“Oh, wow. You think Archie is going to try to roofie Hannah?” Lainey asks me with a smirk.

“Who knows?” I say. “I’m sure he’s great. He’s probably a good guy, but you just never know. Ted Bundy seemed great.”

“Jeez! You’re such a buzzkill!” Lainey says. “And I really don’t think there’s much crime on islands. The escaping part would be a challenge.”

“Well, let’s put aside the fact that we already covered Friedrich Krupp and Jeffrey Epstein—both committing sex crimes on islands. Have you ever heard of Mary Jo Kopechne?”

“Who?”

“Chappaquiddick? An island,” I say. “Or how about Natalee Holloway on Aruba? Also an island.”

Lainey shudders. “That story still haunts me. Thank God they finally got that asshole to confess.”

“All right. Now that we’ve established that bad shit can happen to you while on a piece of land surrounded by water…can everyone please make sure they have their Life360 turned on?”

“I do,” Hannah says, as Lainey nods.

“And let us know if you leave the bar,” I say, staring at Lainey. “Okay?”

“Sure thing,” Lainey says. “And if I get in any trouble, I’ll send you a message via carrier pigeon.”

“Okay, smart-ass,” I say, trying not to smile. “Get yourself kidnapped. See if I care.”

—

According to Google Maps, the bar where we’re meeting Archie and his friend is only nine hundred meters from the restaurant. But the streets are dark, and we’re all a bit tipsy, so we grab a cab. The ride is so quick that we laugh at ourselves as I pay the fare and we all pile out at the San Michele Hotel.

We go inside, following the sound of music to Lanterna Verde. The bar is carved out of white limestone and has a wall of windows overlooking the Gulf of Naples. With pulsing dance music, swirling colored lights, and a cheesy star-spangled ceiling, the vibe is more psychedelic nightclub than chill piano bar, but I have a nice buzz and roll with it.

On our way to the bar, Hannah spots Archie and his friend, sitting at a table by the windows, beers in hand. She and Lainey walk over to them.

Trailing behind, I watch Hannah tap Archie on the shoulder. He turns, beams up at her, then stands and kisses her on one cheek, followed by the other. By the time I catch up, introductions are under way.

“This is Ian,” I hear Archie say as the girls greet him.

I smile to myself because Lainey nailed the description of the jovial sidekick right down to his beer belly and unruly beard.

Hannah follows suit, introducing Lainey and me.

We both say hello, and as Ian immediately starts working Lainey, Archie turns to me and smiles.

“How’re you liking Capri?” he shouts over the music.

“So far, so good,” I shout back.

Archie points out the window. “Stunning views around here, aren’t there?”

“Yes,” I say, looking down at the sparkling lights of the town and harbor. “Everywhere you turn.”

Archie smiles, then says, “Hannah says you went to uni together?”

“Yeah. A long time ago,” I say. “How about you and Ian?”

“Known each other since birth,” Archie says. “Our mums went to uni together.”

“That’s real,” I say.

Archie smiles, then holds up his empty pint glass. “I’m getting another. What can I get everyone?” he asks, looking around at all of us.

“I’ll get this round,” I say, thinking there’s no way I’m going to let another guy buy our first drinks. “What do you girls want?” I ask Hannah and Lainey.

“A glass of prosecco, please,” Hannah says.

“Dirty martini,” Lainey says. “Extra cold, extra dirty.”

I look at Ian and Archie. Ian says he’s good, while Archie offers to come with me. We head toward the bar. It’s crowded, but we manage to find a sliver of real estate. As Archie rests his elbow on the counter, I notice that his wrist is adorned with several braided leather bracelets with gold hardware. They look expensive, as do his clothes.

“So where are you from, Tyson?” Archie asks me.

“Washington, D.C.,” I say.

He nods and asks if I work for the U.S. government.

“No. I’m just a regular lawyer,” I say, remembering that I’m currently an unemployed lawyer. “What about you?”

“I work in agriculture,” he says cryptically.

I nod, getting the distinct feeling that Archie isn’t out there farming the land himself. “Any particular crop?” I ask, wondering if it’s a stupid question.

It doesn’t seem to be, as Archie says, “Oh, gee. A bit of everything. Spring barley, winter wheat, strawberries, raspberries, black currants, turnips, and swedes.”

“What’s a swede?” I ask.

“It’s like a rutabaga.”

“Gotcha,” I say, although that doesn’t really clear things up for me.

“Barley is our main crop, though.”

“Is this a family business?” I ask, suddenly picturing Randolph and Mortimer Duke illegally trading on orange crop reports in the Eddie Murphy classic Trading Places.

Archie nods as it occurs to me that Hannah has only ever dated wealthy white guys. That might be part of her problem, I think. I remind myself there is nothing that precludes rich white men from being good guys—Archie could very well be one of them.

A second later, the bartender approaches us. I order the girls’ drinks, then motion toward Archie.

“I’ll take a pint of Birra Moretti,” he says.

“Make that two,” I say, sliding my credit card across the bar.