“Yes, I think you do,” he says with a half smile, and promptly pours some into my glass before topping up his as well.
I take a sip, coughing a bit but still finishing at least half the glass. His eyes light up, impressed. “Anyway,” I go on, “I found out afterward that they were hiring unpaid interns for my position. That’s the problem now: Everyone goes to college and spends all their money getting their degrees and when they come out it’s almost impossible to find a job in their chosen field, one that makes them feel useful, like their degree was worth it, let alone finding just any damn job. And then most of the fucking places won’t even pay them. They want you to work for free to build up ‘experience.’” I use air quotes around the word. “My friend Angela went to school for psychology. Psychology! And she spent two years working at clinics and hospitals and health care centers, all for free, all to build up experience, and she still couldn’t get a paying job. Now she works in construction. She’s one of those road people who holds up the signs. She likes that she’s outdoors all day and the pay is actually really good, but holy hell, talk about being underused and undervalued.”
I realize I’ve been talking a mile a minute. The scotch has really lubricated my vocal cords. Also, it’s rare to have someone ask about your life and actually be invested and interested in what you have to say. Derio is both those things. He’s staring at me as if I’m absolutely fascinating and not boring and mundane.
“Do you feel underused and undervalued now?” he asks quietly.
“No,” I automatically say. “I feel overused,” I add, jokingly.
“What about undervalued?”
I press my lips together in thought. “No. Actually, for the first time in a long time . . . maybe even ever . . . I feel worthy. Like I’m worth something. The kids depend on me, which is annoying and nerve-racking and scary but it makes me feel like I’m doing something important. And teaching them English . . . well, it finally feels like my degree is being put to good use. You know, when I first started traveling, I had a little dream that maybe I would end up in a small village on the Mediterranean teaching English. I guess it kind of came true.”
He’s watching me carefully, silently.
“What is it?” I ask.
“How is it that someone like you hasn’t felt worthy until now?”
I shrug and finish the rest of the scotch. The darkness of the room is starting to feel a bit heavy. “I don’t know.”
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?”
“Only child.”
“And your parents, how are they?”
I glance at him shrewdly. “If I tell you about my parents, will you tell me about your parents?”
He nods, conceding. “Yes. But not tonight. It is getting late.”
“There is no getting, it is late,” I tell him. “And I’m seconds from crawling into my bed and passing out. You don’t have to be up early tomorrow, but I do.”
“Later today we can talk.” He finishes his glass and sits back in his chair, his fingers resting on his lips. “Would you like to go for a ride? While the twins are at school?”
“On your bike?”
He nods. “Yes. I can show you the rest of the island.”
There go those butterflies again, wings tangled with my nerves. I’ve never been on a motorbike before and just the image of hanging on to Derio is making me feel flushed from head to toe.
“All right,” I tell him, getting up before I say something drunk and stupid. “I would like that.”
“Be ready by ten a.m.”
“I’ll be ready at six thirty, remember?”
He smiles at that, as if laughing at the fact I have to get up so early now. Jerk.
“Thanks for the scotch,” I tell him and then I go upstairs, the moonlight guiding my way through the dark. I get into bed and close my eyes. Even though I have to get up in a few hours, I’ve never been so excited to start a new day.
* * *
“Um, don’t I need a helmet?” I ask Derio as we stand just outside of the shed where he keeps his bike. It’s a big, dangerous-looking Ducati. Definitely sexy but still a bit scary for a bike noob like me.
He grins at me, his eyes squinting. “You’ll be safe with me, don’t worry.”
“We better not go fast.”
“No, no, I will go very slow.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He steps into the shed and starts to bring the bike out. He’s back to looking like an Italian James Dean with the leather jacket, jeans, boots, white tee. I’m sure he’s about to slip on his shades and pop a cigarette in his mouth at any moment. “I will go slow with you,” he says. “If you want to go fast, I will go fast. I’m very good at taking directions from pretty girls.”
Is that sexual innuendo? I study him. He’s got a self-satisfied smirk going on, which I’ve been seeing a lot more of lately. It’s hard to tell. But hell . . . he just called me pretty. I’ll pretend my cheeks aren’t turning pink over that.
“Besides,” he says as he straightens the bike out. He brings a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and sticks it in his mouth, nodding at my head. “A helmet would hide that beautiful lion’s mane.”
I pat my hands on my head. “I guess I should probably tie this crazy thing back.” I reach into my pockets for a hair tie but he grabs my forearm, his grip soft but firm.