Rafe and I adjusted back into a routine, and the past year seemed to melt away, as if we’d just left each other for a long weekend. We hung out when he wasn’t working, and I spent more time with Julia and Ava, who was back for the summer. One lazy late afternoon, we lounged on chairs in the garden, surrounded by the scent of lemon trees and the vivid blooms of wisteria and bougainvillea. I’d asked if I could sketch him and he agreed. “Can you tilt your head to the right?” I instructed.
“Do I look dumb?” he muttered. “I feel dumb. Don’t get my profile.”
A giggle threatened to escape. “Why? The moment I met you I thought you were hot.”
He brightened. “Really?”
“Really. Plus, you have a great profile. Very Romanesque.”
“I have a big nose.”
“It’s perfect.” I loved the tinge of vulnerability he shared. I guess I never figured men were hard on their bodies like women. “No man wants a petite, feminine nose, right?”
“I guess. I made plans for us tonight.”
“Oh, a surprise date. Where are we going?”
He looked pleased with himself. My fingers raced over the pad, trying to capture the elusive expression of male pride. “We’re going dancing tonight.”
My eyes widened. “Like club dancing?”
He laughed. “Of course. Do you think Italians only waltz to Sinatra?”
I laughed too. “You’re right, that was silly. Are we going with the crew?”
“Yes, they’re meeting us at Music on the Rocks. It’s usually jammed from the tourists, but I know one of the guys working there, so he’ll get us a table.”
“Ah, big-time. Like the Mafia, you have connections.”
His brows drew down in a frown. “There’s no such thing as Mafia. It’s just a fictional story to explain away how hardworking Italians became successful.”
I paused. “Hm, interesting. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
His shoulders and face relaxed. A hint of red stained his cheekbones. “No problem. I just have this thing with people calling every Italian who makes money part of the mob.”
I bit my lip. No need to challenge him when he was sensitive. Maybe the articles I’d read about mob wars and all those popular movies weren’t true.
I focused on the sketch, which had taken on a life of its own. He leaned back in the chair, one leg bent, hand resting on his knee as he stared back at me. I’d used extra shadow to give him a bit of a moody look, emphasizing those fierce brows and intense eyes, his overlong hair and slightly stubbled jaw. But softening the angles of his face gave him an overall aura of a man who loved; a man whose heart I wanted to capture because he’d already captured mine.
Sweat beaded on my upper lip. It was so obvious how I felt about him by looking at the sketch. For a moment, I decided to crumple it up and tell him we’d try again another time. I knew he wouldn’t fight me. Rafe respected my privacy, especially around my art.
“Is it done?” he asked.
I nodded, still hesitant. “I don’t know if you should see it.”
Another guy would push or tease. But Rafe nodded. “Sketching is personal. I’d love to see, but I understand if you’re not ready, Livia.”
His gentle smile changed my mind. On shaky legs, I rose and brought over the pad, turning it over to him.
He studied it for a long time, his gaze almost caressing as he took in every pencil stroke of his very essence staring back at him, an essence I saw because I was in love with him.
Then he tipped his head up and slowly smiled. “Damn, I’m hot.”
I laughed, and he grabbed me by the loop of my jeans and pulled me onto his lap, kissing me. It was hard to be around each other and not touch, as if our flesh craved contact at all times. I kissed him back. Instead of feeling vulnerable, I felt like he’d given me a gift. The gift of having another person see me for who I really was.
That night, we danced at Music on the Rocks for hours. The place was an open structure, with no windows, situated at the top of the cliff overlooking the sea. Couches and chairs surrounded the space. Rafe’s friend had saved us a long sofa where we all crowded in and ordered expensive drinks, then squeezed onto the dance floor to move to techno and pop hits that reminded me of the clubs in New York. Afterward, sweaty, a bit giggly, a tiny bit tipsy, we stumbled out and down to the beach, where we could still hear the music drifting in the breeze. Breaking off from everyone else, we sat on the rocks, our bare feet in the surf, my head against his chest, arms wrapped around each other in perfect harmony.
My blood ran hot and fizzy like champagne. And I knew in that moment what I truly wanted in my life. “Rafe?”
“Hmm?”
“I don’t want to go back at the end of summer. I want to stay.”
I held my breath as I waited for his reaction. Of course, it was crazy. My parents would say I was a silly teen girl with a crush. My aunt would wave her hand and smile and say love was wonderful but fickle; to grab the moment and not to worry about the future. But the thought of leaving him to spend another year alone, when I knew I belonged with him, was torturous.
His dark eyes were serious and gleamed with emotion. “I don’t want you to leave either.”
“What if there’s a way I could stay? Transfer to a school here? Or, I don’t know, find a work program or something. Maybe Aunt Silvia can help.”
He pressed his forehead against mine, his breath ragged over my lips. “Livia, your parents would never allow it. And right now, you need their financial support. You are not ready to be on your own yet.”
My stomach dropped. “Okay. I’m sorry—I thought—never mind.”
Humiliated, I tried to move away, but he held on to my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “No, dolcezza, you don’t understand. I want you here with me more than anything! The idea of you returning home and knowing I won’t see you for almost a year breaks me apart. But there’s too much for you to lose right now. You need to finish college and get your degree. Your parents would never forgive me, or your aunt, if you just quit school and ran off to live with me. We have to look at the future.”
I knew he was right, but my heart didn’t want to be rational. I craved to steep myself in these feelings with him, to explore a different life than I ever imagined. I shut my eyes against the image of leaving him behind. “I know you’re right,” I whispered, “but is it so wrong to know what you want, even if I’m young?”
“No, but I am older than you. Even my father would disapprove. If we can stay strong until you graduate, then we can be together. It will be on our terms.”