“She’s flown here now and then, but mostly they write letters.”
I raised a brow. “Like old-fashioned paper with a pen? No phone?”
“Guess so. My father has a drawer filled with her letters. Maybe we’re missing out on something. Didn’t you mention you write?”
“Oh, just journaling and poems. I guess you’re right. You can get more intimate in writing than speaking. I just never pegged my aunt for the love-letter type.”
“They are both happy. I’m not sure if it’s exclusive—my father probably knows that would be hard to ask—but when they are together it’s real.”
“I like that,” I said slowly. “You’re right. My aunt is happy and that’s what matters.”
I ached to know everything about this man and the way his mind worked. He was so different from anyone I’d ever met. “What was it like growing up here?” I asked curiously.
He cocked his head. “Lovely. Simple. Sometimes hard. Losing my mother made me spin out for a while. I was angry and fought a lot with my father. I remember I came home drunk one night and blamed him for ruining my life. Told him I didn’t want to end up like him, stuck catering to rich people all day while we had nothing.”
He winced at my expression. “Yeah, I know. But I was so mad and there was no one else to take it. Dad listened to me yell and told me he understood. That I was free to go make a life for myself. That he’d pay for college or help support me if I wanted to travel. He said he only wanted what my mother did—that I was living a life that satisfied me.”
“Your father sounds amazing,” I murmured.
“He is. Eventually, I worked my way through the mess. And along the way, I realized I didn’t necessarily crave what all those rich people have. I’d watch them with their fancy clothes and jewels and how they seemed to worship everything outside themselves. And it made me sad. For me, a boat gliding on the water, or the pull of a fish on my line, or drinking a caffè in the sun gives me more happiness. Sure, they buy the experiences, but I always wonder how much pleasure they gain. Half of the time they’re taking pictures or have this bored expression like they’re afraid to show excitement.” His crooked smile and his reflective words kept me transfixed. “Do you think I’m silly?”
I shook my head, charmed at the adjective he chose. “No! I think you’re right. I can’t tell you how many people I know, my parents included, who are so unhappy all the time. Like they look at their lives and wonder how they got there. I don’t want that.”
“Are you close to your parents?”
I gave a snort. “No. Oh, don’t get me wrong, they don’t do anything bad. But . . . the reason I’m with Aunt Silvia this summer is to get me out of the house while my parents figure out if they want to get a divorce.” Raw pain punched through my chest. “They may be better apart, but I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to deal with separate households and new boyfriends or girlfriends. I don’t want to be replaced one day. I hate it. And I blame them because they never seem to listen to each other—just accuse and yell, and then there’s days of silence.”
Tears burned my eyelids. I realized I hadn’t expressed my true thoughts to anyone, keeping them locked up tight. To my aunt, I pretended I understood. To my parents, I tried to be the peacemaker, believing if I tried hard enough maybe I could force them to realize they loved each other again. To my friends, I said it was cool, because so many of them had divorced parents already.
Rafe touched my knee, his fingers a gentle brush of heat and comfort. “I’m sorry, Livia.”
He said nothing further. I settled into the understanding silence and felt something loosen inside me. He didn’t try to tell me it would all be okay, or offer any superficial condolences. As if he realized words couldn’t take away my hurt, but he’d sit with me in it, and be my friend.
I wasn’t alone.
We spent the day talking, swimming, and sun worshipping. Finally, he restarted the engine and turned the wheel, easing around a crowd of boats docked and packed with a group who waved and shouted to us. I waved back, catching their joy at being out on such a beautiful day.
As it got later, Rafe guided the boat to Praiano, a small fishing village that wasn’t as crowded, situated a few miles away from Positano. He secured the boat, once again helping me down with his hand in mine.
When we began walking ashore, he didn’t let go.
He took me through the village and to Kasai, a restaurant in front of a B and B that offered stunning views. Scoring a table next to the balcony, we sipped Pellegrino and caught our breath from the heat and walk.
He spoke in rapid Italian to the waiter, asking a few questions about the menu, then translated. I ordered my traditional favorite—spaghetti and meatballs—and a Coke. Rafe ordered the pasta in truffle oil and insisted I had to taste it. “You speak English so well,” I said after the waiter left. “I’ve been trying to get better at Italian, but I think I suck at languages.”
He laughed. “I learned English young, so it was more natural. I’m just no good at certain words—called, um, slang?”
“Yeah, we love making up cool words for the older generation to figure out.”
His dark eyes sparkled. “I hope you don’t consider me ancient at twenty-three.”
I gasped. “Are you that old? I’m jailbait.”
He lifted a brow. “Jail what?”
I laughed for so long, he laughed too. “I’m sorry, I’m kidding. I just turned nineteen in May. I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”
“Especially since we are friends.”
I stiffened. Suddenly, my mood crashed. Were we just friends? But he’d held my hand on the walk over. Was it just a casual thing? Was he not interested in more? Had I been an idiot thinking an older guy who lived in Italy would look at me romantically rather than as a buddy to hang with? I forced a smile to hide my misery. “Yes. Friends.”
We lingered over dinner, and I tried to enjoy it, but my mind kept going over his words. I shouldn’t be so disappointed, and I hated myself for believing we were doing more than casually flirting. Why did I have to be so awkward with guys? Another girl would up her game and make sure he knew I was interested in more than friendship. Instead, I felt tongue-tied and craved being safe at home, where I could figure things out. I was quiet on the way back, and this time he didn’t take my hand.
We got back on the boat and lay out on our backs to stare up at the stars. It was like a massive pattern of crackled lights smashed against a velvet background. I breathed in the warm air, being rocked gently back and forth by the water, and tried to savor the moment. If this was all I could have from Rafe, I’d take it. I had no choice.