I’d be leaving in two days. Did I really want to waste more time because I was afraid Rafe might reject me? I had nothing to lose. I might not ever make it back here—lose my opportunity forever. God knows, I didn’t want to be one of those old people regretting not kissing a boy one summer in Italy. I sucked in a breath, ignored my racing heart, and went for it. “Is it the same with us? Are we afraid to take that next step in case we blow it up?”
He stiffened. His head cranked around so we were super close. I studied the full curve of his lip and hoped I hadn’t made a fool out of myself. “I didn’t know what was best. Have you wanted me to make a move?”
My heart pounded so loudly I knew he heard it. “Yes.”
I met his stare and tumbled deep, finally seeing the raw want there, the firm set of his jaw that told me he’d been holding back. Relief rushed through me. “Livia,” he breathed, my name dancing on his lips like the most beautiful sound in the world. “I’m crazy about you, dolcezza. I’ve been dying to kiss you, but I didn’t want to push when I knew this was all we had. I wanted you to remember this summer like I did.”
“How will you remember it?” I whispered.
He leaned in close and cupped my cheeks with his warm hands. His forehead pressed against mine with pure intimacy. “The season I met the girl of my dreams and my best friend,” he said. The declaration shook me to the core, and then he was kissing me, his lips warm and soft and patient. I looped my arms around his neck, my fingers in the dark silk of his hair, and kissed him back. Slowly, over and over, learning each other’s taste and texture, his lips slid over mine, then sipped me like I was fine wine. I shuddered and my insides fell apart, opening up for more space to allow him in, and I knew in that moment I loved him.
We broke apart slowly. The heat of his body was like fire, drawing me in, so he tucked me against his body and held tight, the boat rocking us in a gentle embrace.
“What’s dolcezza mean?” I asked.
“Sweetness.”
A smile curved my lips. “I like that. Will you write to me?”
A half laugh rumbled his chest. “With a real pen and paper?” he teased.
“Yes. Exactly like that.” I tipped my chin up to study his face. “I’d like us to write letters to each other. I think there are things I can say I may not be able to over the phone.”
He grinned, kissing me again, and desire rolled through me, gripping and sweet and terrifying in a way I’d never experienced. It was as if his touch had seeped not only into my skin but into my blood and caused this need. I wondered if I’d ever be the same or if he’d ruined me for everyone afterward. “Yes, I’ll write you. But, Livia, I need you to promise you won’t feel guilty if there’s a guy you like. I don’t want to hold you back.”
“I won’t want anyone else.”
“But if you do. That was another reason I didn’t want to start something between us. We live in two different countries and this is the time for you to be free, not saving yourself for a summer romance when we may never see each other again.”
The words hurt and tore, but at the same time, I was filled with gratitude. Rafe was right. We couldn’t give promises to each other right now. It had just begun, and I’d be gone before we could see what came next. I owed that to both of us, even though my heart screamed there would be no other like Rafe.
“I promise. Same for you. We’ll see what happens, just like we did this summer.”
He nodded. “Promise.”
The night was magical. We spent it with our friends, celebrating the end of summer, but Rafe and I had crossed the threshold. When I kissed him for the last time, I knew he was different from any casual crush. He’d stolen my heart this summer.
I returned home. My parents informed me they’d decided to formally file for divorce. I packed up boxes along with my father, who was moving to an apartment. Mom dropped me off, helped me set up my room, introduced herself to my roommate, and waved goodbye.
All I could think about was Positano and the man I’d left behind.
chapter eleven
Bailey
Positano reminded her of a perfectly wrapped Christmas present, complete with bows, crisp, colorful paper, and sparkle. With each turn of a narrow street corner, or glimpse of a stunning view, the box revealed layer after layer of delightful surprises, increasing its initial value.
At first sight, the packed crowds wearing designer clothes, glossy yachts docked at sea, and shops filled with extravagant goods gave Bailey a sense of indulged tourism. She’d seen the same type of photographs from Monaco and Paris—rich cities where the entitled could laze and play before departing to their real lives. But as she looked deeper, she discovered so much more to unearth—secrets woven into a gorgeous landscape of a simpler culture.
The lone Italian sipping at a café in silence, seemingly beyond the dim chatter of the crowd below. The old shopkeeper with the thick accent and gnarled fingers, nodding enthusiastically as Bailey lifted a distressed leather bag, the sharp, oily scent curling around her nostrils. The pair of lovers with hands entwined, caught up in their own world, walking down the steep stone steps as each plateau of Positano revealed itself in glory. The crush of narrow side streets leading to endless stairs and revealing private treasures such as quirky, colorfully painted doors and the wild bloom of flowers and lemon trees. The handsome boy on the scooter, zipping through the crowds with an expert ease, brown skin gleaming in the sun.
It was a place of scents and sounds, of tastes and textures that flooded her senses and overwhelmed. She itched to sketch and draw what buzzed around her, to capture the fleeting feeling of beauty that was a daily fixture to the locals.
She talked her sisters into eating at a tiny café tucked down a zigzag alley, farther away from the stunning balcony views. It was crowded and loud, but Bailey snagged the last empty table on the street and ordered a glass of red wine.
Dev wrinkled her nose and opened her menu. “Really, Bae? We have an opportunity to eat at a fancy place overlooking the water and you drag us to a pizza place?”
“We can do your choice tomorrow,” Bailey said firmly. “This spoke to me. Sometimes, the pricey, touristy ones are a trap.”
Pris laughed. “Says someone who’s never been to Italy, but what the hell? I’ll have the pizza. It does smell good.”
Dev obviously didn’t like it but gave up grudgingly. “Fine. I’m starving.”
They ordered and sat together for a while in silence. Bailey relaxed, taking in the leisurely street crowd and the lilting sounds of conversations in Italian drifting in the air. “I wonder if they have a theater in Positano,” she wondered aloud.