We are sitting on our hotel’s rooftop terrace, looking out over the island’s iconic rock formations, which rise dramatically from the cobalt sea.
“So dreamy,” Lainey says, sipping her Aperol spritz. She’d ordered us a round of the Italian aperitif from the bar for our official welcome-to-Capri toast. “Gosh, this is delicious.”
Tyson takes a small sip of his. He has discarded his straw, along with the mint leaf and orange slice garnish.
“Do you like it?” Lainey asks him.
“It’s okay, but I’m not really a spritz guy.”
“Too manly for a colorful cocktail?” Lainey says.
He smiles and says, “It’s just a little too sweet for me. Sort of like you.”
Lainey laughs, gazing back out over the ocean. “At least we can all appreciate this view!”
“Yes, we can,” Tyson says. “Tell me if there is another spectacle on earth which can compare with this.”
“Whoa!” Lainey says. “Did you just come up with that?”
“No. I read it on the hotel website. It’s a quote by Alexandre Dumas.”
“Who?” Lainey asks.
“French novelist. He wrote The Count of Monte Cristo.”
Lainey shakes her head. “Never heard of it.”
“How about The Three Musketeers?”
“The candy bar?” Lainey grins.
As their banter continues, I covertly check my messages. Since yesterday afternoon, Olivia and I have been texting back and forth. On the surface, and given the circumstances of our meeting, I know our communication is a bit odd. I also know Lainey would kill me if she knew we were talking at all, let alone so often. But I rationalize that other than a brief sidebar about Lainey’s acting career, most of our conversation has had nothing to do with her.
Instead, we chat about random things, like travel and music and tennis. I tentatively ask about her career, hoping she doesn’t think I’m a complete weirdo. She doesn’t seem to, though, freely sharing details about the pro circuit. She tells me that the Williams sisters are as amazing as people as they are as athletes—warm and funny and kind. I wish I could tell Grady that.
Bottom line, our rapport feels so easy and natural—and is a complete departure from my insular world back home. Our interaction actually reminds me of those early days in college with Lainey, Tyson, and Summer.
I smile down at my phone now, reading Olivia’s latest text, which is a response to a selfie I sent her when we got off the funicular.
Beautiful shot, she replies.
“Okay. That’s it. Who the fuck are you texting?”
I look up and see Lainey staring right at me. I panic, flipping my phone over, which I’m sure looks even more suspicious.
“My mom,” I say.
“I thought she was giving you the silent treatment?”
“She is,” I say. “I just wanted to let her know we got here safe and sound.”
“You’re so full of shit!” she says with a laugh. “You better not be texting Grady!”
“I swear I’m not.”
“Then let me see your phone,” she says, grabbing for it.
I hold it out of her reach, then tuck it under my thigh, laughing.
“Do you swear that you’re not texting Grady?”
“I swear,” I say, raising my right hand, my thumb holding down my pinky.
“Wow. The Girl Scout salute,” Lainey says with a laugh, then looks at Tyson. “She’s gotta be telling the truth!”
I smile.
“Okay, if it’s not Grady, who is it?”
I take a deep breath, then a long drink through my straw, buying myself a few extra seconds.
“Olivia,” I finally say.
“Olivia who?” she says.
“Your sister Olivia,” I say.
“Tell me you’re kidding,” Lainey says.
