Wish You Were Italian (19 page)

Maybe eye contact would be better. I look up into them and immediately regret it. They’re big and golden and deep, and they’re looking at me. I have no clue what’s happening.

“You will wear this for me today, yes?”

I nod.

“
Bene
.” He walks back to the closet and pulls out a thin white button-down shirt and a pair of navy-blue shorts, then heads for the door.

“Wait,” I say, shaking my head out of my daze. He stops just before he passes me. “What’s so special about today? Aren’t we just working?” Darren said he was coming back today and would pop by the restaurant, but we didn’t set a specific time. I assumed I’d be at work all day.

“Later, yes,” he says quietly, leaning in like we’re co-conspirators. “First, I am taking you on my boat.”

I get pulled into the conspiracy and lean in too. “Your boat?”

“My boat.” He’s even closer now, still shirtless. His clothes are just an afterthought of wadded-up laundry in his hands. It’s
probably such a chore for him to put them on every day. He’s clearly in his element without them.

Chiara did say that I had to see Cinque Terre from the sea, that there’s nothing else like it. The anticipation of the photo ops alone is enough to make my answer “
Sì, sì, sì
,” forget about the half-naked guy standing in front of me. Forget about his lips, inches from mine. Forget that he has his own boat in
Italy
.

“Where are we going?” I stare at his mouth, waiting for an answer. He smirks and I’m pretty sure I’ll follow him anywhere.

Bruno traces my jaw with a fingertip and lightly taps the tip of my nose. “You will see.”

It’s early, but the marina is bustling. Small wooden boats covered in blue and green tarps line the stone wall opposite us, waiting patiently for their turn on the sea. A few are tethered and bob around in the shallow water while local men toss things down into them, chattering to one another, cigarettes loose at their lips. Robust seagulls caw from their perches on every available elevated space.

Bruno waves a hand in front of my face and it’s only then I realize my mouth is hanging open as I gawk at the scene. He laughs and taps the top of the camera hanging around my neck.

I remove the lens cap, adjust the aperture and shutter speed for the morning light, and start snapping. Nothing is off limits for me. The men, the seagulls, the diners enjoying their morning coffee at the cafés behind us, the bright plastic kayaks lined up on the shore.

“
Ciao, Bruno!
” someone calls from a boat puttering slowly into the marina.

A hard line sets Bruno’s jaw for a split second before he smiles and turns. “
Ciao, Mauro!
” Bruno shouts back.

Mauro?
I lift my camera back up to my eye and zoom in to the white- and red-trimmed boat. It’s definitely the same scumbag from a few days ago. He’s glaring at me, but I click a picture anyway. Just in case I need to identify him in a lineup.

“Is that your boat?” I ask, and Bruno nods. I will not be trapped on that tiny little thing with that creeper. I inch closer to Bruno and conjure up a flirty voice. “He’s not going with us, is he?”

Bruno’s expression brightens. “No.” He snatches my free hand and tugs me to the water’s edge on the ramp to wait for Mauro, who pulls the boat up as far as it will go.

Mauro hops out into the shallow water and the two of them do this handshake-hug thing that I’d find charming if I wasn’t so uncomfortable with the fact that Bruno seems to be on friendly terms with the swine.

Still gripping my hand, Bruno says, “Pippas, this is Mauro.” He continues on in Italian, telling him that I’m an American.

Bruno’s eyes are on me so he can’t see the death stare Mauro fixes me with. I take it to say,
Don’t even think about telling him you know who I am
. I do think about it. But I don’t do it.

Mauro and I both fake our smiles to each other and Bruno is none the wiser. I can’t wait to tell him what happened once we’re out of earshot. This guy is dangerous, and I’m worried for Chiara.

My thoughts skip to Darren standing up to him. Oh no.
Darren. Surely he’ll stop by later today when I’m actually at the trattoria. What if I miss him?

“Ready?” Bruno cuts into my inner panic. He squeezes my hand once, then scoops me up in a cradle.

I adjust my dress and he trudges carefully through the shallow water of the slip, placing me into the boat. It rocks a few times under my weight, but Bruno hangs on to my hands until I’m safely seated. The vessel is small but spacious enough for maybe four people. It’s also either been recently painted or he does a decent job of keeping it clean. The hull is empty aside from a nest of rope and a faded red gas can near the motor in the back.

I assumed this was a fishing boat, but it’s not dirty and it doesn’t reek of dead fish, so I’m not sure what Mauro just used it for. Joy riding? Drug trafficking? Hopefully not for driving girls out to sea to murder them and dump their bodies. I warily eye the rope and gas can again, but dismiss my scenario as paranoia.

Bruno takes the tether rope from Mauro and they converse quietly, not that I could understand them anyway. The tone is tense, but eventually Mauro leaves without anyone swinging a punch.

Bruno doesn’t come back to the boat right away. Instead he scans the marina like he’s looking for someone until a young girl about twelve years old with chestnut hair flowing down to her waist runs up to hand him a small basket. A wine bottle protrudes out of the top.

Oh,
great
.

He pays the girl a couple of coins from his pocket before she skips away, clutching her riches.

And here comes Bruno with his half-buttoned white shirt, rope in one hand, picnic basket in the other, wading through the chilly water, and heading toward me. Smiling at me. The scene is just too surreal not to capture. I snap a few pictures and his smile spreads.

My stomach twists and suddenly I can’t hold my camera steady. This might have been a bad idea.

He gives the boat a nudge to free it from the slip, then climbs over the side, kicking off his wet sandals. He starts the motor and steers it slowly through the shallows near the rocks.

I can’t keep it in anymore. Bruno needs to know about Chiara’s run-in with Mauro.

“I saw Mauro the other day.”

His eyebrows pull together. “You did?”

I check the marina once more to make sure Mauro is out of sight. “He was fighting with Chiara.”

His jaw tenses again. “Fighting? You are certain?”

“She was really upset about it. She seemed scared of him.”

Bruno pulls in a deep breath and narrows his eyes as he navigates.

“I just thought you should know,” I add since he’s gone quiet, obviously not pleased with the news. “I didn’t know if she was in some sort of trouble.”

His expression relaxes, but it’s forced.

“I am sure everything is fine,” he finally says. “I will talk to Chiara. Do not worry.” He offers a smile that reaches across his whole face, but he’s trying too hard. Something’s definitely up with this Mauro character.

I twist my hands together and keep my mouth shut. It’s none
of my business, and I don’t want to come across as nosey, so I leave it alone for now.

Once we’re out of the cove, Bruno pushes the little motor to her limit and we fly. Water sprays up over the bow and I have to secure my camera back in the plastic sack and then inside my camera bag, which I made sure to bring this time.

Despite living so close to Lake Michigan, I haven’t been out on too many boats. Compared to the occasional dinner cruise with my parents, this is heaven.

Who am I kidding? This is heaven compared to anything.

I face forward, close my eyes, and toss my head back, allowing the wind to run its fingers through my hair. The warmth of the summer sun tickles my shoulders and feet, which I prop up on a slat of wood near the front. I grip my dress tight with one hand to keep it from flying up over my head.

Bruno turns the boat so it points to the coast and cuts off the motor when we’re quite a ways out. I gasp at the sight. The bright pink and yellow buildings of Riomaggiore, now small from this distance, cling to the sides of the mountain valley, tiered vineyards stretching up overhead. Giant chunks of rock jut out from the exposed cliffs along the shore and poke up through the surface of the water.

We break out the bread and cheese from the little basket and munch on them in silence, enjoying the cloudless weather and the view of Bruno’s home. He takes a swig from the wine bottle and passes it to me. I pretend to sip on it, but my experience with alcohol is limited, and I need a clear head today. He either doesn’t notice my deception or he doesn’t mind.

A question has been burning on my mind since he
mentioned the word “boat.” I’ve been afraid to ask, but now that we’re way out here in the peace and quiet, gently swaying with the sea, I have to know.

I swallow my last bite of bread before I ask, “Is it difficult for you to be out here, since your father was a fisherman? Does it not remind you of him too much?”

After a moment he says, “That is why I like to come here. I feel he is here.” A sigh escapes his lips.

“Does Luca like to come out here too?”

“No. He is not ready.” He pauses. “But I will help him.”

“That’s good. I’m sure he needs you. I can’t imagine having to become the man of the house, giving up things you want for yourself.”

I hear the wine bubbling through the neck of the bottle as he takes a drink. “
Grazie
,” he says, prompting me to look at him. “For asking about
il mio papa
. No one ever does. They do not know what to say.”

I nod, taking in the view of the sea all around us. So open. So alone. A shudder passes through me. I hope his dad didn’t drown. What a horrible way to die.

Bruno tosses the crust of his bread back into the basket. “Here,” he says, removing my camera from its dry home and handing it to me to turn on. “I want to take a picture of you.”

I spin all the way around to fully face him, my back to the village, and smile. He takes way more than one, zooming in and out, aiming up and down, every possible angle and frame width.

He mumbles a few things in Italian between shots, and judging by the look on his face, he’s up to no good. Is this why he wanted me to wear my sundress? The temperature is
suddenly roasting, my cheeks blazing. There’s a reason I like being on the other side of the camera.

Finally I put my hand out in front of my face. “Okay, okay. I think you got enough.”

He sets it down in his lap and cocks his head to the side, studying me. “You could belong here,” he says, his tone surprisingly serious.

I turn from him and look back at the cluster of buildings, one on top of the other. A beautiful and unique place to visit, but to live long term?

“I don’t know about that,” I say.

“This could be your life.” He spreads his arms out as if to encompass the whole of Cinque Terre. And him.

I let out an uncomfortable laugh, unsure if he’s joking. “I’m not just going to move to a foreign country. I haven’t even finished high school yet.”

“
Sì
.” He slumps a little, but he’s still observing me closely, intently. “I would like things to be different.”

“What do you mean?”

“I like when you are here. Things feel, ah,
bene
. Good. Better.”

I open my mouth to speak, but I’m at a complete loss how to react.

Bruno stows the camera away again and moves to sit next to me, straddling the bench. The inside of his thigh brushes against my knee, his other leg dangerously close behind me, and I shift away so we’re not touching. He reaches for a section of my hair and twists it in his fingers.

“I like you,” he says quietly.

I remember the girls he flirted with right in front of me and roll my eyes, making no effort to hide it from him. If anything, I exaggerate it. “What a line!”

“You would rather belong to that Darren?” he asks. His eyes actually look pained. “He is not the one you truly want.”

“I don’t
belong
to anyone. And who said anything about Darren?” I ask, surprised he jumped to that. “Besides, I don’t even know him that well.” Yet.

He drops his hand from my hair to my bare shoulder, softly touching each freckle. Despite the heat, goose bumps appear down my arm.

“Chiara says that you see him everywhere. That he is meant for you.” He snorts, then meets my eyes again. “But I thought … maybe, you coming here meant.…”

Oh, he’s good.
Too
good.

“Bruno,” I say, turning to face him and shrugging away from his touch. “Do I really mean something to you? I
see
you with other girls, at the trattoria, out in other villages. You have girls everywhere!”

He reaches for my hands and holds them in his, stroking my wrists, which nearly renders me useless. The rising sun shimmers in his caramel eyes in such a way, I nearly forget where I am.

“Come now,” he says. “That is nothing. Tourists like to be charmed by
il Italiano
”

“Please,” I huff, somehow tearing my gaze from him.

“Look at me.” He squeezes my hands, urging me to comply. “It truly means nothing. It is just the job.” Bruno leans in, his breath warm on my face as he whispers, “Can you not see? You mean something to me.”

He releases my hands and slides one of his to my waist, pulling me forward. The boat shifts under a wave, and our lips brush together for an instant, but I pull my head back just enough.

I swallow hard, mustering the courage to speak, and it comes out as a hoarse whisper. “I don’t know how to believe you.”

He sighs and the scent of wine gets pulled into my lungs.

“Pippas,” he whispers.

And I’m gone.

Bruno leans in and kisses me, hesitant at first, but then he cups the back of my head. His other hand at my waist slips down to my leg just at the hem of my skirt. He persuades my mouth open and electricity jolts through my body. Under his spell, I wrap my arms around his neck.

I don’t know what I want to believe anymore.