Page 57 of Every Step She Takes
“Shove it, Stefano.” She pushes past me so she can lead for a while, setting her own slow, steady pace. “Do you enjoy not working?” she eventually asks.
“No,” I answer. It’s the most honest thing I’ve said to her all morning. Hell, it’s the most honest I’ve been with myself since my dad died.
“Why not?”
“I just…”Hate feeling unsettled. I hate feeling untethered. I hate that I’m floating and that I don’t know how to stop.I try to breathe around the swollen lump in my throat. “It’s just not how I thought my life would be.”
For the first eighteen years of my life, I was told I only had one possible future, one path: to inherit the family business, to take over the wineries, to be a Costa. Then, when I came out to my dad, that future—the one I’d always quietly resented—wasripped away from me. And even though I never wanted it, I didn’t know what to do without it.
But I don’t tell her any of this, and Sadie doesn’t push it. She doesn’t demand more information than what I’m willing to give. I almost wish she would.
I don’t want to talk about my dad,andI need to talk about my dad, and I have this strange feeling that Sadie, of all people, might understand.
Except I don’t know how to give away pieces of myself without prompting, the way she does. I don’t know how to relinquish anything real about myself without the other person forcing it out of me.
I’ve fallen in love dozens of times, on a half dozen continents, but I’ve never learned how to be honest in the way that matters, not without fear that people will reject me, the way my dad did.
But Sadie, who’s never been in love as far as I know, can be vulnerable in a way I’ve never experienced. Maybe because of what happened on the plane. Or maybe because she’s more honest about herself than she realizes.
Clearly, I’m the one who is truly in a state of arrested development.
“I guess I don’t really know what I’m doing with my life,” I finally tell the lavender sky, and it’s as vague as everything else I’ve offered her about myself. “And I’m almost forty. You think you’re behind…” I chuckle at myself, because it’s better than crying on this dumb hill.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she grunts miserably. “You’re not behind, Mal. You’re—oh.”
We’ve reached the top of the steps, and the view spills out in front of us like a treasure map being unfurled across a table. The pastel light makes the endless green look hazy, turns the sea a mysterious gray-green, and highlights the sky in pale oranges and pinks, like the colors of the lesbian flag. “Oh God, it’sbeautiful,”Sadie exhales, dropping herself onto a bench so she can stare out at the world.
And this right here.Thisis my favorite part of traveling. I love getting to experience something new with another person, to witness the amazement on their face as the world becomes a little bit larger for them.
Maybe that’s why I’m so good at falling in love and so terrible at staying in it; why I’ve worked two dozen jobs but never stuck with anything. I live for the awe, but the awe never lasts. Eventually, the newness stops feeling quite so exquisite, and I have to move on to the next new thing.
But Sadie—seeing the world through Sadie’s eyes—almost feels like it could be exquisite forever.
I sit down on the bench beside her, passing her the water bottle. We both drink and stare into the distance as the sun comes up on this impossibly pretty day.
“I don’t think you’re behind,” Sadie says with her gaze still fixed toward the horizon. “I think you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”
With that, she turns to face me, and her eyes are lit up like the pastel sky. “Because if you weren’t, I never would’ve had the chance to experience this.”
We sit shoulder to shoulder in silence for over an hour, breathing and watching, and even the silence is exquisite with her.
“I might have the tiniest bit of a crush.”
Inez smacks me in the arm with her water bottle.
“Okay, first of all, that hurt more than I think you realize,” I say, massaging the burgeoning bruise. “And second, hitting me was completely unnecessary. I’m already hitting myself. Figuratively speaking.”
“Good,” Inez hisses.
We’re standing outside the albergue, sharing a clandestine 8 a.m. cigarette while everyone else finishes breakfast. Smoking is the one bad habit in my life I’ve been able to break, but every now and then, usually in times of stress when I’m traveling in Europe, I get tempted to see what I’ve been missing since I quit.
The answer is: not a lot. In my mind, cigarettes were the magical cure-all of my youth. A stress-reliever, an anxiety-preventer, a distraction from unwanted thoughts, something to do with my unsettled hands. But the truth is, I don’t think the cigarettes had anything to do with it. I was just better at repressing things when I was younger.
Still, when I caught Inez sneaking one outside, I joined her anyway.
“Don’t you worry,” I reassure her now, after I take a long, disgusting drag. “There’s plenty of self-flagellation happening in here.” I tap a finger to my left temple. “Dormant Catholic guilt has been reactivated.”
Inez narrows her eyes at me. “I don’t feel sorry for you.”
