Racing the Sun(26)

We walk along the Via Tragara at my pace, though his long legs could carry him much faster. He’s got his shades on and another fashionable outfit—blue untucked dress shirt, knee-length tan cargo shorts, tan Converse shoes. He slips a cigarette in his mouth and lights it.

“Does no one tell the Italians that smoking is bad for you?” I ask.

He smirks at me. “They do. We just don’t care. We like all of the bad things.” He inhales, his nostrils flaring, then breathes it out. “Smoking, racing, drinking, sex. All bad. All very good.”

And is that sex-with-a-woman sex? I want to ask but as I’m staring at him, despite his loner tendencies and his fashionable ways, I’m just not getting that vibe. Sometimes his eyes seem to smolder with something, though it’s probably wishful thinking on my behalf.

“Tell me, Amber,” he says, playfully pronouncing my name. “What are your bad habits?”

“Bad habits?” I repeat.

“You must have some,” he says.

I ponder that and pull my shades out of my bag. The sun is hot and glaring off the sea in the distance. “I guess I eat too much,” I tell him honestly. “I try not to, and I’m always worried about it. So I guess that’s a bad habit, too. Worry. I worry about a lot of things. I’m really bad with money. I spend recklessly. I’m impulsive with things and don’t really think them through. I also make snap judgments with people and I know I shouldn’t. I guess I used to think I was entitled but I got over that one pretty fast. I’m stubborn. I think I know more than I do. I tend to look for split ends in my hair and pull them apart. I pick at my nail polish. I don’t exercise as much as I should, mainly because I hate exercise. When I have wine, sometimes I have too much. I forget to put on sunscreen. I kiss all the wrong boys.” I pause. “I’m pretty sure I’m just a person composed of nothing more than good intentions and bad habits.”

“Wow,” he says quietly. “That is a lot. I didn’t really expect you to be so honest. Most women—most people—are never honest about their faults. But really, it sounds more like you are more human than made of bad habits. Though I don’t really understand the last one. You kiss all the wrong boys. How do you know who the right boy is?”

I raise my shoulder. “I don’t know. I haven’t met him yet.”

“Like the story with the princess and the frog.”

“Maybe,” I say, and suddenly I feel vulnerable for sharing all my worst qualities with him. Vulnerable, but free.

We walk along the road, passing the other fancy houses and tourists. I nod at them and smile but notice that Derio keeps his head down, his focus in front of him, as he puffs away on his cigarette. I wonder if he knows what the people in town say about him. From his cagey demeanor as he passes people by, I gather he does.

Once we head into the clean, impossibly narrow streets of Capri town, Derio sets off down a small street to the left, grumbling to himself in Italian as he goes.

“Not a fan of the crowds?” I ask him.

He makes a tsking sound. “No,” he says gruffly. “I hate living here this time of year. You should see Capri in the winter; it is heaven. All the Prada and Louis Vuitton stores and overpriced tourist joints are closed and only a few bars, restaurants, and grocery stores are open. Even hotels are closed. That is the real Capri, not this.”

I try to imagine Capri with dark gray clouds instead of stunning sunshine, with just a few locals milling around instead of the throngs of sunburned visitors. “It must be very lonely,” I say, picturing the isolation. This is just a rock in the middle of the sea.

“Yes, but it is good to be lonely sometimes,” he says. “There is one bar in the Piazzetta, the square here, that remains open. Everyone goes there. If you are lonely, you can go there and be with people.”

But something tells me he doesn’t do that.

We come to a stop outside of a large stone building. Through the windows I can see a chalkboard, like schools used to have before iPads and computers replaced everything.

“Is this their school?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “There are two small schools on the island. One here, one in Anacapri. Have you been there yet?”

I shake my head. “To be honest, I haven’t really left the house until now.”

He tilts his head at me. “Oh? Then I am especially glad we are going to the beach. We will take the cab through Anacapri. Perhaps on the way back we can stop somewhere for dinner. I prefer it to here, less crowded and more charming.”

The sound of a bell ringing, almost like a church bell, comes out of the building, and suddenly the air is filled with children yelling and laughing. But I’m thinking about what he just said and the way it made me feel. Going out for dinner with Derio? Granted, the kids will be there, but somehow that almost makes it more intimate. My stomach does a little flip at the thought.