Page 30 of Saltwater

I look at Ciro, only a few yards away, rolling a cigarette at the back of the boat. I’ve never been good at telling the difference between real and fake, but this,this,I’m sure about.

“Yeah,” I say, “it’s real.”

Lorna

Hours before Lorna’s disappearance:16

Once we are on boardthe boat, Ciro makes introductions.

“This is Lorenzo.” He points to one of the men lounging on the bench, sipping a beer. “And Giuseppe.”

It feels like a joke, these Italian names, the way Giuseppe rolls a cigarette. The shiny wooden ribs of the boat. The cheap cushions on the benches. The motor, which smokes lightly. But there is relief, too, in no longer swimming.

“Where are you going?” Ciro winks at Helen.

“To the beach club,” she says, pulling her hair out of the topknot and wringing out the water.

“Ah.” Ciro spins the wheel, piloting us away from shore. “Do you mind if we go to the Marina Piccola first? Very quick. I need to drop something off for a friend.”

I look to Helen. I expect to see her stiffen. Helen, who usually retreats around strangers. But she shrugs, smiles. On this island she opens. Unfurls. It’s new. And new is an alarm. The words she’s shared about her family are left behind so easily that I realize this is her skill—slipping on the mask. It’s hard to trust someone who can do it so easily. I should know.

I take in the boatful of men and remind myself that we’re together. That’s what I’ve always told myself—There are other girls here—as if that’s some kind of insulation.

“Okay,” he says, “we go.”

Ciro throttles up on the motor, and Lorenzo offers us both beers, which we accept and only Helen drinks. I want to drink it. Desperately. I’m parched from the salt and the swim, and I bargain with myself and lick the condensation off the bottle. I don’t even care if it looks ridiculous. Erotic.

“Do you have water?” Helen asks, noticing, taking the bottle out of my hands.

Lorenzo passes me a bottle and laughs when I sniff it before drinking.

“È acqua,”he says.It’s water.

I guzzle the entire thing.

“Are you here long?” Ciro asks me.

We are arcing across the bay of the Marina Piccola with speed and precision, Ciro not even looking at the path we’re cutting, like he’s done it a million times, like he could do it blindfolded.

“Just for the week,” I say.

The boat hits the wake of a larger tender, and I startle, instinctively flexing my hand against the bench. The boys laugh at my reaction. Maybe it’s not the water I hate but the feeling of isolation. Of being far from shore, from help.

Ciro makes a gesture to indicate there are waves, and I don’t know which is worse, the boat or the swimming.

“A week isn’t enough time,” Ciro says. “The island is small, but it’s not enough. Maybe a whole summer? A lifetime?”

“Are you a local?” I ask.

“Not anymore,” he says. “Napoli. Naples.”

It makes me feel better, this news. That Italians like to visit Capri, too. That it’s not all British tourists and rich Americans.

We slow as we approach the dock, but Ciro doesn’t pull out any ropes. He hoists a bag from the floor of the boat and shoulders it, scanning the dock for a familiar face. When he locates it, he swings the bag overhead and lets go. It lands, squarely, on the concrete, and the man lifts a hand. He’s got it.

It’s surprising, this throw, because Ciro doesn’t look that strong. He looks wiry and light, but the way he throws the bag saysotherwise. It says we shouldn’t mistake his slightness for weakness. Ciro is like me, I can read it on him. And it worries me.

“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands together, “now a tour?”

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