“Of course.” Alessandro nods. “Capri is all rather casual and easy—”
“Yes, but this casual?” I say, gesturing down at my cropped white jeans, cotton top, and flip-flops.
“Yes. Sei bellisima,” he says, his brown eyes twinkling.
I can tell it’s a compliment, but I still say, “I’m sorry. I don’t know much Italian.”
“You look beautiful,” he says.
“Ohh. Grazie,” I say. “You’re bellisima, too.”
He laughs a deep, rich laugh. “La ringrazio.”
I smile back at him as he folds his hands across the leather blotter on his desk, then says, “So tell me. What sort of cuisine are you and your friends looking for this evening?”
“Hmm. I think we want to go out on a bit of a limb tonight and try…Italian.”
He laughs again and says, “Excellent choice. Just give me a moment and I’ll make some calls for you.”
“La ringrazio,” I say with a wink. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
I get up from the desk and head to the bar, grabbing one more drink. By the time I return to the lobby, Tyson and Hannah are waiting for me. Alessandro informs us that he has booked us a table at Da Giorgio, a nearby local favorite, then gives us easy walking directions.
I thank him, then ask what I should order.
“Everything is fabulous,” he says. “You can’t go wrong.”
“But I want to know your favorite,” I say.
“In that case,” he says, “I always get the spaghetti alle vongole.”
“Okay!” I say. “Well, then that’s what I’m having!”
As we exit the lobby, Tyson calls me shameless. “That’s what I’m having,” he mimics in a high, flirty voice. “Do you even know what vongoles are?”
“No,” I say. “But they sure sound good in that accent!”
“Pretty sure we’re the ones with the accent right now,” Tyson says.
“Yeah, but when he’s speaking English, he has an Italian accent,” I say.
“She’s got a point,” Hannah says.
I give Tyson a smug smile, then take Hannah’s hand in mine, intertwining our fingers. It’s my way of telling her that I’ve fully forgiven her, and she gives me a grateful smile.
“This feels so European, doesn’t it?” I ask, swinging our arms.
“What’s that?” she says.
“Holding hands with friends…It’s nice.”
“Europeans aren’t as homophobic as Americans,” Tyson says. “It’s not uncommon for straight men in Italy to kiss hello, hold hands, or even fix each other’s hair.”
“And order spritzes!” I say.
“Touché,” Tyson says.
—
A few minutes later, we arrive at Da Giorgio, which is connected to a hotel of the same name. Passing under a stucco archway, we check in with a hostess who directs us down a narrow corridor toward a large, bright dining room. The vibe is casual and homey—devoid of glamour but in a nice way. Even better, an entire wall of windows offers incredible harbor views.
The cuisine turns out to be as amazing as Alessandro promised, and as the sky gradually darkens, turning a deep indigo, I feel a growing contentment and affection for my friends. I know some of that has to do with my deepening buzz, but it’s not only that.
“I love you guys,” I say as we finish our wine.
“We love you more,” Hannah says.
“Well, maybe not more.” Tyson smiles.
“Hey, I’ll take whatever I can get from you,” I tell him.
“You always do,” he quips.
I laugh, then look over at Hannah. “I’m just glad we’re here together. And that you got out of that relationship. It’s the silver lining to busting Grady the way you did. Without firsthand proof, you might have married that guy.”
Hannah sighs and nods.
“Even without the cheating, you would have been settling,” Tyson says.
