SIX

Straightening my shoulders, I tell myself I can do this. I really can do this.

Oh, God, I can’t do this. What was I thinking when I decided to wear a dress?

I open the front door to see Luca leaning against the archway, legs crossed in his signature position, one hand in his pocket. I let the breezy summer air fill my lungs, and my mouth turns upwards into a smile. It’s like I have no control over what I’m feeling right now, and I can’t explain the logic, but he’s more beautiful than he was this morning.

‘Buonasera, bella Mia,’ he says. Two kisses. One for each cheek.

He smells so good.

He’s wearing a pair of cream capri pants and a meloncoloured twill shirt with rolled-up sleeves and he looks so … Italian.

‘Ready to visit Firenze, City of Art, painter girl?’

‘Yeah, sure. I’m just going to get changed first,’ I say, pointing to my dress.

‘Ma sei bellissima,’ he says.

Oh, God, he thinks I look beautiful.

‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I say, turning around.

Luca reaches for my hand and twirls me around to face him. ‘Mia, you’re in Italy. Women here wear dresses and skirts much shorter than that one every day, even when they ride scooters,’ he says, his eyes shifting to my legs. ‘Besides, you’ve got very beautiful legs,’ he murmurs, gazing back into my eyes.

I clear my throat. ‘Fine. Where’s the helmet?’

‘That’s the way, Australiana! You know, I’ve never dated an Australian girl before.’

‘Who says we’re dating?’ I ask, almost dropping my helmet.

‘Isn’t this a date?’ he counters innocently.

‘I guess so …’ I say, trying to keep a straight face. I can’t help smiling back into those irresistible chestnut eyes as I return the stare. I put on my helmet in an effort to distract myself and end the conversation before it gets any hotter.

‘Then, bella Mia, that means we’re dating,’ he says, clicking the strap shut under my chin. He keeps his captivating eyes locked with mine for what feels like minutes. It takes all the effort I can muster to look away. ‘So … I’m guessing you’ve never been on a scooter before?’

I shake my head. ‘I’m … uh … scared of …’

‘You’ll be fine. It’s much safer than a motorbike. I’ve been riding since I was sixteen. In seven years, not even a parking ticket,’ he says. ‘Well, actually, maybe one or two.’ He winks as he mounts the scooter.

‘Jump on!’ he says, adjusting his helmet and breaking into a luminous smile. He has perfectly straight white teeth and I’m convinced that if he wasn’t a mechanic, he’d have no problem being a model.

Despite my reservations, I do as I’m told and climb onto the scooter.

He turns his head over his shoulder to face me. ‘Relax,’ he whispers, which makes it impossible to do just that, and not because I’m thinking about how scared I am of bikes. He turns on the ignition and now I need to touch him. Well, actually … embrace him. I’m too nervous to do either, so I place my hands on my legs, pulling my dress down as far as it will go.

‘You’re going to need to hold on,’ he tells me.

I gingerly place my hands on his shoulders. He turns his head around to look at me, half smiling, before he faces forward and reaches behind his body for my hands. My palms are completely sweaty and my heart feels as though it’s going to burst out of my chest at any moment. My legs are complete jelly. Luca places my hands around his waist so they meet at the front and I’m forced to move in closer behind him.

‘You smell nice,’ he says as he releases the stand. I can see his mouth curl into an amused smile in the rear-view mirror. I’m sure my cheeks have just flushed crimson and I hide my face behind his back in case he catches a glimpse of me in the mirror.

As we take off slowly down the path I call out, ‘Where are we going?’

‘It’s a surprise!’ he replies, over the thrumming of the scooter.

His body is warm and strong and I’m willing myself to breathe deeply to slow down the pace of my heartbeat. We make our way down the winding roads through expansive countryside and rich green vineyards passing through the small suburb of Galluzzo, when he calls out and asks whether I’m okay.

‘I’m fine!’ I reply. Surprisingly, I am fine.

We pass an old monastery and a few restaurants, and shortly after we reach the city centre. We begin darting in and out of traffic and I close my eyes, holding on tighter. We stop at a set of traffic lights and he checks on me again.

‘How are you doing back there, painter girl?’

‘I’m doing okay,’ I reply. He takes one of my hands that is gripping his waist and holds it in his, placing it gently back around his torso when the light goes green.

Eventually we stop, parking the scooter close to the Arno, which is even prettier by dusk than it is by day. There’s a lazy vibe to the city now, as tourists tuck away their cameras and head back to their hotels to freshen up, and the local artists along the Arno pack up their supplies.

We reach a medieval city gate and Luca explains this is the Porta San Niccolò.

‘Can you tell me where we’re going now?’ I ask.

He smiles. ‘Piazzale Michelangelo. The most stunning view you will ever get of Florence is from that square,’ he says.

As soon as we pass through the gate we find ourselves on a steep and winding road. When I almost lose my footing, Luca is there to catch me. He leaves his hand on my back long after I’m steady, and I’m unsure of whether to squirm away or leave him be. We chat a bit about the differences between Melbourne and Florence, and he reels off ten reasons why he’s sure I’ll fall in love with Florence, his main compelling arguments being the food, the art and the people.

‘You won’t go home the same person you are today,’ he tells me. ‘That’s guaranteed.’

‘That would be nice.’

He glances at me curiously. We continue to walk up some stone steps and take a rest midway.

‘Why did you really come to Florence?’ he asks, his eyes piercing mine. I can tell his question goes much deeper than a simple getting-to-know-you one.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, taken aback by his directness.

‘I can see it in your eyes. You’re hiding something.’ He shrugs, looking at me intensely, his dark-brown eyes seeing right to my soul. ‘I don’t think you’re here just for a change of scenery.’

‘Well, maybe you’re wrong.’

‘And maybe I’m not …’ He blinks a couple of times, and before I can look away, he says, ‘Am I?’

Without reflecting on my words, they tumble out. ‘I wanted to start afresh. I mean, I’m better now … in remission … but for a while they … I … we all thought I wouldn’t make it.’ My eyes begin to glaze over as I move from my body to that familiar space in between. That space where I don’t have to think, or feel, or whatever, because it’s all too hard.

Luca’s silent for what feels like an eternity. I try to bring myself back into my body. With each passing second, the familiar lump forms in my throat and instantly I regret telling him.

He knits his eyebrows together as if he’s trying to work it out. ‘Cancer?’ he finally asks.

I nod, without meeting his gaze. He looks surprised and without me commanding it to, my body subtly shifts away from him. He waits patiently for my words to surface. ‘Hodgkin’s lymphoma. It’s hard for me to talk about it. Like I said, I’m okay now, and I have been for nine months. Cancer’s one of those things, though. It knocks you down, and if you’re lucky enough to live, your life is forever changed.’

I can’t help but glance over to check his reaction. His jaw is clenched, and I can sense he’s holding his breath. I wish I could take back the words. The last thing I want or need is pity. He takes a few moments to blink away the surprise, and when his breathing returns to normal, he moves closer to me. He reaches out a hand and gently tilts my chin so that our eyes meet. I feel almost naked, as if he’s looking right through me. He plants a gentle kiss on my forehead and moves some loose strands of hair away from my eyes.

‘Is that why you were crying yesterday?’ he asks, his voice low.

Oh, God. Too many questions.

I let out a deep breath and search his face for a reason—any reason—not to trust him, to keep my guard up, to give myself permission to retreat and keep the gate to my soul closed. I find none.

Defeated, I nod. ‘I’m still working through some stuff. Emotional stuff. It’s kind of messy. I suppose I don’t see life the same way I used to and I’m trying to feel my way through that. Today was the first time I painted in a really long time.’

‘Well, that sounds like progress. It also sounds like you’re a bit of a fighter, painter girl.’

‘I’m not as strong as you think.’

‘I get the feeling you might be.’

‘It scares some people,’ I whisper, as I play with the hair elastic that’s wrapped around my wrist. ‘The whole cancer thing, I mean. I lost a lot of friends because of it. It makes people uncomfortable … the whole idea of potentially losing someone.’

He shakes his head. ‘It doesn’t make me uncomfortable. You said you’re better now, right?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘But what?’

‘There’s a ten per cent chance it could come back.’

‘That also means there’s a pretty high chance it won’t.’

‘What if I’m unlucky?’

‘What if I get hit by a bus tomorrow?’

The thought makes me shudder.

‘Tell me … what did you paint today?’ he asks, changing the subject.

‘The Ponte Vecchio.’ I smile as I think about how good it felt.

‘Benissimo. Wait until you see it by night. Hai fame?’

‘I’m starving,’ I reply, feeling sweet relief at the conversation moving to food, but not only that, I’m delighted that I have an appetite.

‘Me, too. There’s a restaurant in the piazzale. La Loggia. We should go there,’ he says. ‘Let me warn you though, the views will be pretty average.’

My forced smile doesn’t go unnoticed.

‘Hey, what did I say to you the other day?’ he asks softly, tilting my chin up.

I search his face for answers. I’m not sure what he’s referring to.

‘Take life as it comes, remember?’

Oh yes. Of course. Do as the Italians do.

‘I’m trying.’

‘You’re doing a great job so far—I mean, you said yes, right? You’re here, with me right now,’ he says, grinning. ‘And tomorrow night, I’ll take you to the Ponte Vecchio.’ His eyes sparkle mischievously.

‘Oh, really?’ I tease. ‘And what makes you think that I’ll say yes?’

‘This,’ he says, as he leans in and plants a series of slow, soft kisses on my mouth, holding my face tenderly as though I might break. He stops and allows our eyes to meet.

‘So what’s your answer?’ he murmurs.

‘Si. My answer is yes.’

‘I knew you’d say that,’ he says, tickling me.

I squirm and giggle; I feel about fifteen, but it feels good. So good. And I know that I want more of this.

‘Stop it!’ I squeal, defending myself. He’s ticklish, too. He takes my hands and places them around his neck, moving his own hands around my waist. He’s smiling as his face draws closer to me. His lips brush over mine softly and unhurriedly, and once our kiss comes to an end, I almost have to remind myself to open my eyes again.

‘Let’s go eat,’ he says, pulling me up from the steps.

‘Perfetto,’ I say.

Everything is perfect. Too perfect. Scarily perfect.

We walk to La Loggia, and Luca pulls out my chair at an outside table on the terrace, the live music drawing me deep into the moment. We spend the next hour chatting about the vast contrast between our two lives. Luca grew up on a farm where his parents owned an olive grove, and he’d spend his weekends helping out in the family business. After he moved to Florence, he eventually became part-owner in the business he and Paolo built up together. He’d always had a love for cars and bikes, so making the move was an easy decision for him, especially since he considered Paolo to be the older brother he never had.

I tell Luca about my life in Australia, skipping the dark parts of the most recent years completely. I tell him about how I used to find joy in painting everything from cafe-lined inner-city streetscapes to pristine ocean coastlines, sunburnt plains and ancient gum trees, only to turn down my chance to study art at university once a place was finally offered to me.

I want to tell him how terrifying my life was during my illness and how scared I still am, but I can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever. My attention turns to the flickering candle between us; however, before I can drift into my usual space in between, he reaches over and strokes my hand.

‘Why did you turn down your spot at art school?’

‘Um … well … I couldn’t paint anymore.’

‘What do you mean?’

I take a sip of wine and consider my words. ‘When I was sixteen, I applied for entry into the Victorian College of the Arts secondary school. They only offer fifteen places for visual arts students, but I wanted a place more than anything. I’d been working on my portfolio for a year—a series of paintings that explored all the hidden places we can find beauty. A broken chair, a piece of bruised fruit, a wilted flower, or even a pair of worn-out boots. It turns out I was lucky enough to be accepted.’

‘That’s amazing. You must be good.’

‘All I know is that I loved studying there, and I learned so much. Before my diagnosis, I felt like my paintings were a translation of what I used to be able to see in my life …’

‘Go on …’

‘After I got sick my style changed. I couldn’t see things the same way, and it scared me, you know, to think I could paint pieces that were so … dark and depressing.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with that though. Look at expressionism. We all go through dark times. Your emotions manifested onto canvas. Your emotions were dark at the time. We all need to experience the darkness to recognise how beautiful the light is.’

‘How do you know about expressionism? I thought you weren’t so into art, Mr Mysterious.’

‘I had a crush on my middle school art history teacher. I paid attention to what she had to say.’

‘Oh? You were cotto?’ I joke.

‘Eh, si.’ He laughs. ‘But nothing like this.’

My heart skips a beat and my eyes dart away. There’s no way I can meet his gaze now without coming undone.

‘Dolce?’ he asks.

‘Sweet?’ I say, unsure of my translation.

‘Dessert. I meant dessert. But you’re much sweeter than dessert.’

‘Dessert would be great,’ I whisper, feeling my cheeks glow.

By the time we finish dinner, I’m giddy from the wine. Luca intertwines his fingers through mine, and we take a stroll in the piazza, illuminated by a handful of street lamps. A string of Japanese tourists, adorned with their Nikons and Canons, file back onto their tour buses, after which a quiet lull fills the square. I lean over the stone railings as Luca wraps his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.

‘This is so beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like this before,’ I say, letting the panoramic view of the city cast its mesmerising spell over me.

‘Me either,’ he says, his attention on me. I try to push aside the feelings in my head that tell me this is wrong, that whatever it is I’m feeling can’t be possible or rational. Yet my heart doesn’t care that we’ve known each other for less than forty-eight hours. When he leans in and pulls me close to his warm, strong body for a kiss, I’m his. And it feels anything but irrational.

We stand there in silence, entwined in each other’s arms, the infancy of our love weaving its foundations in the stillness of the moment, until finally he whispers, ‘Bella Mia. I wish you were mia.’

I’m petrified to think that I already am.