An Accidental Odyssey

by kc dyer

  This incredible soup can be eaten as a starter or, served with a crusty loaf of Maltese peasant bread, can be a hearty meal in itself. The secret is found in the fresh cheeselets and beaten . . .

  After trying unsuccessfully to find a cab, I actually end up taking a city bus to the airport. Our guesthouse is right downtown, and a friendly Neapolitan tourist guide wearing a red vest points me to the bus station as both the quickest and the cheapest option. It’s a direct route and has Wi-Fi, so it gives me time to google the flights to New York. It also helps me avoid thinking about what I’m going to say when I get there, if I do manage to find him at all.

  It turns out there is only one terminal building, and two direct flights departing to New York City this evening, which should simplify things a little, anyway. All the same, the bus stops outside the terminal, way before I feel ready. My nerves jangle as I walk inside.

  The entrance to Naples International Airport is more cosmopolitan than any other I can remember, and glass cases containing art installations pepper the concourse. The overriding theme of the moment appears to be Italian fashion with a focus on shoes. I walk past displays featuring Fendi, Bruno Magli, and Ferragamo, among others.

  Teresa Cipher would love it in here.

  At literally the first bar I look into on the concourse, Anthony is sitting at a booth talking on his phone. Behind him, an ice sculpture of an enormous stiletto-heeled shoe glistens in the soft light of the bar. It looks like it’s resting on a bed of diamonds, but these are actually ice cubes, enclosed in a mammoth fountain. It might be the most over-the-top ice sculpture I’ve ever seen.

  Anthony’s expression lights up like a beacon when he sees me, and he almost spills his drink trying to end his call and jump up to greet me at the same time.

  And there it is.

  I know as soon as I see his face that it’s over. The fact that I’ve just said goodbye to Raj—probably forever—and didn’t have the courage to tell him how he makes me feel is like a fist, twisting and crushing my heart in my chest. But I can’t deal with any of that now. Now, I have to face Anthony, and I’m not going to take the coward’s way out again.

  I need to tell him the truth. And I need to find a way, if I can, to not hurt him. I at least owe him that much.

  When he bends in to kiss me, I turn my face, so that his lips only brush my cheek.

  He immediately raises a hand to the server. I want to keep my head clear, but he looks so disappointed when I ask for mineral water that I agree to a glass of wine.

  While we wait, I point at his phone, not knowing where else to start. “Did I interrupt a business call?”

  “Um-hmm,” he says, sipping his Manhattan. “But it’s okay. The news is all good.”

  He reaches across to take my hand. “Thank you for coming, Gia. I don’t know what I would have told my mom if I’d shown up without you.” He slides a paper ticket across the table to me. “Bet you didn’t fly first class coming over here. You’re not going to believe the difference. Champagne on takeoff, baby!”

  “Anthony—I’m not—that is, I haven’t decided to fly home with you.”

  I pause to take a sip of wine, furious at myself for copping out already. Taking a big gulp, I try again.

  “Things have changed while I’ve been here. Between us, but also with me and my dad. The stroke was bad news, and he’s had a few setbacks since. The chance for me to be with him . . .”

  Anthony’s phone tings, and he glances at it before turning the screen off.

  “Anyway, it’s really important that I see this through. Also, I’ve promised Charlotte a piece from Ithaca, which is our last stop. I’ll be home in just a few days, Anthony—a week at most. And then—you know—we can talk things through properly.”

  “How is this not properly? We’re talking, aren’t we?”

  “Well, yes, but—I mean, your flight’s in just over an hour, so . . .”

  He laughs smugly. “Babe, we are all checked in. We can stroll onto that big bird thirty minutes late if we feel like it, and nobody will say a word.”

  He reaches an arm out to hug me.

  I pull away and stare at his face. He’s just not getting it, but before I can say anything, his phone tings again. He smiles at the message and clicks off the screen an instant later.

  “Was that a text?” I ask. “That looked like a text.”

  “It was work,” he says shortly. And then when I stare pointedly at him, he pats my hand and laughs. “Okay, okay—so my assistant has talked me into texting, but only for important shit, right? It’s an ‘old dog, new tricks’ thing, I guess.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You sound like my dad. The difference is that he is an old dog, but you’re not.”

  He waves a hand dismissively. “Anyway. I’m just getting the hang of it. To tell you the truth, I hate the unpredictability of texting. I much prefer e-mail, where I can keep a record of everything said and schedule time to deal with it every day.”

  “This is what I don’t understand.” I lean back in my seat to get a clearer look at his face. “You’ve always been Mr. Predictable.”

  “I prefer to think of it as Mr. Dependable, myself,” he counters, smirking.

  “Okay, fine. But what is Mr. Dependable doing hopping on a plane to come get me—on a whim? Taking a swing at my dad’s colleague for only talking to me? It’s—it’s just weird.”

  He shrugs. “I was worried about you being over here on the other side of the world, and—well, it just so happens I’m in a position to do something about it. So I did.”

  “You’re dodging the question, Anthony. Does it have something to do with Raj Malik? How do you know him?”

  “I don’t,” he says stiffly. “Not anymore. The time I spent in England, he was in a couple of my classes, I think. Had a lot of ridiculous ideas, as I recall. A bit of a socialist.” He spreads his hands. “That’s it.”

  “He said something about a girl. Was there a problem over a girl?”

  The corner of his lip curls. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about her. That lasted maybe a month. I’d forgotten all about her until I saw you with him. And speaking of dodged questions”—he arches an eyebrow at me—“how about you explain what you were doing with Rupinder, anyway?”

  “That’s not his name. His name is Raj—Rajnish Malik. Dr. Malik, actually.”

  Anthony snorts and drains his Manhattan. “Rupinder, Rajinder—whatever. So he managed that PhD after all, did he? He wanted to hang out with us, as I recall. He was good at rowing, but not much else. Anyway, he had his own friends.”

  I remember Raj saying, “We didn’t exactly frequent the same places.”

  “Okay, so what about the girl, then? What was her name?”

  He lifts one shoulder dismissively. “No idea. But she was gorgeous. I do remember that. Sachi, maybe? Suki?”

  “What happened?”

  He shrugs again. “Like I said. I can barely remember, it was so long ago. I was overseas with three other guys from my fraternity, and I was, like, twenty-one. At that age, all you really want to do is party, right?”

  “Okay, but what happened to her?”

  “To who?”

  “Dammit, Anthony. The girl—Sachi.”

  He glances away. “Not a clue. She moved to New York for a while and got a part in a Broadway show. I think she might have been one of the Cats? Anyway, I only saw her once or twice after that. I had a lot of shit going on, right?”

  Right. I lean back in my seat. So something definitely happened with this girl, whose name he can’t remember but who clearly followed him to New York.

  “In any case, babe,” he says, interrupting my musings, “it’s all water under the bridge. I don’t want to know about your previous conquests either, right? Like I said—all is forgiven. We just need to get you home.”

  He picks up the tickets and
tucks them into his passport. “We should probably head to the gate,” he says. “I just need to take a piss. Keep an eye on this stuff, okay?”

  He sets the passport containing the tickets on top of his phone and slides out of the booth.

  Feeling desperate, I stare after him. He hasn’t heard a word I’ve said, and I guess I’m the same, because nothing he’s said has changed my mind either. My dad needs me. I need to—I want to—finish my series for NOSH. And the truth is, I suddenly know what I don’t want.

  I don’t want to be with Anthony anymore. I most certainly, absolutely, do not want to marry him.

  I consider bolting while he’s in the restroom, but I can’t bring myself to leave his passport unattended on the table. Instead, I slide the ring off my finger. I think briefly about just what I could do with fifty grand and then set it down beside his passport.

  Suddenly, his phone begins to buzz so violently it dances across the polished surface of the table in front of me. In an effort to save the phone from falling, I clutch at it. I manage to grab the phone but miss the passport, which drops to the floor under the table. On the screen is a one-line message I can’t help reading before the phone goes dark. Bracketed in two eggplant emojis, it reads:

  Tony. Missing you, babe. We have lots to catch up on when you get back . . .

  This is followed by a second message, which only contains the winking emoji with its tongue out.

  It’s from someone called “Mel.”

  * * *

  —

  When Anthony returns, I’m standing beside the table. As he walks up, I thrust both hands out at him. With one hand I return the ring, and with the other, the phone. I’ve lost the desire to consider his feelings, somehow.

  When he glances down to read the message, he doesn’t even blush. Instead, his expression grows annoyed.

  “It’s a joke,” he says. “Certainly not anything to return a ring over.”

  I feel strangely calm. “I’m not returning the ring over that text. I’m returning it because I don’t want to marry you. I’m not sure why I ever did. And I’m not going back to New York with you.”

  “She’s talking about work plans, Gia. Obviously, it’s written in jest,” he splutters. “There’s even a zany smiley face, for god’s sake.” He sets the ring on the table and crouches down to retrieve his passport.

  “I don’t know. It seems more inappropriate than funny to me. Especially from a coworker.”

  He takes a deep breath and then stomps over to pay his bill at the bar.

  “Hey,” he says to the bartender and holds up his phone. “If you see this thing—this winking symbol thing—what does that mean to you?”

  The bartender—who, like his brethren everywhere, is wiping a glass—shrugs. “That was funny?” he mutters.

  Anthony turns on me triumphantly. “See?”

  “You didn’t show him the first part.” I stride over to the bar. “He doesn’t have the whole context. And besides—he’s a guy. Of course he’s going to read it differently!”

  Anthony stops suddenly. “You need to be able to take a joke, Gia. Lighten up a bit. I mean, what’s wrong with you that you can’t even see when another woman is teasing?”

  I—I don’t even know what to say to this. So instead, I go back to the table and pick up my things.

  “Goodbye, Anthony.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I think it’s obvious. I’m leaving.” And then, to be perfectly clear, I add, “Back to the guesthouse to finish the trip with my dad.”

  I point at the ring, still sitting on the table.

  He bulges his eyes at me. “You don’t leave a ring like that sitting on a table. It’s worth . . .”

  “I know, I know. Fifty thousand dollars. And you know what? You’re right.”

  I reach down and scoop the ring into my hand. “Why did you ask me to marry you if you were going to sleep with someone else?”

  He narrows his eyes at me and shrugs. “Gia, I didn’t plan to sleep with her. But then you were gone so long, and there she was.”

  “Oh, so it was my fault for leaving? To help my dad?”

  He puts on his patient face. “Babe, it didn’t mean anything.”

  I take a deep breath and try again. “Just be honest with me for once. Why did you pick me?”

  His eyes narrow. “Okay, you want the truth? My dad wouldn’t turn over control of Hearst Publishing unless I was”—he pauses to make air quotes—“ ‘settled down.’ And besides, I like that nice round ass of yours.”

  He grins, and in spite of his words, I get a brief glimpse of the man I once fell for.

  Too brief—and too late.

  “And when I found out you came from nothing, I decided that way, I could meet my dad’s stupid requirements and still piss him off.”

  This hits me like a blow to the gut. “From—nothing? What does that mean, ‘came from nothing’?”

  He waves his passport dismissively. “You know—whatever. Your parents were divorced. You grew up in poverty. You had nothing.” He laughs derisively. “Except that cute little ass, of course.”

  He leans back and looks me up and down, and adds, “Maybe not so little anymore, huh?”

  Under any other circumstances, I’d shoot down a remark like this with the scorn it deserves. But instead, I’m stuck on “came from nothing.”

  I’m quiet a minute as I think about all that’s happened with my dad. The importance he’s given to showing me where he came from. I think about his grandmother—my great-grandmother—Magdalena and her grandmother Consolata. Okay, so they were the product of a drug-induced hallucination, but they were once part of him. And now that I’ve been here, they’ll always be a part of me too.

  Anthony drains his Manhattan and sets the glass on the bar. “Come on, babe, you need to show a little sense. Let’s get on the plane. And if you don’t want to wear the ring, at least put it in a safe place.”

  He reaches out a hand, but I step backward.

  “Good suggestion,” I say and do the most sensible thing I can think of under the circumstances. I toss the ring over my shoulder. It lands dead center, sinking instantly into the sparkling ice cubes surrounding the sculpture.

  And then I turn and walk out.

  Watching a grown man leap knee-deep into an ice-filled fountain while wearing a bespoke suit is not the most satisfying moment I’ve ever had in my life, but it comes a close second.

  chapter forty

  SUNDAY, BUT ONLY JUST

  Delizia al Limone

  Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, in Naples, Italy

  When it’s late at night, and a certain something is essential to sweeten your dreams, this incredible zing of citrus might be just what the doctor ordered. Begin with the zest of . . .

  By virtue of it being after midnight, I manage to make it back into my room in the guesthouse without running into my dad. I take a cab straight back, late-night public transit being no place to angry-cry with any hope of peace—at least in New York, which I assume also applies in Naples.

  I’m not willing to risk it, anyway.

  I try holding my breath while waiting my turn in the airport taxi rank, but this only results in an unexpected and possibly even more embarrassing case of the hiccups.

  The cab driver takes one look at me in the rearview mirror as I climb into the back and tosses a tattered pack of tissues on the seat beside me before roaring out into the still-busy streets of Naples. Perhaps as a show of compassion, he turns his radio up loud. The rest of the ride takes place with me alternately weeping and hiccuping in the back seat, while the voices of Andrea Bocelli and Ed Sheeran soar from the front.

  By the time I make it to the entrance of the guesthouse, I’ve managed to get a grip on the worst of the weeping. The very sleep
y man in charge hands over my key, looks briefly startled as I hiccup my response, and then points me to the stairs. It’s nearly twelve thirty as I close the door to my room.

  Inside, I uncap the complimentary bottle of water on the bedside table and take a swig. When that doesn’t really help, I flop onto the bed, hang my head off the side, and take another drink upside down. Only when I’m sure the hiccups have stopped for good, I FaceTime my best friend.

  “Holy shit,” Devi says as the screen lights up. “What’s happened?”

  Annoyingly, as the story pours out of me, she’s nodding and, whenever I pause for breath, making interjections like, “Yep, saw that coming,” and “No surprise there.”

  This conversation is not going at all the way I planned.

  “Devi, I called you for support. You’re supposed to be on my side, here.”

  “Darling girl, I am on your side.” She laughs derisively, and then she must catch a glimpse of my face. “Oh, honey! Don’t look like that. Not now. There is no doubt left to give this man the benefit of. He’s tried to control you from the moment he met you. He’s dressed it up in flowers and dinners out and . . .”

  “And a giant diamond ring.” I’m not about to tell Devi what Anthony said he paid for it—not yet, at least.

  “And a fucking giant diamond ring, presented to you way too soon in your relationship in such an over-the-top setting that you couldn’t say no.” She shakes her head. “And I have to admit, he’s really good. At the start, I thought I’d just have to wait out the love haze, and then you’d see the light. But he preempted me and asked you to marry him when you’d only really been together a couple of months.”

  “Three,” I whisper. “Three months.”

  “Okay, three months,” she says. “But right now, you’re in Greece, girl. Ain’t no better cure for a broken heart than one of those beautiful Greek boys.”

  “I’m actually in Italy,” I counter. “But I take your point.”