“Derio!” Alfonso says as he comes out of the building. Annabella trails behind him, her thumbs hooked around the straps of her backpack, her head down. Another child races past us, yelling something at Alfonso that makes him smile but Annabella seems to be totally shut off from the world around her.
I think Alfonso asks what we are doing picking them up instead of Felisa, but when Derio tells them they are going to the beach instead, even Annabella’s face lights up a little.
Soon we’re hailing a cab just outside of the funicular, and I can’t stop an internal squee as one of the convertibles pulls up to us. Alfonso wants to sit up front with the driver so Annabella goes in the backseat, followed by Derio in the middle. I’m glad for that because my fat ass would be a hindrance to both of them if I had to ride in the bitch seat.
I squish myself in, trying to buckle the seat belt and leaning against Derio to do so. I hear him inhale and for a second I think maybe he’s trying to smell my hair. I freeze. Don’t look up, don’t look up, I think, while also thinking, What shampoo did I use? What does my hair smell like?
The seat belt goes in with a click and when I do raise my head, Derio is facing the other way. Hmmm. Maybe my imagination is running away from me. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would smell my hair.
The taxi starts and we jet off down the hill. I casually take a strand of my hair and run it under my nose. The faint note of coconut lingers on it. At least I smell good.
Driving in Capri, like the rest of Italy, is nearly a full-contact sport. I close my eyes as the car winds down the hill and overtakes pedestrians in the narrow lanes, orange buses squeezing past us with a hair-width to spare while people on scooters tailgate us. Once we’re out of the congested city streets, the road begins to climb, up and up, and curve some more. Soon the houses drop away and it’s just lush foliage, rock face, and a serious cliff edge on my side. We must be hundreds of feet up, and I know I saw this very road from the marina when I first arrived. If I were brave enough to look, I would’ve seen nothing but space.
I close my eyes again, feeling my body freeze up on the verge of a panic attack. I get pins and needles all over my limbs as I experience vertigo, that falling sensation, again and again.
“You’re not looking at the view,” Derio says, his voice so close to my ear, but even that doesn’t help. Instead, I turn into him, burying my face into his shoulder, my weight against his side. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod against him but I still don’t move. It’s crazy what the fear can sometimes do to me, especially if the drop is sudden and I’m up really high. It’s almost like if I don’t hold on to him or if the seat belt isn’t tight enough, there’s a chance I’ll be sucked away, pulled over the edge. Sometimes I even fear that I’ll jump on purpose. It’s fucked up, but it happens occasionally. (The fear, not throwing myself out of cars or off of balconies.)
Derio doesn’t say anything. Instead he puts his arm around me. His grip is firm and strong and somehow that centers me, knowing that he has me and is holding on. I know it’s not a romantic gesture and that’s okay. I just want to feel anchored.
And I do feel anchored. I feel protected and warm. And though I know he wasn’t smelling my hair earlier, I’m inhaling the fuck out of him because honestly I can’t get enough.
CHAPTER SIX
After about five minutes of closing my eyes and burrowing myself into Derio’s arms, I can feel the air around us change. It becomes more dense, less open, and street sounds become louder. I carefully raise my head and look around, the wind whipping about my hair. We’re driving past large resort-like buildings and white-washed residences. We seem to be inland enough that there’s no chance of us falling to our doom. It pains me to think we have to take that road back home. Maybe I can hitch a ride on a boat.
I swallow thickly and straighten up, afraid to meet Derio’s eyes. I know they’re studying me underneath those sunglasses. With deliberation, he slips his arm away. The breeze feels cold for a moment before the sun goes back to searing my skin.
The cab takes us through Anacapri, which does look like a cuter, less touristy version of Capri town, past olive groves and tiny vineyards in the looming shadow of Mount Solaro. Finally, the island flattens out, opens up, and we’re parking at the base of a pink lighthouse.
“This is the Faro di Punta Carena,” Derio explains as we pile out of the cab. “We are at the most southwestern part of the island.”
It’s absolutely beautiful. The startlingly clear water, with its millions of shades of vivid blue, laps against the dramatic rocks and craggy coves. After Derio pays the driver, we walk down toward a restaurant perched on the edge of the cliff. He motions for me to stay put with the kids while he goes in to talk to someone.