“That would be the answer, yeah.” I sigh, but even my cynical heart can’t help being taken by the beauty around us. Westward, in the distance, the imposing silhouette of Mount Etna continues to sputter. The smoke column is no lower than yesterday, but the wind seems to be carrying it in the direction opposite to Taormina. It means that if we turn east, we can forget about the ashy grumblings and focus on the first taste of sunrise. It’s a much more pedestrian occurrence than a volcanic eruption, but I’m in awe when the first tangerine hues begin to form, splitting the petrol-green of the ocean from the dark blue of the sky. It takes my breath away.

“Is this some kind of exclusive tour?” I ask Conor. After last night, I’d love nothing more than a break from him, but I’m too confused by the situation to implement any sort of silent treatment. We’ve fallen behind as we rise through the terraces, climbing stairways. We lag after Salvatore’s assured steps, and Rue and Eli’s too cheerful hand-holding. Tiny runs back and forth between groups, looping around our legs, discovering sticks, bringing them for us to throw, forgetting to fetch them and running into the bushes to find new ones. The place teems with towering cypresses, oleanders, the ever-present bougainvillea, which are everywhere in Texas, and will forever remind me of the heartbreak of this week. Between the palms, I spot elaborate follies and make a mental note to return to them later, once the sun is out and the light has strengthened.

“I don’t think it’s a tour, no,” Conor says.

“What, then?”

We’ve made it as high as we can go, the tallest level of the park. Here, the morning glow bathes the greenery in warm, reddish gold.

“If it’s what I think…” Conor shakes his head, and when his phone vibrates, he turns it off. His eyes are still covered, but the little webs at the corners suggest amusement. “Damn, he’s smooth.”

“Salvatore?”

Conor’s laughter is a warm, fond sound that makes my stomach flutter, so I turn away from it, hurrying after the others, toward the panoramic view. The sunrise is spectacular, from here. Maybe we’re headed for that pergola—

Rue stops. So abruptly, it takes Eli a beat to realize it. She leans over the balustrade, and for a moment, at the gentle start of the morning, cocooned by the birdsongs, long shadows stretching behind her, I remember meeting her for the first time. How beautiful and luminous and incomprehensible she seemed.

I blame it on my sluggish, bleary, rudely awakened eyes, that it took me so long to realize that what she’s wearing is not a sundress at all, but a man’s button-down. A white tuxedo shirt, long enough to be Eli’s, tails draping down to her upper thighs. The breeze runs past her, rumples her black hair, rustles through the leaves. Pollen and honey perfume in the air. Right behind her I see yet another jasmine bush, still in bloom.