“Hey,” I say. “I just got your message.”
He looks me over. “You look worked.”
“I am,” I say. “I did the stairs this morning.”
I feel my body, alive. The blood pumping through my veins, the sweat on the back of my neck, the heat from the exertion and sun. It feels good.
“Did you enjoy it?”
I smile, thinking of Carol, her head back, the ocean below us. “Yes. You can join me tomorrow if you think you can keep up.”
A man in a Hawaiian shirt balancing a plate of eggs and sausage walks by, speaking fast Italian. “But now I’m going to eat all the watermelon on this table.”
Adam cocks his head to the buffet. “Want company?”
He’s squinting at me, his hand over his forehead like a visor, blocking the sun. “Sure,” I say.
I ignore his recommendations. Today, I go for everything, the whole spread, like I’m on a cruise ship or in Vegas. I don’t hold back. Two plates. One with fruit, pastries, and a yogurt parfait. The other with scrambled eggs, potatoes, and bacon. I sit them both down across from Adam, who is back at the table sipping coffee.
He looks up at me, impressed.
“Now we’re talking,” he says.
I plunk into the seat, down another glass of water, and then start on the fruit. I eat with a voraciousness I can’t remember. The watermelon is sweet, the eggs are creamy, and the bacon is crisp and salty.
When my mother got sick, food immediately tasted like cardboard. One day I was coveting the salt and sweet of pad Thai from Luv2eat on Sunset, the next I was force-feeding myself a piece of toast after my stomach had gone unaccompanied for eight hours. Food had lost all sensation, all meaning.
Soon after, my mother lost her appetite as well. Before that she tried—she still cooked for us, putting on a brave face of enjoying roasted salmon and Broccolini or her famous linguine and clams. But treatment made her nauseous, and eating started to become painful. Hospitals, needles, and the pulse of medication do not pair well with an appetite. She got thinner and thinner, and so did I.
“You need to take care of yourself,” Eric would warn me. He’d pick up pasta or pizza or a Caesar salad—things I liked, things I found palatable—and I’d nibble at them. I stopped opening our refrigerator. Pretzels became a meal.
The thing I never told Eric, because I didn’t know how to say it without inviting in another conversation, because I didn’t know how to tell anyone, is that I had no interest in doing anything that would sustain my life anymore. Food, water, sleep, and exercise are meant for those who are trying to stay alive, who want to thrive. I didn’t.
“Coffee?” Adam asks me. I look across at him. His gray T-shirt is hiked up on his bicep, revealing a tan slice of muscle. How is it possible that just two weeks ago I was in a hospital somewhere, and now I’m sitting across from this man on the Amalfi Coast?
I nod.
He pours for me. The coffee is hot and thick and biting. Nearly deadly. Delicious.
“So what’s on your agenda today?” Adam asks me.
I think about the folded papers upstairs. “I want to explore,” I say. “My— A friend is taking me to this restaurant in the hills at four.”
Adam squints at me. “I thought you were here alone.”
“I am,” I say. “She’s— I met her yesterday. She’s also from California, so we got to talking.”
“That’s great,” he says. “It’s wonderful making friends in foreign places. Am I invited?”
I swallow a mouthful of coffee. “No.”
He cocks his head at me. “Okay then.”
“But I was thinking about exploring a little bit today. Would you want to show me around?” I gesture to the life below our terrace. “Or do you need to spend it trying to con Marco out of his family’s pride and joy?”
He sits back in his chair, threading his hands behind his neck. “Tough, Silver.”
“No one has ever called me that.”
“What, Silver?”
I shake my head. “No, tough.”
“It wasn’t a compliment,” he says, but he’s grinning at me. “So you want me to play tour guide for you?”
I lift my shoulders in deference. “You said you’ve been coming here forever.”
Adam looks out over the ocean. I see a hint of something in his gaze I can’t quite place, a passing thought that’s gone before I can identify what it is. “Well then, let’s go.”