it more,” I go on. A puzzle I needed to solve. “Any chance I could, when my mom wasn’t home, I took out the camera. In high school, I began taking photography classes. That’s when I realized the camera was already broken.”

The rest of the story falls out of me easily. “I wanted to become a professional photographer, but my mom hated the idea. She said it wasn’t a stable job, but I suspect . . . she didn’t like that it reminded her of him.”

The memory of her hunched over the kitchen table, sobbing, slams into me. I immediately shove it away.

“You still could. Become a photographer,” Luka offers.

I shrug. “Sometimes I take photos at my job, for ads and events.” The only part I truly enjoyed. A slew of images I’d taken for the Napa winery campaign currently sits in a folder on my laptop, waiting to be transformed into social media posts. “I work in marketing,” I explain.

Luka nods, silence stretching between us. “What was your father’s name?” he asks, the low rumble of his voice gently breaking the quiet.

“Jadran.”

“To Jadran.” He lifts his glass toward mine and I clink it against his. As I drink, I’m startled by how much lighter I feel. Maybe I should’ve opened up more often, with friends or the guys I dated. But it never felt right before, not like here.

“I’m guessing you weren’t close with your mom, then?” he asks, soft, cautious. Like he knows it’s probably a sore subject.

“No,” I say quickly. But after talking about my dad, it feels easier to think of her. I pause, considering the question more. “When I was younger, maybe. We used to go to the beach a lot together. She liked being near the sea. But as I got older, not so much.”

“Why’s that?”

“I suppose it was my dating life,” I blurt without thinking. Must be the wine going to my head.

A smirk verging on devilish curls his lips as he leans forward. “She didn’t like your boyfriends?”

“No,” I say quickly. “If anything, it was my lack of them. I prefer to keep things . . . more casual.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s just easier.” I try to recall the last date I went on, but the details are all fuzzy. All I can remember is how the guy wouldn’t stop talking about pickleball. I down the last of my wine, wishing I never mentioned the topic.

“Do you want another glass?” Luka asks.

I eye him, a bead of sweat trailing down my hairline. “I’m fine. I think I’m ready for a swim.” The water looks downright delicious the way it’s shimmering. And I need something to quench the heat suddenly coursing through me.

“Good idea.”

We both stand. I slip off my dress, while Luka pulls his shirt over his head, revealing a toned torso. If I thought swimming would cool me down, I was wrong.

At least I’m not the only one. Before I glance away, I catch his gaze flicking over my black one-piece down to my calves. I’d bet he’s a legs guy. The idea pleases me more than it should.

Without hesitation, Luka turns and dives smoothly into the sea. I step to the edge of the boat, hesitating for a second before doing the same.