“I’ll fix you up tonight,” I tell him, relaxing back against the stones as the endorphins flood my body. Holy hell. Did that really just happen? Especially after all the talk about taking it fast—in private. But his twin siblings are still playing by the shore, trying to do handstands in the water, and no one else saw him getting me off. It’s just that I’ve never been open and vulnerable with someone like that, especially in public, and so soon. It worries me just a little bit. I’ve been known to fall hard and fast for all the wrong guys and I don’t want to do that with Derio. And I don’t want him to be the wrong guy.
He trails his fingers over my neck, my collarbone, my breastbone, soft and gentle, like I’m written in braille and he’s trying to read me. I glance up at him and my heart flips at the tenderness in his eyes. I should have known from the start that this man was going to give me a reason to stay.
* * *
The rest of the weekend flies by. After the beach, the four of us had dinner at one of the tourist joints at the Marina Grande. They’re not the best on the island but the twins were happy with their “Americanized” meals, even though I wasn’t too happy with them eating French fries, especially after the breakfast I had served them. I think Derio found it quite amusing when I went into “mom” mode, which I just found more scary than anything else.
The next morning, I took the twins—and Derio, though he needed a lot of convincing—to church. I’m not a religious person, though I’m definitely spiritual, but I had heard there was a Sunday school after the sermon, with cookies, juice, toys, and, most importantly, other children Annabella and Alfonso could play with. Once Sunday school was over, the priest told us we could drop them off again just before dinnertime for an activities program.
Naturally, we had to say yes. Not just to give Alfonso and Annabella the chance to socialize with kids in a new setting, but for our own budding relationship as well.
As we walk back to the villa after dropping off the kids, the Via Tragara now busier than ever, Derio asks, “Want to go on a ride with me?”
“Sure,” I say with a smile. He grabs on to my hand, holding it firmly, and we pass through crowds of people. I feel extremely giddy being led by this man. I can’t help smiling at everyone, tourists and locals alike. I don’t feel the heat that’s steadily building, nor the loud chatter in a million different languages. Though Capri doesn’t feel like it belongs to us at the moment, I feel like I belong with him.
Once back at the villa, we waste no time in bringing out the bike. We only have about three hours or so to ourselves so we have to make the most of it. What I really want is to drag Derio into the house and spend those precious hours in his bedroom—that would indeed be time spent wisely—but Derio is happier than I’ve ever seen him, all squinty eyes, handsome smiles, and tanned skin, and for once I find myself craving the freedom of the open road. The roads on Capri aren’t very open but I want his body pressed to mine and the wind in my hair and that wild feeling of nothing but time. Even if time is only a lie.
I hop on the back of his bike, easier now that I’m comfortable hanging on to him like a monkey on a tree, and we jet off, trying to make our way down the street without running people over. It’s not easy, so I start yelling “Permesso!” at the top of my lungs, which eventually gets people out of the way.
Once we’ve somehow made it through the maze of Capri town, I want to ask him where we are headed but it’s already pretty obvious. There’s not much else to see on this side of the island—everything else resides on the other side of hell’s highway.
He pauses the bike near the main traffic circle, already crammed full of mini blue trucks and orange short buses and tourists wobbling on Vespas, and glances at me over his shoulder. “Are you okay if we go to Anacapri?”
I nod.
“Just hold tight, okay?” he says. “Don’t worry, you won’t fall off. I’ve got you. Close your eyes and I’ll get us there safely, okay? I use this route all the time. Piece of cake. Hai capiti?”
“Ho capito.”
He shoots me a grin and guns the bike. I wrap my arms around him tighter and bury my head into his neck, making sure my face is on the left side, a.k.a. not the side that has the precipitous drop. I trust Derio completely to get us there in one piece, but I don’t trust my panic attacks.
At first I’m okay with it. I can feel the air whizzing past us, the cars and the traffic, the few times that Derio has to weave around vehicles. Then the incline gets higher and higher and we zig and zag, climbing, climbing, climbing. The switchbacks stop and that’s when I know where we are: the part at the top.
And that’s when I decide to raise my head. Because I’m an idiot. We’re actually in the midst of passing a bus on the right, which means we are hugging the edge of the road and only a short metal fence, like the kind someone would put around their yard, is between us and falling through weightless air to an imminent death.
I can already feel myself falling, feel myself going over the edge, and there’s nothing to stop me from hitting the hard ground, nothing left but the short time allowed to look back on my life before it’s all over. That’s the worst thing about vertigo, about these specific panic attacks; the actual fall doesn’t have to happen for it to feel like it’s happening.
“I’ve got you!” Derio yells, knowing I’m looking up, knowing I’m panicking. I guess the death grip I have around his chest is a sure sign. “It will be over soon.”