The grocer’s eyeing us suspiciously, probably wondering why we’ve camped out in his store, maybe even thinking we’re plotting to rob him. In reality, neither of us is eager to venture back outside. She eats peach after peach and tells me the cretins guessed right: She’s from Sweden. Her parents divorced a couple of years ago, and now she’s living in Sorrento with her dad. He owns a restaurant on a cliff overlooking the sea, and she’s helping him run it, biding her time while she figures out what she really wants to do with her life.
I tell her I’m about to leave town for good. She wants to know why, but it’s time for us to get out of here; the grocer is now shooting daggers at us with his eyes. I stick my head out the door and look around. There’s nobody in sight but a couple of old men sitting in a doorway and some kids kicking a soccer ball around. “I think the coast is clear,” I say, and we start walking.
Turns out I’m wrong. We’re almost back at the station when we see Muscles and Tattoo Sleeves a block away, sitting on a low wall, smoking and looking annoyed—probably because we’ve managed to shake them. I grab Viktoria’s hand and take a step backward, hoping to slip back out of sight before they notice us. But it’s too late. The two of them are getting to their feet. Viktoria and I start running again, back in the direction of the grocery store, like somehow we will be safe if we can just reach it.
Behind us I hear shouts, and shoes slamming against pavement, gaining on us. There’s just enough time to wonder what they’ll do to Viktoria if they catch us, just enough to know I don’t want to find out. “Keep running,” I gasp. Then I try something I never thought I’d be brave enough to do. Hell, if I had time to think it through, maybe I wouldn’t be. I stop and whirl around to face the enemy, bracing myself to get beaten to a pulp.
The rest happens in slow motion. I try to get in one good punch before they can touch me, as if that would make a difference. I let out a battle cry straight out of Braveheart, and land a surprise uppercut to Tattoo Sleeves’ chin; I actually hear his head snap back. But I’ve made a tactical error; I should have at least tried to take out Muscles first. He gives me a look like I’m a fly he can hardly be bothered to swat, then finishes me off with one swift punch to the stomach.
I go down like a sack of cement and my head cracks against the pavement. While I’m doubled over in the fetal position, literally seeing stars, he gets in a few kicks to my ribs. Then he and his buddy take off, probably because onlookers have started to gather out of nowhere. I want to sit up, look around, and make sure Viktoria isn’t still here, that she’s gotten herself to somewhere safe, but I can’t seem to move, and the crowd closes in on me.
“Terrible boys,” a soft voice says in Italian. A little old lady in a housedress is bending over me, clucking her tongue.
“Is he alive?” I hear another woman say.
I open my mouth to say I am, but only a groan comes out.
“Something something tourist,” I hear a man say.
“Call an ambulance,” the first lady says to someone. I try to rouse myself enough to tell her I’m fine, and anyway I can’t afford the medical bills, but the best I can do is gasp out the word no. None of them seems to even hear me.
The younger woman gets to her knees on the concrete and puts her hand on my forehead, which strikes me as odd. I may have a ruptured spleen, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have a fever. “Does anyone know who he is?” she asks.
Silence. “Does he have ID?” the man asks, finally.
“I saw that big man take his wallet,” a little boy says.
I groan again.
“Jesse? Jesse?” There’s a rush of air and fabric, and then Viktoria is kneeling over me. “Why didn’t you run?” she asks.
I hear the others asking her if she’s my girlfriend, telling her an ambulance is on its way. Viktoria’s whispering to me about how sorry she is, and how she’ll stay with me until I’m better.
“S’okay,” I manage to say. The stars behind my eyes have subsided a bit. I try to sit up, but pain shoots through my body again.
“Don’t you dare move.” Viktoria’s hair tumbles down and sweeps across my face. “Is there anyone I can call for you?”
I have to concentrate hard to remember Nello’s phone number. While she’s punching the numbers into her phone, I hear the ungodly shriek of a siren, coming from miles away, getting closer.
While I’m riding to the hospital, an EMT flashes a light in my eyes and takes my vitals. Stray thoughts ping around like pinballs in my mind. Like, Does that siren have to be so loud? Why did my Dad never teach me to fight? If those idiots stole my wallet, that means they have my train ticket, and What if the ER doctors don’t speak English?
In the emergency room, three doctors bend over me, feeling my ribs and asking me questions I can barely understand, much less answer. Sure enough, none of them speaks a word of English, and banging my head against concrete seems to have knocked almost all but the most basic Italian words out of my brain. The doctors banish Viktoria to the waiting room, so I’m alone with the bright lights, buzzing machines, palpating hands, and voices in my head: What if one of those jerks had been carrying a knife? Or a handgun? What if one of my internal organs is ruptured and I bleed to death right here on this table? Who would tell my parents? I think of my mom, always worried for my safety, and my dad, who really only wants what he thinks is best for me, even if it doesn’t always match up with what I want for myself. I think of my little brothers, and of Chips, my goofy, sweet old beagle. What if I never see my family again?
Then a thought that isn’t a question at all: Lucy.
The doctors’ verdict: Sei molto fortunato, which translates to You are very lucky. I have a bruised rib and no internal bleeding. I have a huge bump on the back of my head, but probably no concussion. Doctor’s orders: I should rest up for a few days, and not participate in any sports.
“Not a problem,” I’m able to say, since my addled brain seems to be regaining its hold on what little Italian I know. I’ve still got the headache from hell, and if I move too fast, it feels like a knife twists in my side. Even so, I’m beginning to notice something strange: I feel better than I have in a long time. When the doctors finally leave me alone, I have time to wonder why. I’ve just been beaten by a pulp and hauled off to the ER. Why do I feel relieved?
The pain in my head and my gut is just starting to subside when the door to my room bursts open, and Viktoria and Nello rush to my bedside.
“What the hell, dude?” is Nello’s greeting. “You choose tonight to start a new career as Captain America?” He looks worried and frazzled but not at all angry.
Viktoria’s cheeks are flushed. “I feel so terrible for dragging you into this. You didn’t have to fight those jerks.”
“They didn’t exactly give me a choice.” Then I remember that Nello’s supposed to be taking a second shift tonight. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry to drag you away from work,” I say, and he holds both hands up in surrender and gives me that sunbeam smile of his—the one I’d been thinking I might never see again.
“No problem,” he says. “If we can’t take care of our friends, what good are we?” The tension from this morning seems entirely gone. “Just don’t hold this against Naples. You promise? There are bad people everywhere.”
“Of course,” I say. Nello never needs to know about the ticket I bought to Salzburg, how close I was to running off without so much as saying good-bye. By now Muscles and Tattoo Sleeves must have sold it, or tossed it into the garbage, or ripped it to shreds. Or maybe one of them is packing his bags for Salzburg this very minute, planning to hike the Alps. I envision Muscles in lederhosen. The thought cracks me up, but my laugh comes out sounding like a cough.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Viktoria looks alarmed. “The doctors say they’re going to release you, but maybe you’re not well enough?”
“I’m fine.” I touch the back of my head, checking for the bump, and wince when I find it.
“That’s what I mean
.” She chews on her lower lip. “My father is on his way to take me home, but I hate to leave you like this.”
“Nello will look after me,” I say.
“I’ll bring him home to my mama,” Nello tells her. “She’ll treat him like her own little sick baby.”
Viktoria shoots him a grateful look, then opens her purse and pulls out a piece of paper, folded over. “This is my phone number,” she says. “And my address in Sorrento. You must promise to call me, soon.”
Nello’s giving me an amused, raised-eyebrow look, and I can tell he’s thinking that maybe I’ve found my next girlfriend—my reason to stay. I’d thought it was a kind of sign—the way I kept bumping into Viktoria—and now, for a split second, I wonder if I’m meant to fall in love with her.
“My father wants to thank you in person,” she tells me. “He wants to pay your hospital bill. Don’t say no. He told me to invite you for a big dinner at our restaurant, his treat, as soon as you’re feeling better. You will come, right?” She turns to Nello. “And you’ll come, too?”
“I didn’t do anything,” he says.
“But you’re Jesse’s friend, so now you’re my friend, too.” She’s turned her full attention to him now, and I notice she’s standing a little bit closer than is strictly necessary. I’d thought that flush on her cheeks was from worrying over me, but now she blushes a deeper red and fiddles with her hair, then flips it over her shoulder.
Nello casts a furtive look in my direction to check how I’m taking all this. Am I jealous? I inhale deeply, and apart from a twinge in my side, I feel nothing but glad. I give him a little nod.
“Please say you’ll come,” Viktoria adds, more to Nello than to me. “And, Jesse, you’ll bring your guitar, please? I want you to play for my father. He’s always looking for musicians to play on the outdoor patio and entertain the guests. You’re so much better than the last guy we hired. If you want a regular appointment…” She frowns. “No, that’s not the word.”
“Gig?” I say.
“Gig,” she repeats and smiles, not at me, but at Nello.
“You’re offering me a regular gig?” I can hardly believe my ears. Here it is, for real this time. A reason to stay.
“Sorrento isn’t far. It’s on the Amalfi Coast, with the most beautiful views in the world, and the best limoncello in Italy,” she says. “I’ll show you around.” She’s looking at Nello again, and I can’t help thinking what a good couple they could make, with their matching sparkly brown eyes and bashful smiles.
“You’d better say yes,” I tell him. After all he’s done for me, he deserves a reason to stay here, too, more than just family, duty, and a job he hates. “Did Nello tell you he’s a musician, too?” Before he can say something self-deprecating, I continue. “We played in a band together. He was the drummer, but he also happens to be a better guitarist than I am.” That last part isn’t a hundred percent true, but what does it matter? Nello’s a better-than-solid guitarist, and I can see him playing Neapolitan folk songs in a seaside restaurant, charming the diners, lighting the whole place up.
“Jesse, dude.” Nello telegraphs “What are you doing?” with his eyes.
He’s right: What am I doing? Viktoria’s offering me a dream job. I haven’t seen the Amalfi Coast yet, and now it seems I could even move there. I wouldn’t have to work in a hostel, making beds, scrubbing toilets, or manning the check-in desk. I could play music for a living, save up some money, and someday go home because I really wanted to, not because I was some sad failure who couldn’t make a living as a street musician. Who let losing a girl—losing Lucy—send him into a tailspin.
But I’m not a failure, I realize. Maybe I haven’t set the world on fire with my music—not yet, anyway—but I’ve lived in some fantastic places. I’ve made friends, and taken risks, and earned enough to get by. Plus, it turns out I’m the kind of guy who will let a couple of thugs beat him up to protect a girl he hardly knows. The kind who’s glad when his best friend walks away with the girl—and maybe even with his dream job of playing guitar for money. Maybe none of that fits the world’s definition of success, but as I sit propped up in a hospital bed an ocean away from home, I realize it just might fit mine.
Nello and Viktoria are still watching, waiting for me to say something, identical puzzled expressions on their faces. Ever since I came to Italy, I’ve been thinking I had to prove something—to my family, to myself—before I could go home. But maybe there was nothing I needed to prove after all; maybe now I can go home and feel good about it.
I can go home. Why does that idea sound more exciting than the job in Sorrento? I think of my family and of Chips—damn, how I miss that dog! Then I think of Lucy, and how if I fly home tomorrow I could be knocking on her dorm room door the day after. I can almost see the look of surprise on her face when she opens the door and finds me on the other side.
I haven’t forgotten that college guy she’s supposedly just started dating. Maybe it’s too late to track her down and ask her to take me back. But maybe it isn’t. Shouldn’t I at least find out?
Nello and Viktoria are staring at me now, both of them looking concerned, like maybe the bump to my head has caused me to lose crucial brain cells.
“What is it?” Nello asks, worry in his voice. “Why are you looking so…” He trails off, unable to find the right word.
“I want to go home,” I say.
“Sure, dude. As soon as the doctors say it’s okay. I’ll drive.”
“My home. In New Jersey.” I think of the open ticket waiting in the front pocket of my backpack. I can call Etruscan Air tonight, make a reservation on the first possible flight. Nello will probably even let me use his phone on the ride back to his apartment. I can fly with a bruised rib, right?
Nello’s face falls. “Really?”
“Lucy,” I say.
“Oh.” He doesn’t look happy anymore, but I can tell he gets it. Of course he does. He’s been with me from the day I met her, and all the way through the wreck I’ve been since she left. He’s watched me tell myself how perfectly over her I am, and, good friend that he is, he’s pretended to believe me.
Viktoria’s phone jangles. She digs it out, silences it, and buries it back in her purse. “My dad’s waiting outside. He’ll be so sorry he won’t get to meet you,” she says. “Whoever Lucy is, I hope she treats you nice.” She bends to kiss me on both cheeks. “Arrivederci, Jesse. Can we stay in touch, at least?”
“Nello will give you my phone number as soon as I have one.”
“Okay then.” She gives Nello the little slip of paper with her number on it, and I see the expression on his face change ever so slightly when their hands touch. “And you, Nello? You promise to come to Sorrento and bring your guitar?”
“You can count on it,” he says.
She hurries out the door. Before the doctors and nurses can swoop in and start fussing over me again, Nello starts telling me what a good friend I am, how he’s sorry I’m leaving, but more than anything he wants me to be happy.
“I’ll come back to Italy first chance I get,” I say. “We’ll travel again.”
It’s a promise I hope I can keep. After all, so much is unsettled: where I’ll be this time next week, what I’ll do back in the States, whether or not Lucy will be happy to see me. Even so, knowing I’ll soon be airborne gives me that same electric thrill I always get whenever I’m taking off for a new destination. It doesn’t matter that this time I’m going someplace as familiar as my own face in the mirror. Maybe my travels are over for a little while. It still feels like a new adventure is just beginning—maybe my biggest adventure so far.
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About the Author
April Lindner is the author of Love, Lucy, Catherine, and Jane, and a professor of English at Saint Joseph’s University in Philadelphia. Her poetry collection, Skin, received the Walt McDonald First-Book Prize in Poetry, and her poems have been featured in many anthologies and textbooks. April lives with her husband and two sons in Pennsylvania.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Begin Reading
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by April Lindner
Cover art © Valery Sidelnykov/Shutterstock.com
Cover design by LEADesign
Cover © 2016 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at
[email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.