Page 135 of The Pairing

“All of them, always.”

“I think,” Theo says, “being in Sagrada Familia with you, listening to you tell me about it—that was when I started to realize I still loved you.”

The tide laps quietly against the sides of the boat, swaying us from side to side.

“It was?”

Theo nods. “Yeah.”

“An architecture lecture made you realize you loved me?”

“It was the Gaudí story, man,” Theo says, laughing. “It got me.”

“It’s romantic, isn’t it?”

“That man really loved that church.” They’ve pushed their sunglasses up into their hair, and their gaze holds mine as they pass the bottle back. “It was also just. . .I knew I loved you when I listened to how you talk about something you love. I don’t know if you know how beautiful it is, the way you give your whole heart to what moves you. You’re always looking for reasons to love things, and when you do, it’s never halfway. I’ve always loved that about you.”

“Theo,” I say softly. I set the bottle on the floor of the boat and take their hand. “I need to tell you something.”

“Tell me.”

I take a deep breath and say, “My nose is about to start bleeding.”

“Your—?”

“My nose, yes.”

“How— Oh, fuck, there it goes.”

They pull their hand back, grimacing as wet warmth begins trickling into the dip above my upper lip. I’d be embarrassed if we had any reasons left to be. As it is, I have to tell myself not to laugh so it doesn’t overflow into my mouth.

“Dude, are you okay?” Theo asks, handing me a paper napkin. “Does it always happen this often?”

“Before I saw you in London, it had been over a year,” I say. “But since then—twice a week? Maybe three times?”

“Why?”

I smile, a bead of warmth rolling over my lip. It’s just so ridiculous. Theo’s brows shoot up.

“Because ofme? They’re—lovenosebleeds?”

I nod. “Always were.”

“That’sdisgusting,” Theo says, lunging forward, sliding a hand into my hair.

They swipe their tongue across my lips and push it into my mouth, and we drink in the mingled flavors of us: the acidic burn of green grapes and vinegar, a heady combination of bitter orange and lavender, coppery blood turned sweet and ripe as a pomegranate in Proserpina’s palm.

I pull them into my lap, and they push our swimsuits aside and take me right here, floating in our hidden blue cove under the Mediterranean sun. I spread my fingers to touch all of them I can reach, so that when they’re gone, I won’t have to imagine anything. I’ll only have to close my eyes and relive this, their grinding hips, the smell of summer on their skin, their body living forever in my body’s memory.

Rilke wrote,He makes a home in your familiar heart, takes root there and begins himself again.

After, we strip down to our bottoms, our chests unceremoniously bare, and jump in. I tread water while Theo swims laps around me, ripples of light sliding over them. I count their efficient strokes. They know exactly where they’re going.

At a seaside restaurant near the busiest part of Favignana—that is, one of the streets not wandered by cattle—everyone seems reluctant to finish their last dinner of the tour. Even after all these days on a bus and nights in strange beds, all the blisters from long city walks and Florentine sunburns and daily translation failures, it always seems like home could wait one more day. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to take my final sip of wine wearing shoes that stood before a Botticelli only days ago. I can’t imagine walking into my apartment and kicking them off into the pile with the rest.

Around tables laden with fresh-caught seafood, the strangers we met three weeks ago talk and laugh and feast in now-familiar ways. The honeymooners touch hands on the tablecloth. The Swedes finish all their vegetables first. Dakota and Montana photograph every dish from a dozen dynamic angles before they throw their phones down and dig in. The Calums laugh too loudly—although, tonight, they sit closer than usual. A conspicuous bruise on Blond’s neck looks about the size of a man’s mouth. When Theo catches Montana’s eye, she gives them a thumbs-up, and Theo and I raise our glasses. Montana smiles victoriously, running her fingers through Dakota’s blond hair.

Between primi and secondi, Fabrizio stands and makes a toast.

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