Love Your Life(20)

I would have remembered the most amazing man I’ve ever met.

I would have remembered the most perfect day of my life.

I would have remembered heaven.

“It would have been nice,” I say at last, in lighter tones. “That’s all.”



* * *



—

As we arrive back in town, I still feel heady, as though I’m in a dream. A blue-skied, filmlike dream, spiked with adrenaline and lust and sunshine. I’m lolling against the hot plastic seat of the car, sipping an ice-cold Orangina we picked up en route. My hair is mussed up, my skin is salty, and I can still feel the imprint of Dutch’s mouth on mine.

I know there’s a delicious free supper waiting for us at the monastery, but when Dutch says, “Shall we grab some pizza?” I nod. I don’t want to share him with anyone. I don’t want to have to explain anything or make small talk. Farida is right, it distracts from the main event, which right now is Dutch.

    Dutch parks the car in a deserted quarter of the town, with shadowed squares and stark streets lined with studded wooden doors.

“Found a pizza vendor yesterday,” he tells me as he leads me along. “It’s not a restaurant, it’s just a guy in a booth….Is that OK?”

“Great. Perfect!” I squeeze his hand and we round the corner into a smaller backstreet, even less well lit.

We take a few steps along the street. Ten, maybe. And then, in an instant, everything changes. From nowhere, two teenagers appear in our path. Skinny and tanned, like the guys Dutch was playing football with, but not like them, because they’re sullen and pushing at Dutch and saying aggressive things in Italian. Are they drunk? High? What do they want?

I’m trying to rationalize what I’m seeing, so my brain takes forever to realize the truth—this is a situation. An actual situation. In the space of three seconds, my heart goes from calm to pumping in fright. Dutch is trying to lead me past the boys; he’s trying to be amicable, but they won’t— They’re angry— Why? I can’t even— What—

And now—no, no, please, God, no—one of them has reached into his jacket and I see the heart-stopping metal flash of a knife.

Time stands still. A knife. A knife. We’re going to be stabbed, right here, right now, in this backstreet, and I can’t even move. I can’t make a sound. I’m frozen in utter terror, like a mummified, petrified creature from the Ice Age—

    Wait, what? What is that? What’s happening right now?

Before my eyes, Dutch is wrenching the arm of the guy with the knife and twisting it in some efficient practiced maneuver, and somehow he’s got hold of the knife. How did he do that? How?

All the time he’s shouting, “Run, run!” and suddenly I realize he means me. He wants me to go.

But before I can run, the teenagers do. They sprint away, up the street, around the corner, and I sag against Dutch in shock. It’s only about thirty seconds since we rounded the corner, but I feel as though the world has stopped and started again. Dutch is breathing very hard but simply says, “Are you OK?” then adds, “We should get to the car. They might get some stupid ideas about coming back.”

“How…how did you do that?” I stutter as we move along the street, and Dutch shoots me a look of surprise.

“What?”

“Get that knife off them!”

“Learned,” says Dutch with a shrug. “Everyone should learn. You should learn. It’s basic safety. I live in a big city—” He breaks off. “Right. Sorry. No personal details.”

“I don’t think that matters right now,” I say with a laugh that is perilously near to a sob.

“Aria!” Dutch looks stricken and stops to pull me close. “It’s OK,” he says in a low voice. “It’s over.”

“I know,” I say against his firm chest. “Sorry. I’m fine. I’m overreacting.”

“You’re not,” says Dutch firmly. “Anyone would be shaken up. But I think we should keep walking,” he adds, holding my hand tighter as we move on. “Don’t worry. I’m right here with you.”

    His voice soothes my jangled nerves and strengthens my trembling legs. As we walk, he starts reading out all the road signs in deliberately bad pronunciation, making me laugh. And by the time we’re in the car, driving back along the coast road, munching pizza from a different vendor, it’s almost as though the whole thing never happened. Except that every time I look at him, my heart melts even more.

He saved my life. He’s hot and he loves dogs and we jumped off rocks together and he saved my life.

We drop the car at the hire garage, then walk the hundred feet or so back to the monastery, letting ourselves in through the massive wooden door. The entrance courtyard is empty and I pause, looking around its tranquil candlelit cloister. It’s like another world from the one we’ve been in. Swallows are wheeling against the indigo sky, and I can smell verbena in the air.

“Quite an afternoon,” says Dutch with a wry laugh. “You came here for a peaceful writing retreat and instead you’ve had an adrenaline roller coaster. Is your heart still thumping?”

“Uh-huh.” I smile and nod.

My heart is thumping. But not for that reason anymore. It’s thumping because of where we are in the evening.