Page 123 of Problematic Summer Romance

“No clue.” And yet, he looks considerably less frazzled than I feel. His hair is a little tousled, but his plain black T-shirt and jeans are crisp. His expression is unreadable behind his dark lenses. I almost say:There are lots of misnomers in the English language, Conor, but sunglasses are, in fact, glasses that should be used when the sun is out. I don’t, though. Because…What is the point? Conor is always going to withhold a huge chunk of himself, and I’m always going to resent him for it.

I refuse to play more games. Clearly, he was right all along, and distance is the only way for us.

“If this is about Bitty,” I say after a few minutes, once the four of us are in the red Fiat, Conor and me in the back seat, sandwichingTiny. “If you woke me up before sunset because something happened to him and you want me to help you bury him beachside and decorate the grave with seashells—”

Eli snorts. “Maya, be for real. You would totally help us.”

“Of course I would. But I’d also need to cry approximately three hectoliters of tears, which would interfere with my shovel skills. I’d rather know it beforehand.”

“No one’s sick, dying, or getting interred. We’re just going to a nice place. Matter of fact, we’re here. And there’s our friend.”

He parks on an empty side street, next to a beat-up Fiesta that must belong to the man smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk. His polo and khakis look rumpled, and I’m starting to wonder exactly how many people my brother plucked out of bed this morning, but when Eli holds out his hand, the man shakes it with a smile.

“Who’s this guy?” I ask.

“Salvatore,” Eli says.

“And you know him from…?”

“Soccer camp in central Texas.”

I roll my eyes. “Right.”

“Salvatore here doesn’t speak English, but he works for the town of Taormina, and he’s going to open up this beautiful park for us.”

What park?I nearly ask, but we turn the corner, and there is Villa Comunale in all its morning splendor.

I read about it in my guidebook—this public garden that’s mysterious and romantic, full of monuments and botanical wonders. I even made a note to ask Rue whether she’d like to explore it with me. Of course, I meant to organize a trip during regular hours. I didnotexpect to watch Salvatore produce a brass key ring that would make a nineteenth-century prison warden weep with joy, and then unlock a set of tall gates. The hinges protest, as ifbothered by the early hours, when he pushes them open, then closed again behind us. We start upward, footsteps light on the stone pathways.

I ask, “Eli, how did you even get this poor man to come out at this hour?”

“Money,” they all say in unison.

“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.

Eli watches Rue watch the water, an unusual shine to his eyes. “Here?” he asks, at last.

She smiles. Facing straight ahead, she nods. “Here.”

My brother pulls her into him, and they kiss. They kiss and kiss, and it doesn’t—this one moment looks like something that Ishould not be witnessing. Conor seems to be of the same mind, and we lock eyes.

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