face contorts in sympathy. “I am sure that must have been hard. Are you still in contact with him?”
“Sometimes.” My voice sounds dull, like it always does when I talk about him. When I discuss Robyn, my voice goes all over the place and I get emotional through all the ups and downs. When I talk about my father, when I think about him, I feel nothing. I suppose because I stopped grieving him a long time ago.
What is the point of grieving someone who is still alive?
“He must be proud that his daughter is a famous author, yes?”
“Stop calling me that,” I tell him. “I’m not famous. I’m barely an author. And that was his view on it too. Because I wrote with Robyn, it’s like he attributed all my success to her. If we made a bestseller list, it was because of her. If we traveled for book signings, it was her. The money I made was because of her. He never believed I had any part of it, like he couldn’t imagine that I had enough skill or talent or drive to actually write what I did and do a good job.”
He watches me carefully for a few moments, then says, “Ah.”
He starts swimming laps around me.
“Ah?”
“Yes. As in, ah, that makes sense.”
“How so?”
An incredulous look comes across his brow, like he’s dealing with an idiot here. “The way you view yourself as an author, your work, it’s the same way your father does. No wonder this book has all this pressure riding on it. You’re not only trying to prove something to your readers, or to Jana, or to yourself, but to your father as well. That kind of pressure will cause any artist to seize up.”
Hmm. He has a point.
“And your mother?” he asks. “How is she?”
How is my mother? I’ve only exchanged a few emails with her since I got to Italy, and mine have been very vague and brief. “She’s good. A bit lonely, I think. She’s still out in Ullapool, and I want her to move so badly. That little town is so beautiful yet so depressing. There are no good men there. She needs to at least get to Fort William.”
“Maybe she should come to Italy.”
“She’s too stubborn, though I think it would do her some good.” I pause, kicking my feet out so I’m floating on my back. “I should probably reach out to her more. It’s hard, you know, when you get so wrapped up in work, or at least in trying to work. It’s why I’ve been a pretty awful daughter, friend, and girlfriend.”
“I think you’re a wonderful girlfriend,” he says.
And he says it so simply, so matter-of-fact, that it takes me a moment to realize what he’s said.
“Girlfriend?” I ask.
He nods. “That is what you are to me. I can be whatever you want me to be to you: Italian lover, sexy artist, cock machine, but to me, you are my girlfriend.” My heart is thudding in my chest, butterflies igniting every inch of my veins. He then frowns. “No. Girlfriend doesn’t sound quite right, does it? How about Dolcezza? Mi sono infatuato. Ho un debole perte. Mi hai cambiato la vita.”
The lyrical, dulcet tone of his accent nearly drowns me and I have to fight to keep my head above water.
“I have no idea what you just said,” I say breathlessly.
“It doesn’t matter. Just know that I mean it.” He starts swimming past me. “Come on, let’s go back. My mother and father are no longer on the balcony, which means breakfast is ready.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “Hope you worked up an appetite.”
I nod and follow.
I worked up something alright.
But it isn’t my appetite.
He called me his girlfriend.
And for once, I don’t want to correct him.
Maybe I still don’t know where we stand publicly, but if this is what we call each other in private, I kind of like it.
As hopeless as it seems.
Eighteen
Grace
After yesterday’s morning swim, we spent the rest of the day lounging on the beach and going up to the house for mealtimes, where his mother would spoil us with copious amounts of wonderful wine, and dishes fresh from the sea, like grilled seabass with fennel (can’t get enough fennel!) and prawns cooked in white wine and sweet cherry tomatoes. We spent a little time exploring the bay around Cavoli Beach, but aside from some restaurants, gelato shops, and souvenir stores, there wasn’t a lot to see.
But for our