The Pairing(113)

“How— Oh, fuck, there it goes.”

They pull their hand back, grimacing as wet warmth begins trickling into the dip above my upper lip. I’d be embarrassed if we had any reasons left to be. As it is, I have to tell myself not to laugh so it doesn’t overflow into my mouth.

“Dude, are you okay?” Theo asks, handing me a paper napkin. “Does it always happen this often?”

“Before I saw you in London, it had been over a year,” I say. “But since then—twice a week? Maybe three times?”

“Why?”

I smile, a bead of warmth rolling over my lip. It’s just so ridiculous. Theo’s brows shoot up.

“Because of me? They’re—love nosebleeds?”

I nod. “Always were.”

“That’s disgusting,” Theo says, lunging forward, sliding a hand into my hair.

They swipe their tongue across my lips and push it into my mouth, and we drink in the mingled flavors of us: the acidic burn of green grapes and vinegar, a heady combination of bitter orange and lavender, coppery blood turned sweet and ripe as a pomegranate in Proserpina’s palm.

I pull them into my lap, and they push our swimsuits aside and take me right here, floating in our hidden blue cove under the Mediterranean sun. I spread my fingers to touch all of them I can reach, so that when they’re gone, I won’t have to imagine anything. I’ll only have to close my eyes and relive this, their grinding hips, the smell of summer on their skin, their body living forever in my body’s memory.

Rilke wrote, He makes a home in your familiar heart, takes root there and begins himself again.

After, we strip down to our bottoms, our chests unceremoniously bare, and jump in. I tread water while Theo swims laps around me, ripples of light sliding over them. I count their efficient strokes. They know exactly where they’re going.


At a seaside restaurant near the busiest part of Favignana—that is, one of the streets not wandered by cattle—everyone seems reluctant to finish their last dinner of the tour. Even after all these days on a bus and nights in strange beds, all the blisters from long city walks and Florentine sunburns and daily translation failures, it always seems like home could wait one more day. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to take my final sip of wine wearing shoes that stood before a Botticelli only days ago. I can’t imagine walking into my apartment and kicking them off into the pile with the rest.

Around tables laden with fresh-caught seafood, the strangers we met three weeks ago talk and laugh and feast in now-familiar ways. The honeymooners touch hands on the tablecloth. The Swedes finish all their vegetables first. Dakota and Montana photograph every dish from a dozen dynamic angles before they throw their phones down and dig in. The Calums laugh too loudly—although, tonight, they sit closer than usual. A conspicuous bruise on Blond’s neck looks about the size of a man’s mouth. When Theo catches Montana’s eye, she gives them a thumbs-up, and Theo and I raise our glasses. Montana smiles victoriously, running her fingers through Dakota’s blond hair.

Between primi and secondi, Fabrizio stands and makes a toast.

“For nine years now, I do this tour,” Fabrizio says, holding his glass of prosecco aloft. “Since I was twenty-five years old. If I am honest, sometimes I cannot wait for this dinner. Sometimes the people are not so good, and the weather much worse, and I wish to be home soon as I can. And sometimes, this dinner breaks my heart, because the people are so kind, and the sky is so blue, and the wind is so warm, and the love in my heart for food and wine and history shines back to me from all of you, and I do not want to say goodbye. Tonight, amici, my heart is broken.”

People sigh. My own heart aches. Beneath the table, Theo reaches for my hand.

“Grazie mille ragazzi,” Fabrizio says with shimmering eyes, “thank you for coming along with me. I hope you will remember me well. Salute!”

“Salute!” the room calls back, and we drink to our dear, delicious, devastating Fabrizio.


Before the end of dinner, we sneak away to the smallest, emptiest beach we can find nearby. We stand before the setting sun and take out the whiskey, like we always said we would. Theo has another day and a half on their own before they fly home, but I leave first thing in the morning, so this is our last chance. Funnily enough, though, Theo has a layover in Paris.

As we drink, Theo asks, “Which city was your favorite?”

I consider my answer for a long time.

Finally, I admit, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Saint-Jean-de-Luz.”

“I was going to say that one too,” Theo says. “All the others I felt like I was visiting, but Saint-Jean-de-Luz felt like a home, you know? Or—I guess Paris is home to you, so maybe not.”

“No, I know what you mean,” I say. “There was something about it, a sort of . . .”

“Peace,” they finish for me.

I nod, letting the tide wash up to my ankles. Theo passes me the whiskey, and I savor its burn.

“I think these might have been the most important three weeks of my life,” Theo says. “There were so many things I didn’t even know I was capable of until I was doing them. And I never would’ve known if I hadn’t come. And now, when I look at my life back home, I feel like I can see actually see it clearly from here.”

“I know what you mean about clarity,” I say. “You know I’ve been trying to read A Room with a View for two years now?”