“Maybe,” I say, and suddenly I feel vulnerable for sharing all my worst qualities with him. Vulnerable, but free.
We walk along the road, passing the other fancy houses and tourists. I nod at them and smile but notice that Derio keeps his head down, his focus in front of him, as he puffs away on his cigarette. I wonder if he knows what the people in town say about him. From his cagey demeanor as he passes people by, I gather he does.
Once we head into the clean, impossibly narrow streets of Capri town, Derio sets off down a small street to the left, grumbling to himself in Italian as he goes.
“Not a fan of the crowds?” I ask him.
He makes a tsking sound. “No,” he says gruffly. “I hate living here this time of year. You should see Capri in the winter; it is heaven. All the Prada and Louis Vuitton stores and overpriced tourist joints are closed and only a few bars, restaurants, and grocery stores are open. Even hotels are closed. That is the real Capri, not this.”
I try to imagine Capri with dark gray clouds instead of stunning sunshine, with just a few locals milling around instead of the throngs of sunburned visitors. “It must be very lonely,” I say, picturing the isolation. This is just a rock in the middle of the sea.
“Yes, but it is good to be lonely sometimes,” he says. “There is one bar in the Piazzetta, the square here, that remains open. Everyone goes there. If you are lonely, you can go there and be with people.”
But something tells me he doesn’t do that.
We come to a stop outside of a large stone building. Through the windows I can see a chalkboard, like schools used to have before iPads and computers replaced everything.
“Is this their school?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “There are two small schools on the island. One here, one in Anacapri. Have you been there yet?”
I shake my head. “To be honest, I haven’t really left the house until now.”
He tilts his head at me. “Oh? Then I am especially glad we are going to the beach. We will take the cab through Anacapri. Perhaps on the way back we can stop somewhere for dinner. I prefer it to here, less crowded and more charming.”
The sound of a bell ringing, almost like a church bell, comes out of the building, and suddenly the air is filled with children yelling and laughing. But I’m thinking about what he just said and the way it made me feel. Going out for dinner with Derio? Granted, the kids will be there, but somehow that almost makes it more intimate. My stomach does a little flip at the thought.
“Derio!” Alfonso says as he comes out of the building. Annabella trails behind him, her thumbs hooked around the straps of her backpack, her head down. Another child races past us, yelling something at Alfonso that makes him smile but Annabella seems to be totally shut off from the world around her.
I think Alfonso asks what we are doing picking them up instead of Felisa, but when Derio tells them they are going to the beach instead, even Annabella’s face lights up a little.
Soon we’re hailing a cab just outside of the funicular, and I can’t stop an internal squee as one of the convertibles pulls up to us. Alfonso wants to sit up front with the driver so Annabella goes in the backseat, followed by Derio in the middle. I’m glad for that because my fat ass would be a hindrance to both of them if I had to ride in the bitch seat.
I squish myself in, trying to buckle the seat belt and leaning against Derio to do so. I hear him inhale and for a second I think maybe he’s trying to smell my hair. I freeze. Don’t look up, don’t look up, I think, while also thinking, What shampoo did I use? What does my hair smell like?
The seat belt goes in with a click and when I do raise my head, Derio is facing the other way. Hmmm. Maybe my imagination is running away from me. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would smell my hair.
The taxi starts and we jet off down the hill. I casually take a strand of my hair and run it under my nose. The faint note of coconut lingers on it. At least I smell good.
Driving in Capri, like the rest of Italy, is nearly a full-contact sport. I close my eyes as the car winds down the hill and overtakes pedestrians in the narrow lanes, orange buses squeezing past us with a hair-width to spare while people on scooters tailgate us. Once we’re out of the congested city streets, the road begins to climb, up and up, and curve some more. Soon the houses drop away and it’s just lush foliage, rock face, and a serious cliff edge on my side. We must be hundreds of feet up, and I know I saw this very road from the marina when I first arrived. If I were brave enough to look, I would’ve seen nothing but space.
I close my eyes again, feeling my body freeze up on the verge of a panic attack. I get pins and needles all over my limbs as I experience vertigo, that falling sensation, again and again.
“You’re not looking at the view,” Derio says, his voice so close to my ear, but even that doesn’t help. Instead, I turn into him, burying my face into his shoulder, my weight against his side. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod against him but I still don’t move. It’s crazy what the fear can sometimes do to me, especially if the drop is sudden and I’m up really high. It’s almost like if I don’t hold on to him or if the seat belt isn’t tight enough, there’s a chance I’ll be sucked away, pulled over the edge. Sometimes I even fear that I’ll jump on purpose. It’s fucked up, but it happens occasionally. (The fear, not throwing myself out of cars or off of balconies.)
Derio doesn’t say anything. Instead he puts his arm around me. His grip is firm and strong and somehow that centers me, knowing that he has me and is holding on. I know it’s not a romantic gesture and that’s okay. I just want to feel anchored.