by Marie Meyer
“God, Sophia,” he said, drawing me to his side. “I’m so sorry.”
The tightness in the back of my throat was present, but I was a master at holding tears at bay. No amount of crying could bring her back, so what was the point. “Thanks. After that practice, I hung up my cleats, threw myself into school, and haven’t partied since. I went from one extreme to the next. I don’t handle surprises well, so if I have a plan, I feel more in control.”
“Control’s only an illusion, though,” he huffed.
“Maybe, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to grasp on to it with every fiber of my being.”
“I’m sorry about Penley,” Lucas said, rubbing my shoulder.
I looked up at him. “You know something, I haven’t told that story out loud, ever. Now you know another thing no one else knows. But I feel lighter after telling it.”
“Glad I could help. Before we go to the museum, there’s something I want to show you.” Lucas grabbed my elbow and led me to the right, a busy intersection in front of us.
I looked to the left and right multiple times, as did Lucas, waiting for the opportune moment to cross. “Where are we going?”
“Now!” Lucas shouted.
“No, wait!” I yelled, digging in my heels. There wasn’t enough time for us to cross, too many vehicles raced toward us.
Lucas grabbed my elbow and pulled me into the busy intersection. A dozen motor scooters barreled straight for us, as well as a tour bus.
Yanking my arm free of his, I broke into a run, leaping onto the sidewalk just as a handful of scooters whizzed by.
“Are you…,” I breathed heavily, “trying to get us killed?” I extended my hand, motioning to the ever-flowing traffic.
“Nah,” he laughed, trying to catch his breath, too. “We just needed to cross the street, and now you can say you crossed the street like a true Neapolitan. “You’ve got to cross when you can, or you’ll spend your whole vacation on the wrong side of the street. What fun would that be?”
I’d memorized a few Italian swear words before coming here, all of which resounded in my head at the moment. “Getting hit by a tour bus doesn’t sound fun.” I glared at him.
“Oh, come on, Sophia, there were at least twelve feet between you and that bus.”
“That’s way too close!”
He continued to grin at me, his eyes thin slits against the bright sun. “Are you going to be mad at me all day? Should we end our friendship here and part ways?” He held out his right hand as an offering to shake, bringing his left hand up to his forehead, creating a sun shield for his eyes.
Hell no, I wasn’t leaving. I didn’t want to be alone today. The prospect of spending my last couple of days in Naples, with him, made me giddy with delight. “No.” I shook my head.
“Good. I didn’t want to say good-bye either.” Lucas laced his fingers through mine, again, smoothing his thumb over the top of mine.
I looked at our intertwined hands, feeling the same rush of energy, the same connection I had yesterday. I reveled in the fact that the connection grew stronger each time.
“It’s not much farther,” Lucas said, leading us north.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He winked.
I gave him a wary glance. “Are there more streets to cross?”
“Aw, come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”
My sense of adventure? Did I have one anymore? I used to. “I told you, I don’t do that anymore. Besides, blowing off med school for a spur-of-the-moment Italian vacation is adventurous enough for me, thanks.”
“You said you don’t party anymore, but that’s not the same as having an adventure. Lighten up, Sophia, live a little.”
My heart gave a thump, and I swallowed nervously. No expectations, Soph. They only lead to disappointment. But adventure? Where could adventure lead?
I know where I hoped it would lead…but was that expecting too much?
Chapter Thirteen
Lucas smiled widely and squeezed my hand before he turned right, leading us down a street teeming with people. I bet half the city was congregated here. Colorful flowers, vegetables, fruits, artwork, jewelry, and other goods lined the street as vendors set up their shops. People milled down the center, haggling over prices in search of bargains.
“This is incredible,” I said in awe.
“It is cool. We’ll check it out in a minute, but first I want to show you something over here.” He ticked his head to the left.
Pressing his fingers gently to my elbow, he led me away from the shouting merchants. We crossed the street again, but this time my life didn’t flash before my eyes. The motorist traffic was significantly less at this intersection, due to the huge marketplace behind us.
“Here it is,” Lucas said, pointing at a shadow box decoration on the outside wall of a small coffee shop. “The pride and joy of Napoli.”
“Oh yeah, I saw this in a few travel guides. It’s the shrine to Diego Maradona.”
“Arguably the best footballer who’s ever played the game.”
I took in the contents of the shrine: Diego Maradona’s picture, a lock of his hair, a letter to the city of Naples, and what was presumably a vial of Neapolitan tears, shed when Diego left Naples to play for Argentina.
Flipping open my purse, I pulled my phone out to take a picture.
“When you said you played soccer, this came to mind,” Lucas said. “I thought you might like to see it. It’s sort of a thing in Naples.”
I snapped a couple shots and then zoomed in on each of the individual relics, taking close-ups.
“Yeah, this is cool. Thanks for showing me.” I crooked my finger, motioning for him to come closer. Stretching up on my tiptoes, I met him halfway. I put my lips close to his ear, cupped a hand around my mouth, and whispered, “I’ve always been more of an Arsenal fan.” I lowered my feet to the ground and put my index finger to my lips, grinning wider. “Shhh.”
Lucas winked. “Your secret is safe with me.” He held his hands over his heart.
“Good.” I blew out an exaggerated breath. “With my Italian heritage, I’m pretty much a traitor.”
A rich, low rumble of laughter bubbled from his chest. “I don’t follow soccer.” He shook his head. “But maybe I should give Arsenal a chance.” He winked.
“You’re not a soccer fan? Ugh, you’re killing me!” I mimicked his earlier reaction to my video game confession.
“Then I should keep you close by. Your expertise may come in handy should I ever design a soccer game.”
My heart clenched around his words. Keep me close? I wanted that more than I realized.
“Want to see what the street vendors are pushing?” He nodded to the chaos.
I looked at the crowd, larger than before. “Yeah,” I said, turning back to him. “But first, I would love to see what is on the menu in there.” I pointed to the coffee shop entrance. The smells drifting out of the open door were mouthwatering.
“I like the way you think, Sophia.” He tapped the side of his forehead, then pointed, smiling at me.
The quaint café was nothing like the commercial coffee shops back home. Soccer memorabilia adorned the walls and a plethora of liquor bottles lined the shelf behind the bar.
An old man came around the corner. “Cosa avrai?”
I looked to Lucas, hoping he understood what the man had said and order first.
“Un caffé,” Lucas answered, then turned to me. “It’s espresso.”
I wrinkled my nose. I preferred my coffee with more cream and sugar than actual coffee, but from the serious-looking espresso machine behind the counter, I didn’t think I would find that here.
Lucas leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Be adventurous.”
His breath tickled, sending shivers down my back.
Pulling away, he looked into my eyes. “You’ve got to try it. You’ll be missing out on a Neapolitan treasure.”
I still wasn’t convinced, bu
t I didn’t want to keep the old barista waiting. “Okay. I’ll have the same.”
Without any pleasantries, the old man went to work, pulling levers that made the machine whir and hiss. It began to spit a dark, steaming liquid into ceramic coffee cups.
When the machine emptied, the man withdrew the cups and brought them over to the counter. I reached into my bag for my wallet, but Lucas already had his money in hand, paying for his and mine.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, putting my wallet back in my purse. “This isn’t a date.”
Lucas pocketed his change, scooped the cups from the bar, and flashed me a quick smile. “Says who?” He handed me a cup. “Besides, I wanted to.”
I took his offering. “Thank you. But I get the next round.”
“Always pushing me around. Whatever you say, Linebacker.”
We made our way to the back of the café and sat down. Lucas took a sip of his and closed his eyes, seeming to enjoy the infusion of caffeine to his system.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he moaned. “Try it.”
I held the cup to my nose and took a whiff. A strong, earthy aroma rose on the steam, filling my nostrils. Pressing my lips to the rim of the cup, I took a tentative sip. When the espresso first hit my tongue, it was unassuming but gave way to a bold, bitter aftertaste the moment I swallowed. I scrunched my eyes together and stuck out my tongue. “That’s disgusting!” I choked, setting the cup down.
Lucas burst out laughing. “Not a fan, huh?”
“Blech, no!” I peered at the revolting liquid in my cup and then at him. “You actually like this stuff?”
“I do. Working the early shift at Starbucks, I would power down a couple shots and be good to go.”
“You work at Starbucks? I thought you designed video games.”
“Used to work at Starbucks. While I was in college.” Lucas took another sip of espresso. “And, yes, I do design video games.”
I slid my cup across the table. “Well, then, here you go. Enjoy.” I wrinkled my nose in disgust.
Lucas opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted when his phone pulsed with a high-pitched tone. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled it out and connected the call.
“Hey, Deano, what’s up?” he answered.
Holding my gaze, he mouthed, Sorry, I have to take this. He shook his head apologetically.
“Oh, no problem. Go right ahead,” I whispered, waving for him to continue his conversation.
He gave me a tight-lipped smile and went back to his call, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, Dean, I’m still here.”
Should I give him some privacy?
“No,” Lucas said with a chuckle.
Yes, I should. I stood, shouldered by purse, and took a step toward the counter when I felt a hand circle around my wrist.
“Hold on a sec, Dean,” Lucas said quickly, and then brought the phone away from his ear. “Where are you going?” There was a worried lilt to his voice.
“To get some water.” I stuck my tongue out. “Can still taste that god-awful stuff.” I pointed to the cups in front of him. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” he said, smiling softly. I liked that smile; it was the one that showcased his dimple the best.
I smiled in return and he let go of my arm, bringing the phone back to his ear. “Yeah, about that. I don’t know,” he said.
Giving him a chance to speak privately, I made my way to the bar where the grumpy barista was busy unpacking a box.
“Scusami.” I cleared my throat, hating the way Italian sounded coming out of my mouth. It was disgraceful, considering it was my grandmother’s native tongue. “Acqua, per favore.” I hoped that was how to say “water” in Italian; if not, I had no clue what I just ordered.
The old man stood up straight, pulled a glass from behind the bar, and filled it with ice and water. I smiled at the small victory.
“Water,” he said, setting the glass down on the bar top.
“Thank you.” I shook my head. “Grazie, I mean.”
With a nod of his head, he pushed the ice water in my direction and made his way back to where he’d been working.
I picked up the glass and turned, taking a large gulp. The lingering taste of bitter coffee still coated my tongue, but the water was refreshing.
From across the room, I watched Lucas. Still relaxed, he sat with his back to the chair and his legs stretched out and crossed in front of him. But the expression on his face said something very different. His sharp jaw was set, pressing his lips into a thin line, the dimple long gone. Then there were his eyes, focused on something far in the distance.
I took another drink. Lucas nodded a few times and then pulled the phone from his ear and disconnected the call. Less than a beat later his eyes landed on me, my cue to join him again.
As I sat down, Lucas smiled and his dimple returned. “You didn’t have to leave.”
I pointed to the glass sitting in front of me. “I really needed some water after drinking that crap.” I gestured to his twin coffee cups.
“I’m sorry we were interrupted. That was Dean.”
“No apology necessary.” I shooed it away.
“He’s getting antsy. He’s ready for me to come back.”
“Is something wrong?”
His playful demeanor from earlier was gone. He shook his head. “No, everything’s chill.” He didn’t sound too sure of his answer. “Dean’s an introvert. Not comfortable putting himself out there. When it comes to pitching ideas to developers, that’s where I come in.” Lucas’s expression shifted, like he was trying to convey something he couldn’t articulate. “The thing is, I’m just not sure I’m ready to go back yet.”
Why didn’t he want to go home? I wanted to ask, but that would have been presumptuous on my part. Whatever the reason, it seemed personal. If he wanted me to know, he would have told me. Then another thought came to mind—maybe he just wasn’t ready to leave his present company.
I thought of Aldo and what he’d said about little bumps. Lucas hadn’t expected me to bump into him, but maybe that’s why he was eager to stay longer, because he was pleased I had.
* * *
After Lucas powered down both cups of caffé, we shuffled toward the free-for-all at the other end of the street, joining the throng of tourists and locals bargaining and purchasing goods from the noisy street vendors.
The dingy architecture rose high into the sky, standing in contrast next to the vibrant bouquets of fresh-cut flowers, seasonal fruits and vegetables, and homemade trinkets. The hot moist air carried delicate wafts of lavender, strawberries, and freesia, mingled with the saltiness of the ocean.
Lucas pressed close and wrapped his arm around my waist. The day was shaping up to be stifling hot and the humidity was in the mail. Trickles of moisture ran down my back and between the narrow valley between my breasts. It didn’t help matters that I had an insanely hot Californian pressed against me either. But by no means did I want Lucas to move. I’d endure the flames of hell if it meant I could keep his body near mine.
I swiped the back of my hand across my forehead, glad I’d braided the sides back today.
Vendors sang, yelled, screeched, hollered, and wailed, anything that would capture the interest of a potential customer and bring them to the stall. Lucas navigated us through the crowd, keeping his body in a protective stance behind mine as we inched along.
“Crazy, huh?” Lucas said at my ear.
Despite the heat, I shivered, nodding my response.
“Pesce fresco! Polpo, mollusco, vongole veraci!” an old Italian fishmonger cried, trying to be heard over his louder neighbor.
Passing by the stall, he plunged his hands into a tank of water and withdrew an octopus. A real, live octopus. “Polpo!” He held the creature out to Lucas and me, an offering.
I hated seafood with a passion. The one time I attempted to cook salmon, Mom, Nonna, and I ended up sick for days. Stomach cramps, puking, the whole nine yards. It
was horrible. Mom banned me from the kitchen for months. I wasn’t even allowed to put a piece of bread in the toaster, and I’m still not allowed within inches of preparing seafood.
I shook my head and Lucas kept us moving forward. The next few vendors were pushing the same items, with little variations in their menus.
Ugh, is that a vat of eyeballs? My stomach churned as the next vendor we encountered stirred a large barrel full of something round, gooey, and disgusting. I twisted my neck to look over my shoulder. “What is that?” I asked Lucas.
He leaned down again, our faces only a couple inches apart. “Lunch?” he suggested.
“Uh, no.” I stuck my tongue out.
He laughed. I could feel the rumbles in his chest vibrate against my back. The musical sound of his laughter was beautiful and the vibrations of his chest provided the perfect accompaniment.
“Oh, look!” I pointed. A few stalls away, a vendor displayed belts, scarves, and other homemade goods. “My nonna would love one of those.” I searched for Lucas’s hand behind me and clamped down, pulling him along. “Come on.”
“Yes, ma’am. I will not stand between a lady and her bargain.” He chuckled.
Shouldering past other shoppers, I put on the brakes when I spotted the fuchsia-colored scarf adorned with pale pink peonies. Running my fingers over the silky fabric, I smiled. “Nonna loves peonies.”
“Cinquanta euro,” a grizzled old woman said from the back of the stall. She didn’t make any move to get up, just stared, waiting for us to fork over the cash. By the expression on her face, I could tell she’d seen everything. Probably set up her shop, right here, the same way, for the last fifty years. Lucas and I were as common as the flies to her.