by kc dyer
Then we both collapse onto the beach, gasping and laughing like idiots.
“I can’t believe we got it! Thank you so much. I could never have done that without you.”
He sits up enough to give a sort of half bow, and for the first time, I notice that he’s not in a bathing suit. I mean, he’s shirtless, which accounts for why I mistook him for one of the surfer boys, but he’s also wearing khaki shorts.
And a pink scrunchie around one wrist.
“It’s my locker key,” he says, by way of explanation. And maybe because I am completely exhausted, I start to laugh.
Once I start laughing, I find I can’t stop, and then Raj is laughing too.
It takes us quite a while to recover.
He tells me that after leaving my dad at the monastery, he’d been walking along the rocky cliff top and saw the divers jumping off.
“I considered it for about a minute and then I decided to try surfing instead. I mean—it’s not a big center for surfing here in Capri. I think the water is usually too calm. So I thought, why not?”
Hard to argue, considering I had followed a similar line of thinking myself, and told him so.
But he didn’t have trunks, and so he decided to just go in his shorts.
“And here I am,” he says. He sits up, wincing as he does so. The barnacle scrape is at least an inch wide and runs up almost his entire torso. It’s fire-engine red.
“Ugh, that looks really sore.” Guilt surges inside me. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be!” He prods his stomach gently. “It looks worse than it is, I think. The skin is really just scraped, not torn. I’ll slap some antiseptic on it when we get back, and I’ll be good as new.”
We lapse into silence. With the music gone, there’s only the sound of the wind and the waves at the moment.
“Listen.” I swallow hard, trying not to sound as awkward as I feel. “While I was out there earlier, I remembered that I haven’t thanked you.”
He shrugs. “Nothing to thank me for—you did half the work. And you stopped me from falling off that ledge.”
“No, I’m not talking about the kayak. I mean, yes, thank you for helping me get it back. But what I need to thank you for is all your support of my dad. This—nothing like this has ever happened to me before. With him taking off on this trip and everything. Anyway—I know neither of us could have made it this far without your help.”
He looks at me without speaking for a long moment.
“Listen,” he says at last. “About that . . .”
And right at that moment, a tiny crab sidles out of one of the patch pockets of his khaki shorts and scuttles across his knee. We both shriek, just a little, and this starts me laughing all over again.
“You think that’s funny?” he says and reaches across to pull a piece of kelp out of my hair. “Having a crab in your shorts is macho,” he adds, grinning. “But having kelp in your hair just makes you a mermaid.” And as we both burst out laughing again, a shadow falls across our legs.
An immaculately suited shadow.
chapter thirty-six
SHOCKINGLY, STILL SATURDAY AFTERNOON
L’impepata di Cozze
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, on the Italian Isle of Capri
This dish, an ancient tradition attributed to the fishermen of this island, takes mussels found on the treacherous rocks along the coast and pairs them with the finest fresh spices and a splash of . . .
I squint up through the sunshine to see the face of Anthony Hearst.
My Anthony. My beloved. My fiancé. But instead of smiling or sweeping me into his arms, he just stares down at me, looking furious.
“What the hell’s going on here?” he asks. “Who is this guy?”
After a day filled with so many crazy emotions, all I’ve got left at the moment is puzzlement.
“Anthony?” I manage. “What are you doing here?”
I’m suddenly convinced that I might be dead—or at the very least, hallucinating. Anthony looks all stiff and pale in his dress shirt. Extraordinarily pale.
Raj has jumped to his feet and offers me a hand to help me up, but I manage it on my own.
“What are you . . . ?” I begin again and then stop. “Anthony, this is Dr. Raj Malik, my dad’s colleague. Raj, this is Anthony Hearst, my fiancé.”
Neither man extends a hand. There is a long moment of silence, which Raj finally breaks.
“Right,” he says, his voice strangely formal. “I’ll just go collect my board, then.”
I stare at his back as he strides across the sand and then turn toward Anthony.
“What the hell was that about? And why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
He narrows his eyes at me and adjusts so he’s standing where he can’t see Raj at all.
“This is the surprise,” he says flatly. “I told you to expect a surprise. Ta-da.”
He’s making the pretense of a smile now, at least with his lips, but it never gets to his eyes. In fact, it looks more like a grimace, and he drops it almost immediately.
Stepping closer, he lowers his voice. “I’ve come all this way to bring you home, and I find you cavorting with some asshole on the beach?”
I take a step away and look up into his face, incredulous. “What are you talking about? This is my dad’s colleague! Why on earth would you call him an asshole?”
“In any case,” says Raj, who has reappeared with his surfboard under one arm and a towel around his neck. “We most certainly were not cavorting. In fact, we were merely . . .”
And right at that moment, for the first time in the history of our relationship, I see my fiancé take a swing at another man.
I believe a pause is required here, just to clarify a few things.
First of all, I have never—ever—even seen a fistfight. I have an aversion to violence so intense that if a fight arises in a movie I’m watching, I fast-forward through it. Tarantino is clearly not my jam.
And in spite of my natural inclination toward buff, muscled men—as evidenced by how I nearly met my end earlier today from too much staring at cute boys—this has zero to do with what they actually do with those muscles. Fighting men are scary to me, not appealing.
Even so, the two men in front of me might be the least likely combatants ever. I mean—Suit Man versus the Archeologist? It’s like nerd on nerd.
And worse—So. Much. Worse.—is the fact that a crowd is beginning to gather.
From where? My theory is they came from the cliff diver / surfer crowd, but where they were before this moment is anyone’s guess.
Right now, though, they are forming a rough, cheering semicircle with their backs to the cliffs. Someone’s playing music again, but Taylor Swift has been supplanted by a cover version of “Pumped Up Kicks” sung in what I think must be Italian.
I force my way back through the crowd of onlookers pushing past me to get closer to the two men, now shuffling around each other on the sand.
Anthony’s fist is absolutely aimed at Raj’s face, but he misses wildly, mostly because the sleeve of his suit jacket doesn’t offer a lot of mobility. He is dressed, after all, like he just stepped out of the first-class compartment of a plane.
Which he likely did.
I’m sure Raj’s look of shock echoes my own, and after easily dodging the blow, he simply stands there, staring from Anthony to me and back.
“What are you thinking?” I hurry across the sand toward Anthony, but my way is blocked by a curvaceous brunette. She’s wearing a bikini designed to look like it is made of lettuce leaves, along with a fetchingly coordinated green manicure.
“Ay-yi-yi,” she says, hooking her arm through mine.
“Scusi!” I try pulling my arm free, but she’s having none of it. “Look, I need to stop this.”
�
�No, no, no,” she says, tightening her grip. “Let the boys ’ave dere fun, eh?”
“This isn’t fun!” I try again—unsuccessfully—to pull away.
She just laughs and nods her head at a nearby blond girl, who takes possession of my other arm. The blonde is wearing a bathing suit that is little more than a collection of strings guaranteed to give her interesting tan lines, but like her friend in the lettuce bikini, she’s got biceps of steel.
Meanwhile, in the center of this cheering group of enablers, Raj and Anthony are still circling each other warily. It’s hard to know which of them looks more ridiculous; Anthony in his dress shirt and tie—he has somehow managed to doff his suit jacket—or Raj, who is clad only in khaki shorts, with his barnacle war wound and the neon pink scrunchie still encircling his wrist.
“Christ,” he blurts. “What the hell, Hearst?”
For some unknown reason, this seems to further incense Anthony, who practically leaps forward to take another swing. This time, his highly polished handmade shoes—extremely impractical for Capri beach wear—slide out from under him. He falls flat on his back in the sand.
A roar rises up from the crowd.
Inexplicable as this whole thing is, seeing Anthony lying there seems the appropriate result of such farcical behavior. What’s happening here is completely bewildering, and it’s leaving me with a feeling I’m not quite ready to examine just yet.
Instead, I’m still staring openmouthed when Raj reaches a hand down to help Anthony up. Instead of accepting it, Anthony grabs the towel around Raj’s neck with both hands and yanks him down onto the sand.
Raj’s look of shock turns to something else, and his face reddens.
“I knew I recognized that girlish flailing,” says Anthony. “You couldn’t fight then either, as I recall.”
“What?” I try again to wrestle myself loose from the lady surfers. “What does that even mean?”
Raj doesn’t reply. I suddenly realize that Anthony is actually choking him with the towel, but before I can do anything about it—throw myself between them? Make a plea to their sanity?—the two of them are rolling over and over in the sand.
“La lotta,” choruses the crowd. “La LOTta!”
I give up struggling with my captors and just watch, heart in my mouth. Apart from the moment with the towel, neither one of them has managed to strike any kind of a blow. Anthony has somehow lost his grip on the towel and is jamming his hand under Raj’s chin in some kind of awkward attempt to pin him down.
Raj looks shocked at this tactic and, struggling to get away, manages to roll on top of Anthony in spite of the fact his head is still being forced backward. From this position, he’s able to jerk Anthony to his feet.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this, you wanker,” Raj hisses. “You’re the one who broke her heart.”
In response, Anthony grabs wildly at Raj, and his fingers close on a handful of his hair. He pulls it so hard, Raj roars with pain.
Still holding Raj by the hair, Anthony sneers at him. “Oh, for god’s sake. It was nothing. We were kids,” he spits. “I think the real problem here is that you’re making some pathetic attempt to get your own back with my fiancée. Which is ludicrous.”
With a sudden, violent shake of his head, Raj manages to jerk his hair out of Anthony’s grasp, but Anthony takes another wild swing and, this time, connects with Raj’s eye. Raj reels, staggering backward, and the crowd explodes.
“And anyway, as I recall,” says Anthony with a smirk. “The better man won. And it looks like I win again.”
Raj doesn’t really recover, as he’s still holding a hand to his eye, but he kicks recklessly out at Anthony. The kick misses by a mile, but sand flies up and sprays into Anthony’s face. He pauses for an instant to wipe his eyes just as Raj swings out wildly and smacks him in the nose. The fountain of blood so startles them both—and me—they jump apart.
And the fight is over.
The crowd gives a satisfied cheer, and while a couple of the buff surfer dudes pause to pat the combatants on the back, everyone else just sort of melts away.
This includes my girl-power team, who each attach themselves to the arm of a different muscular male. They walk away, all chattering happily.
Stomping over, I retrieve Anthony’s jacket from where it lies crumpled in the sand and then whisper at him furiously. “What the hell happened between you two? How do you even know each other?”
Anthony snatches up a corner of my smelly striped blanket and holds it to his nose.
“I might ask the same of you,” he says huffily, and this is so not the right answer, I turn my back on him and stride over to Raj.
He’s blinking hard and touching the skin below his left eye, which is already starting to swell.
“Are you okay?” I ask quickly.
“I’m fine,” he says, his voice sounding pretty formal for a guy with a burgeoning black eye. “I don’t think his nose can be broken. I only hit him with the palm of my hand.”
“I’m sure he’s all right. But—what was that even about? Why didn’t you tell me that you knew him?”
“You should go see to him,” Raj replies shortly. “He might need some ice for his nose. And I have to take back my gear, so I can return your boat for you.”
“Thank you.” But I’m not even sure he hears me as he tosses his towel over one shoulder and stalks off.
chapter thirty-seven
STILL SATURDAY AFTERNOON, NOW WITH BLOODSTAINS
Insalata di Arance
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, on the Isle of Capri
Sometimes, after a day filled with the heat of a Mediterranean sun, a salad is the perfect solution to cool things down. This beauty begins with the finest . . .
By the time I get back to Anthony, he’s made his way onto the path toward the Marina Grande. Someone—no idea who—has given him a handkerchief, and he’s dropped the striped blanket at the edge of the beach.
I gather up the smelly blanket—now with added bloodstains!—and fold it under my arm. The string of sucker-shaped bruises around my ankle will fade, but this blanket is hard proof of my insane day, and I’m not ready to let go of it yet. Scooping up the paddle with my other hand, I hurry after him.
As soon as he steps off the sandy beach, Anthony turns around to wait for me. I have to admit, he’s got kind of a rakish look at the moment. His blond hair is ruffled and sticking up on one side. He’s managed to wipe most of the blood off his face, but there is a spray down the front of his no-longer pristine dress shirt. He’s carrying his suit jacket over one arm, his sleeves are rolled up, and his tie is hanging loose and off-center.
I feel a brief moment of tenderness toward him mixed in with a whole lot of confusion.
“Well,” he says, as I come hurrying up. “That was not exactly the welcome I was expecting.”
Without a word, he grabs my face and kisses me, hard. He tastes of blood and Tic Tacs, with maybe a little hint of stale coffee.
Pulling away almost immediately, I feel a surge of complicated emotions. I stare up into his face, not even knowing where to start, when he wraps his arms around me again, drawing me close.
Or, you know, as close as you can get when one of us is wearing a thick, yellow foam life belt.
“Dammit, Gia,” he says, cupping my butt with one hand. “Perhaps I should battle for your honor more often.”
This remark serves to shoot a dose of reality into a very weird day, but it doesn’t provide much clarity. I step back and glare up at him.
“My what? Look, Anthony, I have no idea what just happened, but if you were under the misguided impression you were battling for my honor, you are completely off base.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Now, how about we start at the beginning here, and maybe you can tell me why you took a swing at my dad’s collea
gue?”
Anthony takes a deep breath and stares off into the distance for a long moment. At last, he sighs and looks down at me with his usual genuine, charming smile. “Never mind all that,” he says. “But you’re right—we need to start again.”
Turning his back to me, he pulls on his jacket, smooths out his hair, and straightens his tie before spinning around and holding out his arms.
“Surprise! I’m here to spend the weekend in Italy with you! I’ve brought presents and a bunch of wedding stuff, and I’m ready to have a good time. Are you happy to see me?”
I manage to force a smile. He still looks nothing like his usual self, but he’s right. This is better.
“Of course I am,” I say and reach out to take his hand. “But what about . . . ?”
He holds up a hand. “Only good things for the moment.” He links his arm through mine and marches me down the path toward the Marina Grande. “We need to find you some shoes.”
I turn back to see how Raj is managing with my battered kayak, but I can’t see any sign of him at all.
* * *
—
I’d like to say this new start makes everything better between us, but it just doesn’t. Anthony waits outside the public changing rooms while I gather my things. Inside, I try to collect my roiling thoughts. Something has changed, something I knew even before Anthony threw that inexplicable punch at Raj. But I’m not ready to look at it quite yet.
Instead, I throw my sundress on over my suit, drop the life belt into a return bin, and hurry back out to meet him. My mind is still reeling, but when I emerge, he’s tapping on his phone.
