One Italian Summer(22)

Carlo brings the plates over; the filleted whitefish sits beside sautéed vegetables and roasted baby fingerling potatoes. My stomach rumbles in anticipation.

“This looks incredible,” I say.

“Enjoy,” Carlo says.

He leaves, and I pick up my fork, lifting off a flaky bite.

“I swear,” I say, “I think this hotel has my favorite restaurant in the world?”

Adam looks at me. “It’s up there,” he says. “But this just tells me you have not been nearly enough places.”

I think about Eric and our yearly trip to Palm Springs, about our five-year anniversary in Miami.

“You’re not wrong,” I say.

“Have you been to Europe before?”

“Yes,” I say. It’s true, technically. London counts, right?

We sink into the meal. The fish is perfectly buttery; the vegetables are drenched in olive oil; the pasta is al dente. I finally cave and end up ordering a glass of wine.

Adam was raised in Florida but now lives in Chicago. He loves Italy, but not as much as he loves France—France actually has better tomatoes and cheese, he tells me. Provence has the best produce in the world. His mother was born in Paris and spent her childhood there. He speaks fluent French.

He likes hiking, dogs, and air travel. He doesn’t love being in the same place too long.

He’s single.

He offers the information up in the form of an ex-girlfriend he went to Tokyo with a few months back. It’s subtle, but effective.

“It was a terrible trip, but I guess I can’t blame the city for our breakup; it was a long time coming.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I’m not,” he says. “Who knows where I’d be now. One thing different, everything different.”

I fiddle with my wineglass, swallowing the remainder.

“Are you a dessert person?” Adam asks me.

I have a sweet tooth; I always have. I get it from my father. My mother never cared for sugar, and neither does Eric. “Give me a bag of pretzels over a bar of chocolate any day,” my mother used to say.

“Yes,” I say. “Definitely.”

“They have this berry torte that’s seasonal. I’m not sure it’s on the menu this year, but I think we can get Carlo to deliver us one.”

Sure enough, the berry torte idea is welcomed with enthusiasm, and then minutes later a delicate berry and cream concoction is delivered to our table.

“Ladies first,” Adam says, sliding it over to me.

I take a spoonful. It’s predictably divine.

“Ohmygod.”

He takes a bite, too. “I know.”

“I think this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I’m not kidding.”

Adam sits back and looks at me. Really looks at me. I feel his gaze on me like it’s a hand.

“You haven’t told me if there is anyone at home,” he says. He picks up an espresso cup that Carlo brought out with the dessert.

I swallow and down some water. I nod.

Adam raises his eyebrows. “So that’s a yes.”

“Yes, it’s a yes.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“What does that mean?”

He stares at me. His gaze seems to soften, lift. Like before where his palm was, now it’s just his fingertips. “You seem like the kind of woman who likes to belong to someone.”

I feel his words physically. They strike me right in the sternum.

“I was supposed to be on this trip with my mother,” I tell him. “She always loved Positano. She was here…” My voice trails off as I think about Carol, just today, seawater spraying off her on the boat, her mouth half-open, her eyes closed.

“What happened?” Adam says gently.

“She died,” I say. “And then everything that I knew went with her. My marriage…” Adam reacts but doesn’t say anything. “I don’t really know who I am anymore.”

“And you came here to find out?”

I nod. “Maybe.”

Adam considers this. “What’s he like?”

“Who?”

“Your husband.”

“Oh,” I say. “We’ve been together since college. He’s, I don’t know, he’s Eric.”

Adam inhales. “You know what I think your problem is?”

I clear my throat. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or pissed off. “Seriously?”

He looks at me like Come on.

“Fair, fine. What’s my problem?”

“You don’t feel like you have any agency over your life.”

“You’ve known me for two hours.”

“We had breakfast, lest you forget. And you were late to dinner. Let’s call it thirteen.”

I wave him on.

“You act like you don’t know how you got here, like you just woke up and looked around and thought, Huh—but I have news for you. Even inaction is a choice.”

I just sit there, staring at him. It’s a strange thing, to have a stranger tell you off and then be right.

“Is that all?”

“Yeah, you’re cute, too.”

I feel that blush again. My toes tingle. “That’s a problem?”