Page 23 of Problematic Summer Romance

His smile widens. I wait for a flutter of something to flap its wings in my stomach, a skipped heartbeat, a glimmer of interest—in vain. It’s been a recurring problem. My gaze strays to Conor, who briefly excused himself to take a call by the balustrade. He stares past the cliff, half cloaked in shadow.

Maybe it’s time you did something to solve this problem,Maya.

After all, it’s nice talking to Paul. Easy. By the time the first course arrives, penne with cream sauce and chunks of salmon, I know everything about his mechanical-arm project, and he’s called me achildish bratexactly zero times.

We are, I think, the odd men out. The ones who don’t have ahorse in the race when a table-wide fight over a trade deal breaks out, Nyota and Conor leading opposite sides, with the argumentative relish of people who love disagreeing about their circumscribed interests.

He laughs several times—Conor, that is. Often in response to something Avery said. Once or twice after talking, hushed, with Tamryn. Each time, my stomach politely asks me if it could keel over.No,I say flatly.In this body, we endure.

Before dessert, a smiling, statuesque woman whose English vocabulary seems to consist of the wordsGoodandEatsteps out from the house. Lucrezia, the housekeeper, makes a round of the table—to both vigorously squeeze everyone’s hand, and to shake her head in disappointment at those of us who didn’t polish their plates. Kaede begins to fidget, and with Minami’s permission, I let her lead me back to her favorite jasmine shrub.

It’s nice, the short respite from the constant chatter. “Are you taking me on an adventure, princess?”

I smile at the faint stumble of her little steps, the way she turns back to make sure that I’m keeping up. Her brown eyes widen, take in all the wonders of the world, reach for the strings of overhead lights that flood the garden with amber hues.

“Those two are so cute,” I overhear an unknown, Irish voice say behind me. Tamryn, I think.

“Maya’s so good with kids,” Avery agrees.

Conor’s voice is a low rumble. “She was one most recently.”

My stomach asks if self-implosion is still off the table.

“…kind of endearing, that the person Maya has the most in common with is a not-quite-two-year-old,” Diego says.

“Maybe we should set up a kids’ table for the under-thirty?” Tisha muses.

“Will you stop trying to kick off an intergenerational war?” Nyota asks.

“Withyou? Never.”

I take a deep breath. Let the rest of the conversation flow around me as I keep an eye on Kaede, smiling when Tiny joins us, tail wagging furiously. She points at a tree with a noise that sounds like her version ofWhat’s that?“Lemon, baby. A lemon tree.” She must like the answer. Because she plops down and starts playing with the low-hanging fruits.

Past the railing and cliff, I can count more lights dotting the shoreline—other villas, hotels, residences, parties. Other older brothers and unrequited crushes. Isola Bella and its thin isthmus are little more than a dark, vague outline. No one is there at night. At least, no one who might require illumination. If it weren’t for the occasional rustling of the foliage, I would barely be able to make it out.

I sit on one of the many benches, Tiny curled at my feet. Perform undying gratitude for Kaede whenever she brings me her scavenged gifts—little rocks, leaves, dry sticks. In the distance, a boat cuts through the starlit water, leaving a hum in its path.

“So pretty,” I praise. Lucrezia is distributing lewdly rich slices of chocolate cake at the table, and I make a mental note to leave more room for dessert in the future. “I swear,” I tell Minami when I hear her coming to check on me, “I’m not letting your firstborn eat dirt. Well, maybe a bit of dirt, but what’s an immune system for, if not—”

I turn. Meet a pair of dark eyes, and my heart stumbles.

Chapter 9

“Are you lost?” I ask.

It comes out acerbic and angry, but for once I don’t mind letting my temper slip.

“Good night for stargazing,” Conor says as he joins me on the bench. He doesn’t sound like the guy who essentially told me to fuck off two hours ago, not as he distractedly ruffles Tiny’s mop, head tipped up and eyes fixed above. The strong muscles of his neck meet the sharp curve of his jaw. “Which one is Antares, again?”

I point at it, and he nods. His throat moves as he swallows. I feel…suspended. Unmoored. The stars are one end of the universe, the waves kissing the shore, the other. And then the two of us, floating somewhere in the middle.

“Is it still your favorite?” he asks quietly.

I let my head fall back, too. There are no clouds covering the smattering of stars, no smog rising like a blackout curtain. It’sbreathtakingly easy to tease apart the constellations, in this southern sky. “Still makes my end-of-year wrap-up, yeah.”

“I can see why. Looks just like you said.” His lips twitch. “Glad I managed to get a good look before its inevitable implosion.”

Conor knows how much the stars mean to me, because I told him. I explained to him that Dad taught me. That we’d go camping with his telescope, and he’d teach me how to draw the shapes in the sky. That even after Dad was gone, the stars and the telescope were still there.

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