One Italian Summer(33)

“—Katy.” She exhales and then inhales, her warm hands on my shoulders, pressing down. “You have got to breathe.”

My chest hovers, and then I follow her example. I exhale all the air I’ve been holding out of my lungs. It feels like relief. I breathe in the sweet and salty Italian sea air.

“Good,” she says. She takes her hand back. “Sometimes you need time away to figure out how you feel about something. It’s hard to know or to see what something is when it’s right here, up close, all the bright and harsh details.” She holds her palm millimeters from her face, then drops it. “And love,” she says. “Who even knows about that one.”

Eric would always tell me he looked up to my parents’ marriage, that it was what he aspired to for us someday. “They love each other,” he’d say. “It’s obvious your mom gets on your dad’s nerves, but also that he’d lay down his life for her. And he doesn’t listen to half the things she says, but about the important stuff, they’re always on the same page. At the end of the day, it’s obvious it’s them.”

My mom was a better wife than I am. She was a better everything, but she was definitely a better wife.

“There is a saying, ‘What got you here won’t get you there.’?”

I never heard Carol say that before. Not to me.

“What does it mean?” I ask.

“That the same set of circumstances, beliefs, actions that got you to a moment won’t get you to what comes next. That if you want a different outcome, you have to behave differently. That you have to keep evolving.”

Don Luigi rings a bell, startling me back to this moment, this restaurant, this place and time.

“Buonasera. I hope you enjoy La Tagliata. We welcome you, and long may we gather!”

Everyone lifts their wineglasses high in a happy and celebratory toast.

Carol tilts hers toward mine. We clink. “Long may we gather,” she says.

Amen.





Chapter Fifteen


We arrive at Bella Bar a little after nine. The drive down from La Tagliata felt like it lasted a third of the time it had taken to get up there—that’s how full on food and hazy from wine we were. The whole bus sang “That’s Amore” as we made our way back down to the sea.

When the world seems to shine like you’ve had too much wine…

The place is small, across the street from where I believe Adam and I had wine… today? It feels like a month ago.

Carol grabs my hand and leads me over to the bar, where Remo is having a lively discussion with the bartender. They throw back bright orange cocktails, laughing.

“Sì, sì, certo,” Remo says. He gestures to the bartender, then turns to greet us. “Buonasera, Carol, Katy.” He kisses us both twice on each cheek. He smells like cigarettes and oranges.

“Hi,” I say. “Ciao.”

“Vuoi da bere?” Remo makes a drinking motion with his thumb, then claps his forehead. “Ah, would you like a drink?”

“Vodka on the rocks, two limes,” Carol says. She shimmies her torso a little. The top she is wearing falls off one shoulder. I see Remo notice.

“A glass of white wine,” I say, and he turns back to the bartender.

Next to me, Carol starts moving to the music, free and loose. We are both filled to the brim with wine. She raises her hands up and throws her head back, shaking out her hair. I watch her, transfixed. So does Remo. He touches her shoulder, and I look away.

Part of me wants to take her home, to not let any man who is not my father even look at her, and part of me wants to pull her aside and explain to her what happens next. That she’ll meet my dad. That she’ll get married. That she’ll have me. That she’ll be a wonderful wife and mother, but that this time in her life is fleeting, almost gone. That this is her chance, while she is unencumbered, to be young and free and wild. To have a fling with a hot Italian because she is in one of the most romantic places in the whole world, and because shouldn’t that be reason enough.

Eric and I weren’t really partiers. Not in college, and not in New York, either. While friends were going to the Meatpacking District on Friday, we’d have people over for game nights, or wine tastings in our living/dining room. For a while we lived on Bleecker Street, right above a boutique that closed shortly after we moved in, and once we managed to get the keys to the space in between tenants. We threw a dinner party there—with folding tables and pizza from Rubirosa. People who walked by the window thought we were an art installation.

But I’ve done so little of this—this kind of fun, this kind of abandon. I feel the decade of playing grown-up clawing at me, all the years not spent getting drunk on dance floors presenting themselves here, tonight.

I lift my hair off my neck, taking the hair tie from my wrist and wrapping it back in a bun. I can feel beads of sweat down my back. There’s no air-conditioning here, and the body count grows as the night wears on. The place is practically packed now.

Remo hands us our drinks. The glass of wine is sweating, too. It feels cool and damp in my hands, and I press it to my cheek, and then gulp it down.

“Is there water?” I ask Remo.

He points to the end of the bar where there is a jug set up with cups next to it. I make my way over and drink three glasses. The water is cold and satisfying. It tastes like taking a shower. I bring one full cup over to Carol.