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Toes dipping into
Tranquil waters like the tip
Of a lazy branch
-#118, In Blue Solitudes, S. Wilson-Osaki
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One look at the sterile sheets of the small twin bed in his hotel room, and Seb bolted for the door. Halfway to the lobby, he thought twice about his attire, racing back to exchange his summer suit for a T-shirt and shorts, his dress sneaks for hiking runners, and his satchel for his backpack. Armed with a to-go cup of jet fuel—a triple espresso—and a restlessness he couldn’t contain, Seb broke out into the starry Sorrento night.
He wandered for a while until he found himself on an old Roman road. Walled gardens on both sides kept the path narrow but direct. With only the moonlight as guide and companion, Seb dragged his fingers along the coarse fieldstone walls. Every so often, a peak-a-boo gate gave him a glimpse of the lush, overgrown gardens behind, the scent of jasmine wafting through the iron bars. He let the rhythm of his steps and the blanketing night lull him away from his conscious mind. Seb imagined himself a pilgrim journeying to a sacred site, bearing a sacrifice for an ancient god. He loved this place; everywhere he looked conjured an image of the past, as if that idyllic world was just a heartbeat away.
A fork in the road betrayed no evidence as to which way led down the road less travelled. Seb spotted an arrow sign with the word Bar painted in crude red letters. Jackpot. A raised path paralleled the coastline, its black rails almost invisible in the darkness. With only the moon glow off the slats, he followed the gleaming brick road until he came to the ruins of an ancient Roman villa. Through the vaulting archways, a dance of light beckoned. After a few false starts, he felt more than walked his way down to a hidden lagoon.
A tiny shingle beach looked toward a keyhole opening in the rock on the other side. Beyond, an unreachable horizon. Seb stood on the farthest stone of the beach, his toes hovering over the tranquil water. Communed with this secret place, where the earth cradled the sea. Every so often a surge from outside would stir the waters of the lagoon, like a mother reprimanding a complacent child. But then the tide would drain out again, and the surface would still. It would take a stronger hand to change this one’s nature.
The red bar sign blinked in the back of Seb’s mind as if lit in neon. His espresso buzz had been replaced by an ache only the balm of alcohol could dull. Seb dipped a stick in the water, wrote a quick haiku on the stones. It evaporated by the time he climbed back to the ruins, the strains of an Italian love song luring him to the topside bar.
Little more than a portable shack surrounded by deck chairs and two-seat tables, Seb was relieved to find it open. For such a remote spot, a surprising amount of people lounged around the bar and on the staggered rock shelves that led to the sea. While local couples kept well above the water line, a group of hikers gathered in a campfire circle on a nearby patch of brush. The strains of their guitars competed with the jazzy soundtrack piped in through the shack’s two antennae-like speakers.
After placing his order, Seb settled into one of the farthest deck chairs to wait out the dawn. The drink of choice, a sweet caipirinha that bore little relation to its tart Brazilian cousin, went down smooth. When Sinatra’s “Come Back to Sorrento” came on, Seb raised a toast to this hidden gem of a place, to the gorgeous city itself, to Capri in the distance, and to his time in Amalfi. He whispered words of gratitude to Henry and Andrea before downing the rest of his glass.
Despite the tightness in his throat, he waved at the bartender for a second round. Though he had several hours before checking out of his hotel, Seb clung to every minute lest it speed past, wishing he could halt the traffic of even this quiet corner of the world. Just stand at this intersection of his life with arms stretched out and a whistle between his lips, waiting for a sense of direction, for the claxon of inspiration.
Where did he go from here? Back to a house whose cold rooms echoed with happy memories? Back to friendships that were pantomimes of former intimacy? Back to his empty bed, to watching the stain of Henry’s blood in the left lane of the Chemin Black get iced over by another endless winter? As if Seb had never been to this sun-burnished place. As if he’d never stolen through the gardens of an Amalfi villa to steal a kiss from one of the city’s favorite sons.
He dug into his backpack for Henry’s notebook. Skipping to the second-to-last page, Seb slipped out the letter he had paper-clipped back there; the one the executor gave him at the reading of Henry’s will, along with the notebook and a few other treasures.
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My heart,
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I hope you never read this. I hope I’ll toss it on the fire with old arthritic hands while sipping my last glass of shiraz. Or, if you are reading it, a ninety-five-year-old you is sitting on the sunny porch of the Italian villa where we’ve lived through our retirement years, surrounded by kids and grandkids and all the important people. Like Steph, who is forcing me to write this, just in case. I hate it—hate everything about it, except that it’s for you—but she’s right.
I’m no poet. You know that. I have some words, but you always had the best ones. The most eloquent, the most eviscerating. You’re spellbinding, Seb. I want to listen to you forever. I want to say something perfect, something unforgettable. But if you’re reading this, what is there to say but “I’m sorry”? I know I promised I would always come back. I fought to keep that promise. Please know that. Please forgive me.
I love you. I love you. I love you. When I got off the plane from my first trip to Amalfi and found you waiting for me at the gate, I knew. These are the notes from that trip, the beginning of our life together. I hope you’ll read them, when you can. I hope you’ll go back there to find me. I’m waiting for you, my heart, on the steps of the Duomo. If you look into the crowd, you’ll see me there.
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Forever yours,
Henry
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Seb carefully folded the note, slid it into his wallet. Settled in to read. From page one, line one, to the last doodle, he followed Henry’s every scribble, draft, half-formed notion. Thought about his adventures with a swell of pride when he reached passages that had guided him. Seb had managed to hit more of the recommended sites than he’d missed. Better still, Amalfi had sunk into his bones. He loved it the way Henry had loved it, heartache and all.
When the first glimmers of sunlight pinked the horizon, Seb borrowed a knife from the bar. After slicing out the pages with personal significance and stashing them in his writing journal, Seb stared at the notebook awhile, longer at the view.
A soft peck to the cover; a murmured farewell. Leaving Henry’s notebook on the slim table for the next traveler to find, Seb embarked on the long journey home.
An argument of operatic ferocity blasted Seb as he lugged his suitcase down the main staircase of the Villa dei D’Armiento, an eighteenth-century hotel modernized by an adorable family into a camera-ready Hollywood dream of a place. The personal touch the website promised meant they were occasionally short on staff. The two lovely ladies at the front desk, Maria and Nina, were so demure and accommodating that the fact that they held their own against whatever belligerent fat cat currently attempted to throw his weight around shocked Seb. Until he turned the corner into the lobby and discovered the not-so-fat cat in question was Andrea.
“What’s going on here?” Seb demanded, abandoning his bag.
“O Santo Dio!” Andrea kissed his fingertips, raised them to the sky. “Sebastiano...” Andrea reached out in his direction, but some internal hesitation kept him from taking a step.
Possibly the look on Seb’s face, which he’d set to “murder with your eyes.”
“Signor Osaki, this gentleman”—Nina—or Maria?—seemed to doubt her own appraisal—“insists to speak with you. He doesn’t have a room number, and you left no instructions...”
“You did the right thing,” Seb reassured them. “Will you watch my bag? I’ll be back in a minute.” Halfway to the back exit, he realized Andrea hadn’t followed him. “Come on.”
Seb tried not to let the look of relief that washed over Andrea’s face get to him. Andrea sped after him like a scolded puppy but gave him space once outside. Mermaid’s tail-patterned tiles scaled out to a palm grove. Seb led them down the path toward the pool, out of earshot of any early morning risers.
When he glanced back at Andrea, Seb found him leaning on the whitewashed Victorian lamppost as if he needed to catch his breath. Bruise eyed and clumsily shaven, Seb recognized the hunted cast to his visage all too well. The glossy waves of his hair were slicked back in a pompadour Seb hadn’t glimpsed since the day he landed. His vet’s uniform, a crisp white dress shirt and ass-hugging jeans, replaced the team colors Andrea usually wore. He looked officious, choirboy penitent, and like he hadn’t slept in a week.
Seb resisted the urge to smother him with affection. Or strangle him where he stood. To release all expectations and just listen. Trouble was Seb didn’t know what he wanted to hear.
And Andrea, for all the ruckus he’d caused, didn’t know what to say. Twice he raised his hands, opened his mouth, only to fold back in on himself—a conductor who’d lost his tempo. The nervous stutter of his foot tapping the tiles made Seb take some pity on him.
“You left me.”
Wounded eyes found his, locked in. “You looked so perfect, bundled in the covers. In my arms. My sleeping beauty. And I knew that everything that was to come over the next few days, it would never be as perfect. When you were in Amalfi, I could push away the thought that you would leave soon... but here, in Sorrento, I would know. Every minute I would know. And I didn’t trust myself not to...”
“Not to...?”
“Be selfish.”
“You think leaving without saying goodbye wasn’t selfish?”
Andrea let out a blustery sigh. “I know. I dropped off my last client that day, and I was sick in the street. All I could think of was you, but I wasn’t thinking of you. Does that make sense?”
“No.”
“Then I remembered about Henry and...” Seb struggled to be unmoved by the telltale glisten in Andrea’s eyes. “I am so, so sorry. I am a worm. I am a scarafaggio, one of those little—”
“Ostriches.” All the more endearing with crow’s feet and crinkled brow, apparently.
“Is that an insect?”
“Bird. Gigantic thing. Likes to stick its head in the sand to hide from predators.”
“Ah. Then yes, I am an ostrich. A very apologetic ostrich.”
“I can see that.” Seb padded over to him, caught one of his hands. “Fortunately this kitsune is rather partial to big, floppy, skittish birds.”
“Kit... what?”
“Shapeshifting fox from Japanese mythology.”
Andrea managed a hard-earned smirk. “I would have thought an Arctic fox since—”
“Don’t say it. We do have four seasons in Canada, you know.”
“Then I’ll have to make sure I visit in summer.” Andrea squeezed his hand so hard Seb thought he’d heard a crack. “If I’m still invited?”
He pretended to think it over for so long Andrea kicked his foot.
“Ow! Hey! Do you always abuse people you’re begging forgiveness from?”
“I don’t know about begging...” The melancholy tinge to Andrea’s expression wasn’t very playful or convincing.
“We’ll save that for next time.” Even Seb couldn’t summon up a convincingly seductive tone. “Come here.” He pulled Andrea into a straightjacket hug, nesting his cheek in that stiff, citrus-scented pompadour until he felt him begin to shudder. Then he held him even tighter. “I missed you, you stronzo.”
A muffled laugh tickled his collarbone. Andrea cleared his throat several times before raising his head but made no move to break their embrace.
“Let me drive you to the airport. All the way to Rome, if you want.”
“How do you know I’m going to Rome?”
“I checked the flights to Montreal.”
Seb gazed deep into sincere, aching eyes and decided to indulge his inner kitsune.
“Okay. But there better be a granita al limone in my future.”
“Only the best when you ride with me.”
Fifteen minutes later, armed with a granita and a homemade sfogliatella courtesy of a care package from Vina, Seb sunk into the swank leather of the SUV’s passenger seat for what he hoped was not the last time. Andrea revved the car to life but paused before shifting her into gear.
“Airport or Rome?”
“Just head for the highway.”
Seb could tell he wanted to object, but his kind, considerate, quick-tempered, skittish, giving sweep of a man couldn’t bring himself to say a word against someone he had so recently wronged. Yet another thing Seb admired about him. As they navigated the tight streets and those stomach-sinking corners, Seb waited for Andrea to say something, make some kind of move. To fight for what Seb knew he wanted. Andrea’s head may have no longer been in the sand, but that didn’t make him a bird of prey.
“So... you went to Fabiana’s.”
“I did.” Surprised by the change of subject, Seb shifted so he could look at him. “I wanted to spend my last night in Italy in the place that had brought me the most joy.”
He didn’t think he imagined Andrea tightening his grip on the steering wheel.
“She said that you had a talk with Bruno.”
Seb scoffed. “More like Bruno talked at me. That guy does not understand the meaning of personal space.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No, no. Just...” Seb took a long slurp of his drink as he gathered his thoughts. “I wish him well, so long as he stays away from me.”
Andrea snorted. “He has that effect on people.” A nervous twitch fluttered the edge of Andrea’s eyelid. Seb sensed he fought to keep his focus on the road. “I was with Federica when Zia Fabi called. Otherwise—”
“It’s all right.”
He slammed his palm into the steering wheel. “No, it’s not!”
“You apologized. I accepted. You brought pastries. There’s nothing left to say.”
The SUV swerved into an alleyway, screeched to a halt at the end of a cul de sac five paces from a dead-drop cliff. Andrea punched the gear into park, whipped off his seat belt. He crawled so far over the seat divider that he was practically in Seb’s lap. After clicking open the passenger door, he gave it a hard shove.
“Out!”
Seb barely had time to stow the last few bites of his sfogliatella before Andrea bulldozed him into the road. Abandoning the SUV with the keys still in the ignition, Andrea grabbed Seb by the arm, tugging him over to a tight square of space between the back of an apartment building and the cliffside rail.
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t want to do this in that fucking car.”
Andrea eased Seb back against the coarse stucco wall. A lightning strike of gray-and-green flashes fired in his eyes. He closed in on Seb, sparking the air between them. Cupping his face, Andrea kissed him deeply, desperately, as if only a breath away from unleashing a hurricane of emotion. Seb surrendered to the storm.
“I can’t lose you.” Andrea’s frantic breaths gusted down the slope of Seb’s neck, tingling with promise.
“You won’t.”
“You say that now, but I’ve seen it so many times. People make promises when they’re in the thick of it, but once they’re home...” Another seismic kiss. “I know you’re still figuring out how to... to exist without your husband, but... Ah, Sebastiano. I’m falling in love with you.”
Seb beamed at him, wanting—absurdly—to cheer. To shout. To fly the team colors with pride. His sweep, from way behind the half line, had finally scored.
Instead Seb took his mouth, pouring all his jumbled but ardent emotions into their embrace. When they finally came up for air, he whispered, “I think it’s time you took me home.”
Andrea recoiled as if he’d been shot. He wrenched out of Seb’s arms, bolted back to the SUV. Seb chased after him, cursing his choice of words.
“Wait. Dre—” Seb grabbed for him, but he leapt through the passenger door and across the divider.
“Get in.” The roar of the engine drowned out Seb’s second plea. “You’ll miss your flight.”
“I’m not—”
“Airport,” Andrea choked out, “or Rome?”
Seb leaned in through the passenger seat, his feet planted on the ground so Andrea couldn’t speed away. He’d almost lost him once. Never again.
“Amalfi.” He covered Andrea’s hand with his own. “Take me home to Amalfi, Dre.”
Andrea fell back into his seat with a dull thud. He gaped at Seb, who peeled his fingers off the clutch, twined them with his own. Seb reached over, Andrea’s eyes following him as he clicked the SUV back into park and killed the ignition.
“Come on. Out again.”
Seb ran over to the driver’s side in time to catch Andrea when he staggered out. He gathered him in a loose hug so that they could look out to the sea. A view so epic and indelible Seb knew he would never tire of it. Much like the man in his arms.
Who’d finally recovered enough from his shock to formulate a question.
“What do you mean, ‘home’? What have you done?”
“Called Vincenzo this morning. Lucky for me, he had a cancellation. I’ve got a spot at the Villa Napolitana for the next two weeks, which will give us enough time to find me an apartment. I will have to go back to Montreal at some point to pick up Nagiko and whatever I’ll need. But I can stay for at least six months. By then I figure we’ll know if I need to look into something more... permanent.” Seb gazed hopefully into his stoic Roman face. “That is, if all that’s okay with you?”
“You, Amalfi, our home?” Andrea broke out his luminous smile. “Everything about that, about you, is okay with me, Sebastiano.”
He melted into Andrea’s embrace, his whole body lit by the fire of his kiss, by the gentleness of his spirit, by the promise of a boundless future.