Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(71)

When we emerge from a grove of palms, I realize that we must have crossed the entire island, and are much closer to the water than I thought. Thick raindrops soak my hair and Tiny’s fur. He’s never been a huge fan of water, but he idles near an indentation in the rock wall, barking in its direction.

“It’s an entrance,” Conor says. “To a cave. An artificial cave. See how steps were carved in the stone?”

Tiny, who usually rolls down the stairs because he’s too lazy to walk, darts downward with the agility of a mountain goat, and we hurry after him. Despite the gloom of the day, the visibility inside the cave is surprisingly good, with light filtering in from an opening down below. “Is this some kind of…”

“Grotto,” Conor says once we reach the bottom. He points at the other end of the cave, where the stone arches. “Ships sail in that way, then dock over here.”

“And tourists climb up the steps to visit the island.” I nod. “You can see the coast from here. That’s Villa Fedra.”

Tiny barks again, this time at an alcove in the wall. Conor and I exchange a glance, and he says, for what better be the last damn time, “Stay behind me.”

He pets Tiny with a mumbled “Bad boy” that holds zero discipline and lots of affection. Then frowns as he leans forward for a better look. “Maya?”

“Yeah?”

He shakes his head. “Have to take it back.”

“Hmm?”

“What I said about Tiny. He’s actually a goddamn genius.”

Tiny puffs up with pride. “Why?”

“Because he wasn’t running. He led us here on purpose.”





Chapter 30




The other dog is a mutt, too, but much smaller, and so terrified of us, its little sable-coated body never stops trembling. It takes me and Conor very little time to pry it out of the gap in the wall, but the entire time Tiny stares at us, an impatient supervisor clearly distrustful of his staff.

“He’s a him, I think,” I tell Conor. “Aren’t you, handsome?”

That last part is a bald-faced lie—so obvious, Conor raises an amused eyebrow.

“Oh, shut up,” I say, biting back a smile. So maybe he’s not the platonic ideal of canine beauty. His underbite might interfere with mastication, and one of his eyes is larger than the other. He’s at once skeletal and stocky, too wide for his length and comically tiny-headed. His floppy red ears, though, are a spectacle. And: “Some of us value temperament over looks,” I tell Conor after the dog stops hiding behind Tiny, approaches me to cautiously sniff my hand, and then licks it.

Conor snorts. But when the dog lets him scratch the top of his head, he reluctantly concedes that, “He might be growing on me.”

“Tiny. Look at you, making local friends.”

“Takes after you,” he mutters, and I need a moment to figure out that he’s talking about Not Hans.

“You think he just did it to make us jealous?”

I feel the weight of Conor’s eyes on me, his confusion fizzling in the air, and it sinks in that he really doesn’t get it. He truly believes that I would walk away and sleep with someone else. You have to know, I want to tell him. You have to know that I’ve been in love with you for three years longer than it was wise.

But this is Conor’s M.O.: he pushes me away because he fundamentally doesn’t believe that I know what I want. In his head, I’m still a twenty-year-old with shiny-object syndrome. One who cannot be trusted to make her own decisions.

Depressing, that’s what it is.

“Think he’s still a puppy?” he asks.

“Maybe?”

“Wonder how Tiny found him.”

“My guidebook said that there are lots of stray animals here in Sicily. Maybe they met around the villa and led each other here?”

He nods, thoughtful. “We need to take him to a vet.”

“Lucrezia will know who.”

The dog wags his tail with excitement—of meeting new people, of being free, of warm hands petting him. But when thunder roars through the cave, he and Tiny both duck for cover under a protuberance jutting out of the rock wall, curling into each other.

Conor sighs. “We should wait for the rain to be over before we go back. And we might need to carry the puppy.”

“Is your phone back at the Lambretta?”

He nods. “Yours?”

“I lost track of it a while ago. In my room, maybe?”

“Isn’t your generation supposed to be attached to phones?”

“Yes. And yours is, too. You weren’t born during the Great Depression, Conor, you’re a millennial. Can you stop acting like everyone you knew growing up died of measles?” Then I notice his smile. I keep falling for this shit. “Fuck off,” I mumble, turning to inspect the cave.

It’s stunning. A large chamber of all-encompassing blue. The walls are rugged and not excessively high, but the rounded ceiling gives the place a cathedral-like appearance. At the mouth of the grotto, rain ripples the surface of the sea. Ribbonlike streams of light and rainwater filter through the cracks in the rock, a pleasant, soothing rhythm, interrupted only by the occasional birdsong as the island’s inhabitants take shelter.

But where we are, the deep belly of the cave, is undisturbed. Cocoon-like, intimate. The stone gently slopes into the sea, and I scoot down to let my feet soak. The fish quickly swim away, confused by the intrusion, and I cannot help laughing. We may be stuck here, but…