Page 131 of The Pairing

That’s all it takes to send me over. I hold back just long enough to watch their mouth drop open at the first crest, and then I’m swept out to sea with them, plunged deep and locked in Theo’s embrace, hot tears in my eyes. I’ve never come so hard. I’ve never been more thankful for anything. I’ve never loved Theo more than I do in this moment.

Love took root in me before I learned its name, and I’ve sat in its shade for so long now without eating its fruit. This feels as if I’ve finally taken a piece into my hands and split it open. It’s so sweet inside.

Sour too, slightly underripe—but so, so sweet.

When we arrived in Sicily, Fabrizio told us the myth of its creation. How three nymphs danced across the earth, gathering the best of everything, the most fertile soil and the most fragrant flora, the ripest fruit and the smoothest stones. They met at the bluest part of the Mediterranean, where the heavens overhead were brightest, and they danced there, casting their treasures into the sea, and so the island was formed.

As I walk with Theo to Palermo Centrale in the light of a warm Sicilian morning, sharing granita di caffè with one spoon, I think it must be true.

It’s the final day of the tour, and we’re finishing with a day trip to Favignana, one of the tiny islands off Sicily’s northwest coast. We meet the group outside the train station, clutching tickets to the port in Trapani, where we’ll catch a boat to the islet. Montana waves when she sees us, sunglasses flashing glamorously in the sun.

“Hey, we lost you guys last night!” she says. “Where’d you go?”

Theo and I glance at each other, failing to hide our laughter. Montana’s gaze skims down to our hands, fingers laced together.

“Oh my God, no way!” she gasps. “Oh, wow, I’m so happy for you!”

Theo arches a surprised brow. “You are?”

“Duh, everyone knows you’re, like, butt-crazy in love with each other.”

“They—they do?”

“Yeah, Calum and Calum are always talking about how theyhope you figure it out,” she says, as if this is common knowledge. “Ko, come see!”

Dakota drifts over, looks at our hands, and says flatly, “Slay.”

By the time our train arrives at Trapani, it seems everyone else on the tour has heard that we’re back together. We stand outside a gelateria across from the pier, eating bubbles of fresh brioche stuffed with gelato and bemusedly watching people pretend they’re not watching us. The Swedes are gossiping in rapid Swedish. The honeymooners who gave Theo directions in Chianti are whispering. Even Stig seems invested in our saga.

“Are we. . .tour famous?” Theo asks me.

I shake my head, amazed. “I think we’re their Calums.”

“Let’s give ’em a show, then.”

I lean in and give Theo a solid, deep kiss. They taste of coffee and pistachio and sunscreen, like the love of my life.

Aboard the ferry, Theo and I find a spot at the stern of the boat and watch Trapani shrink in the distance as the blue waters grow vaster. We lean side to side, taking each other’s weight, the wind whipping our hair into one swirl of brown and rose gold. The sun kisses the tops of our shoulders.

I close my eyes and drink in the sea air, as if it could carry this moment into my body forever.

“You brought yours, right?” Theo says.

I unzip my bag and show them what I promised to bring to Favignana with us: the envelope containing my unsent letter from four years ago, the one I planned to bury at sea on the last day of my solo trip.

In return, Theo opens their hip pack to let me see their own promised cargo: the little anniversary bottle of whiskey.

“Amici!” Fabrizio’s voice is warm behind us. We turn to find him bursting through a thin crowd of passengers, arms held wide. “Is it true what I am hearing? You are together at last?”

Theo slips me a small, private smile, which is answer enoughfor Fabrizio. He scoops each of us up, pressing congratulatory kisses to our cheeks. He promises to order extra prosecco at tonight’s dinner and prances away, alight with the joy of romance renewed.

Theo touches their cheek, still smiling.

“I just don’t have the heart to tell him,” they say.

“No,” I say. “I don’t think he has to know.”

Last night, after we cleaned ourselves up and climbed back into bed together, we couldn’t fall asleep. We were too high on each other, too restless with delayed touches and full of things we’d been meaning to say. Theo wanted to see my sketchbooks, so I took them out and flipped through while they sat behind me, peppering kisses across my naked back.

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