I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep my anger locked inside. Poor Conor, I think. My beloved control freak. So afraid to lose it.

Poor Conor, and poor me.

“Okay,” I say, tightening my embrace, feeling him do the same to me. I like to think that contact helps. That his flesh is whispering to mine. All the things he cannot say, all the things he never says, all the things he doesn’t want to say. I let myself get lost in the fantasy of his body and mine eloping together. Building the future we’ll never have. They’ll keep each other up well past their bedtimes, go antiquing during little weekend trips in rural Texas, adopt pets from the local shelter. I make myself chuckle, which is better than bursting into tears. Conor pulls back, probably to ask me what’s wrong with me.

Which is, to the second, when I feel a burning pain in my calf.

Chapter 31

Lucrezia is adamant: Conor should pee on me.

“Excuse me?” I ask after a few good-measured blinks. But she keeps pointing at my calf, and Conor’s translation doesn’t change.

“She insists that urine is the best remedy for jellyfish stings.”

Lucrezia nods, pleased to have shared her wisdom with us, and glances down at where we sit on the plush velvet couch, perhaps waiting for Conor to unbutton his pants.

“Is this from the same suggestion box that wouldn’t let me swim until two hours past breakfast?”

“Probably. I also caught her throwing salt behind her shoulder the other night. Her medical advice might not be the most solid.”

“Ask her this: If I eat a seed, will a plant sprout in my stomach?”

“I already have.”

“What did she say?”

“Only if I first piss on it.”

I bite my lip to avoid snorting. One of my curls has dried askew, keeps falling on my forehead, and when Conor pulls it back behind my ear, I forget how to breathe.

“What I don’t fully understand is,” I say, struggling to stay focused, “why does it have to be your pee? I am perfectly capable of producing my own.”

“Maybe she has better faith in my aiming skills.”

“Hmm. Is this a kink of yours? Are you hiding behind a poor elderly woman to introduce water sports in our sex life?”

He blows out a heavy sigh, amused. “We do not have a sex life, Maya.”

“Bummer.” I pout, then glance at Lucrezia. “It’s okay. Not bad at all!” I say with my most brilliant smile, but she mumbles something, unconvinced.

“She asked if it hurts.”

“Tell her: less than Conor Harkness’s persistent rejections.”

“You’re going to have to learn Italian and do that yourself. She also wants to know if you’d like her to call Dr. Cacciari.”

“To pee on me?”

He may not want to smile, but oh, how he fails. “I’ve seen a tube of hydrocortisone lotion in the first aid kit. Just, wait here. And don’t let anyone piss on you.”