I get an involuntary flashback of Grady and Berlin in bed together. Although the images are still disturbing, they are no longer gut-wrenching, and for the first time, it crosses my mind that perhaps a physical connection was missing from our relationship. I always found Grady handsome, and I could tell he thought I was attractive as well, but there was never much passion between us, not even in the early days of our relationship. Looking back, I have the feeling he almost viewed me as a doll—his doll—something to be shown off in public but never ravaged. To be fair, I wasn’t that into sex with him, either. Once we got going, I liked it fine, but it often felt obligatory.

As we pull up to our hotel, Tyson gets out of the cab while the rest of us stay put.

“Where to next?” Ian asks, glancing back at Archie, then looking over at Lainey. “One more drink in town?”

Lainey pauses, then says, “I’m beat, actually. Raincheck?”

“Sure. Cool,” Ian says, sounding more than a little disappointed.

As Lainey gets out of the car, closing the door and scampering after Tyson, Archie suggests a nightcap at La Capannina.

“That sounds great,” I say.

“You kids go ahead,” Ian says, yawning and playing the good wingman. “I’m pretty knackered and going to head back to the hotel.”

“You sure?” Archie says.

“Positive, mate,” Ian says with a wink. “And no need to be quiet when you get back. I’m a very sound sleeper.”

—

“So Lainey wasn’t into Ian?” Archie asks as we stroll into town. The streets are wet from a brief rainstorm, and a mist rises from the cobblestones.

“I think she’s just anxious about her movie and getting rest. She wants to read the script tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait to check out her work,” he says.

“And I can’t wait to see her on set next week. Hopefully, they’ll let us watch. I’ve never seen her in her professional milieu.”

“So they’re filming in Argentina?”

“Yeah. We were supposed to go to Paris next week, but we figured what the hell.” I hesitate, then tell him about Grady and the whole genesis of our travels.

“Holy crap!” Archie says. “What a hurdie.”

“I’m assuming that’s not a compliment?” I ask with a laugh.

“Definitely not,” Archie says. “I’m really sorry that happened to you, Hannah.”

“Thank you. But I think it’s for the best,” I say, realizing that I just broke the cardinal rule of first dates, hangouts, or whatever this is. Don’t talk about your past relationships, especially your most recent ex. I wonder if Archie now sees me as damaged goods, the way my mother does.

As we walk through the Piazzetta, I change the subject by pointing to a German shepherd lying down in the middle of the square and intently watching as a young street performer plays her violin.

“What a sweet dog!” I say. “He’s listening!”

Archie pauses and smiles, then tosses a few euros into the open violin case. We resume our walk, turning onto a narrow street that feels more like an alleyway, quickly approaching the entrance of La Capannina. The stucco wall outside the restaurant is plastered with photos of celebrities who have dined here over the decades. I scan the wall, spotting Steven Tyler and Sylvester Stallone. Tucked into the corner beyond the pictures is an enchanting arched doorway—a literal hole in the wall that reminds me of illustrations in children’s books of tree trunk homes inhabited by woodland creatures. I get a pang, thinking of Mole’s house in The Wind in the Willows. It was my mother’s favorite book when she was a child, and the only one I can remember her reading aloud to me. I tell myself not to start getting sentimental now.

Archie holds the door for me in a way that doesn’t feel performative. So much of what Grady did was for show. He was far less likely to open my car door if we were alone. Of course, my mother ate it right up. Never mind if he cheated behind closed doors, so long as he held other doors open for me.

Archie checks in with the hostess before we make our way to the wine bar, settling into two cozy red velvet chairs in the corner. A friendly bartender immediately says hello, then tells us they offer more than four hundred labels.

“Just let me know if you have questions,” she says, handing us a wine list.

As she turns aways, Archie asks what I’m in the mood for.

“I’m thinking red,” I say, knowing that’s a ridiculously basic answer when you’re sitting in a wine bar in Capri. “Why don’t you just pick for me?” I add with a smile.

As Archie nods and studies the list, I take the opportunity to check my phone. Olivia and I have been chatting on and off all evening, and there’s a new text from her now.

Okay. Just going to throw this out there. What if I came to Capri tomorrow? I have a free day, and my gut is telling me to come. Carpe Diem and all of that…. I’m obviously dying to meet Lainey, but if you really think that’s a bad idea, I would still love to meet her best friend!

I stare down at my phone, feeling a rush of excitement as I type, Please come! I want to meet you!

My heart racing, I return the phone to my clutch, tuning back in to hear Archie asking the bartender about a particular Amalfi wine. She reports that it has notes of ripe, dark fruit, smoked meat, and tobacco with a spicy finish.

Archie nods, then says, “I’m not sure about smoked meat and tobacco. Maybe something a bit lighter?”

A back-and-forth ensues until Archie finally makes a decision, going with two of the best-known appellations of Aglianico wines—one from Campania’s Taurasi and the other from Basilicata’s Aglianico del Vulture.

“We can compare and share,” he says. “Our own mini-tasting.”

I smile and say, “Perfect.”

“Now, where were we?” he says, leaning closer to me.

“I can’t remember,” I say, doing my best to suppress a yawn.

I don’t know whether it’s my buzz wearing off or that I’m too busy thinking about Olivia’s text, but my mood has shifted.

“You look so tired,” Archie says. “Am I keeping you up past your bedtime?”

His question seems sweet, not passive-aggressive, but I still feel guilty—like I’m not being a fun date. I tell myself that’s ridiculous. I’m allowed to be tired. I’m allowed to change my mind about what I want to happen tonight. And I’m allowed to respond in a way that might not please a man.

“I am pretty sleepy,” I say.

“Should I cancel our order?” he asks me.

“Maybe we should just split a glass?”

Archie hesitates, then says, “Let’s get both, but we don’t have to finish them.”

I nod and smile. Over the next thirty minutes, we share a pleasant conversation and two glasses of exceptional wine.

Afterward, Archie pays the bill and we stroll back to my hotel. When we arrive, he walks me the whole way into the lobby and over to the elevator, pressing the button. I can tell he’s disappointed by the way the evening is turning out. A small part of me feels a letdown, too—it would have been nice to be swept away by passion, drunken or otherwise.

“What are you all doing tomorrow?” Archie asks me.

“I’m not sure,” I say—which I guess isn’t a total lie.