I close my eyes and try to breathe through it. In and out. It’s hard. It’s always hard. It’s even harder with the sounds all around me—the wind in my ears, the roar of the motorbike, the honks and gear changes and squeaky brakes of all the cars.
But eventually, like last time, I survive. I look up and see the green foliage and hidden houses of the Anacapri area and I immediately feel a million times lighter. Adrenaline is rushing through me and I feel like laughing for being such a fool. The girl who was scared, hiding from her fears, that wasn’t me, that was someone else. It’s always someone else.
Derio guides the bike up into town, snaking up the white-washed streets past stone and stucco houses, the smells of garlic and basil and fried anchovies wafting past us, and stops in front of a mural of Mount Solaro.
He turns off the bike and twists in his seat to get a better look at me. His brow furrows in concern. “You are okay?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, feeling a bit stupid. “I don’t know what comes over me in those moments.”
“Fear,” he says gravely.
“Well, yes.”
“Fear is the most powerful force of destruction. Fear is the devil’s greatest illusion.”
I frown at him. “I don’t remember learning that in church today.”
“I can help you, you know,” he says so sincerely I feel I have no choice but to believe him.
“What are you talking about?”
“Facing your fears. Even the little ones can cripple us.”
That’s all fine and dandy but I’m talking to a man who fears the open ocean so much, he hasn’t left the island in a year.
“Trust me,” he says, his voice low as he reads my face. “I have many fears, but I’m working on them. I am exposing myself to one as we speak.”
“What fear is that?” I ask.
He holds me in his steady gaze. “The fear of letting go. Of opening up. Of trusting. Of falling.”
“You have a fear of falling, too?”
“In a way . . .” He pauses. “Yes.”
I’m not quite sure what he’s saying but from his direct gaze I know he’s being honest.
“I guess we have to go back the way we came up.”
“And what about there?” He gestures to the mural of Mount Solaro and the happy painted people on the chairlift, soaring above faded wildflowers. “Will you come with me?”
“Are you kidding me?” My blood freezes up at the thought of being stuck on that skinny chairlift.
He starts to get off the bike but I’m trying my best not to move.
“I promise you it’s not so bad,” he says. “I’m serious.”
“How can it not be bad? I’ve seen the chairlifts. They fit one person at a time. Barely!”
“It is not as bad as you think. Please trust me.”
“You don’t understand,” I say, almost whining.
He tips my chin with a finger so I can meet his eyes. “I do understand, Amber. It is scary but worth it. You have to trust me and you have to trust yourself. You must trust that nothing bad is going to happen.” He swallows. “If I see you be brave, I can be brave, too.”
My heart sinks like a stone at those words and in his eyes I can see how serious he is. This lost, damaged, broken man is asking me to guide him, to show him what is possible.
I take in a deep breath and find myself nodding. “Okay,” I say in a small voice.
He takes my hand and helps me off the bike. He doesn’t let go.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Minutes later, after purchasing our tickets, we stand in line for the chairlifts up to Mount Solaro. To be honest, even though the mountain is a jagged piece of rock looming over the earth, it doesn’t look so imposing when you’re at Anacapri, which is already pretty high off the water. I can see the way the chairlifts dip up and down over the scenery, disappearing and reappearing as the little chairs coast over small hills, and it doesn’t look that high—not until you get to the last part of the lift anyway. But even then, the fact that I will have to do this alone terrifies me.
I look behind me at Derio, who seems the epitome of cool, quickly puffing on his cigarette until he has to put it out. “Do you want to go first? Or should I go first?”
“You go,” he tells me just as the empty swing comes toward me. “I have your back.”
Just then the chairlift worker leads me quickly to the seat. I sit down and the bar is lowered over me and then I’m whisked forward. I let out a little yelp, gripping the bars for dear life as the chairlift swoops over a crop of trees. Then the yelp of fear slowly turns to one of laughter as my mind begins to register that I’m secure behind the bars, that I’m moving forward, not down. I swing my legs beneath me, feeling like a child again. In a way it’s like flying, not falling.
“Hey!” I hear a jubilant voice and crane my neck to see Derio behind me. He waves at me and looks absolutely adorable in the chair, like an overgrown kid, though somehow he still manages to exude sex appeal. I don’t know how he does it.
“This isn’t so bad, is it?” he yells at me.
“Not yet!” I yell back and then turn around before I get motion sickness. I stare at my feet, glad I wore sandals with secure ankle straps, and watch as we soar over neat squares of bright green vineyards and silver-leafed olive groves clinging to the hillside. Flowers of all different colors bloom among the sun-scorched grass and yellow bursts of broom dot the slopes. I want to take my phone out and snap a million pictures but I’m not brave enough to let go of the bars so I take mental snapshots I hope I’ll be able to draw upon later.