“Positano,” I say.
“Indeed. Come here.”
Adam motions me over to his side. He points upward, to the colorful dome. It looks gold from anywhere else, but here I see it’s actually a pattern of yellow, green, and blue tiles.
“So the whole town was made around this one church, this one story,” I say, still gazing at the sun-covered dome.
“Isn’t that how all things begin?” Adam asks me.
I drop my head down, and see that he’s staring at me. I let my eyes, protected now by sunglasses, gaze back at him. I notice the way his shirt clings to him. It outlines his torso, his sweat creating a kind of pointillism on the cotton canvas.
I was so young when I met Eric. I’d never even really had a boyfriend before him, just a series of dates and unanswered texts. He was exactly what I’d been looking for, which is to say, he was the answer to what I think was the broadest, most general question I could have been asking: Who?
At the time, I must have felt that this was right, that he was The One, but looking back, it feels arbitrary, like I’m not sure what criteria I was using to evaluate him, the relationship, any of it. I wanted someone to think I belonged to them, the way I belonged to my family. That’s how I figured I’d know. But now—
What if I got it all wrong? What if the point of marriage wasn’t to belong but instead to feel transported? What if we never got to where we were trying to go because we were so comfortable where we were?
“Where to next?” I ask him. I want to keep moving.
Adam cocks his head to the left. “This way.”
He takes me to the streets in and out of Marina Grande, the area by the water that is filled with shops. Gelaterias are next to small boutiques and stores that sell any number of overpriced Positano souvenirs. Everything seems to be printed with lemons. An irritable woman in her sixties sells all sorts of Positano merchandise. There are small glass bottles filled with sand, ceramic plates printed with tomatoes and vines, handmade gold sandals, and aprons printed with lemon trees. I pick up an apron, fingering it. It’s lovely, bright, and fresh.
Instantly, I’m transported to my parents’ kitchen, chopping onions next to my mother, who is dumping greens from the Brentwood Farmers Market into a wooden bowl. She’s wearing a navy-and-white-striped button-down and jeans, cuffed at the ankles. And over it, her lemon apron.
As if I’d been burned, I stick the apron back. The store manager continues to glare at me.
“You okay?” Adam glances at me from where he’s been leaning in the entryway.
“Fine,” I say. “Yeah. We can go.”
“You don’t want that?” He gestures to the apron.
“No,” I say. “I don’t need it.”
He follows me out the door. “Are you sure? I have cash.”
“Do you want to get a drink?” I ask him.
“Now? It’s barely eleven.”
I take my sunglasses off and give him a pointed stare. “It’s Italy.”
“Hey, listen, I’m in. You’re the one who wanted me to play tour guide. I was trying to get as much mileage in as possible.”
“And you did a great job. Now I’d like some wine.”
He grins at me. “As you wish. I know a great spot.”
I follow him up the street onto Via Cristoforo Colombo. After a minute or two, we stop in front of a restaurant on the left-hand side. It’s two stories, with a terrace on the second level overlooking the street and ocean.
Adam shakes hands with the ma?tre d’。 He points across the street to where there are two tables, right on the street, that look like they’re literally hanging over the ocean. “Possible?” he asks.
The man nods. “Naturalmente.”
We cross, and Adam pulls out my chair for me.
“We’re in the middle of the street,” I say to Adam.
“Pretty great, right?”
I look behind him, to where Positano’s colored town rises out of the ocean.
“This must be spectacular at night.”
Adam nods. “It is.” He glances at me. There’s a suggestion there, but I leave it dangling. A waiter appears with bread, water, and a carafe of white wine, snipping the moment. Adam pours for us.
“Very good,” I say. I take a big gulp. “What is this?”
“Their house white,” he says. “I order it every time I come here.” He wipes some sweat from his forehead and lifts his glass to me. “To new friends,” he says. He holds my gaze for just a beat longer.