“What?” she snapped, having expected nothing but praise and support. She shot up and grabbed the letter from his hands. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t get me wrong.” He faced her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I think it’s beautiful, but it’s… a lot to receive in a letter.”

“But it’s how I feel.” She felt the tears beginning to slip down her cheeks, shaking his hand loose.

“I know.”

“And I know he feels the same way.”

“He probably does,” Paul offered, not sounding totally convinced. “And I want you to have everything you want.”

“I know him.” She breathed in hard, willing her emotions under control. “If I write to him, that will give him space to process his feelings.”

“It will give him an hour. Maybe even less.”

“It’s better than cornering him in person.”

“Is there no middle option? We can’t have, like, a phone call or something?”

“No.”

Paul moved to the coffee table, arranging the empty tea cups and pot back on the tray. He worked methodically, as if Alex were a skittish animal he didn’t want to scare. His face was slightly pained, and he seemed to realize it every few seconds, softening his expression back to a resting point of tenderness. As he walked the tray back into the kitchen, he stopped, his face half-turned toward Alex, who was wiping away her tears with one of his embroidered napkins.

“You should do whatever you think is right, Lex.” He chose his words carefully, still not turning to face her completely. “I mean, the worst he can say is no.”

9. Positano, Italy

9

POSITANO, ITALY

Now

“Have you been wearing sunscreen?” Elena asked from the phone screen propped up on Alex’s bathroom vanity.

“Yes, of course, Mom,” she answered, tapping the excess powder from her oversized brush before gently swiping it over her features.

“What’s the SPF?”

“The strong kind.”

“You should know the SPF.” Elena took another bite of her protein bar, the familiar sounds of the daycare rising behind her. “Anything less than fifty and you might as well wear tanning oil.”

“I’m not wearing tanning oil.”

Her mother shot an incredulous look through the screen, likely counting the substantial freckles dotting Alex’s nose and cheeks. “Hmm,” she conceded. “And how is Paul?”

“He’s…” Alex thought briefly of being honest, of mentioning that he’d mostly been avoiding his fiancé in favor of hanging out with her, but she didn’t want to prompt Elena’s inevitable follow-up questions. “He’s great. Excited for Greece.”

“Do you have—”

“Yes, I have Dad’s list. And I am still not buying him cheese—it’ll go bad by the time I get home. I’ll get him an extra bottle of olive oil to make up for it.”

“He shouldn’t be eating cheese, anyway.”