I start to ask a question, then decide I better not.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I hesitate, then say in a gentle voice, “I was just wondering…and you don’t have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable…but do you think you would have ended up with Summer?”
He stares at me, his expression impossible to read.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I keep going there,” I say, wondering if it comes from the belief that Summer should be the one sitting with him now, not me. Mostly, though, I think I just want to understand Tyson better.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind when you ask thoughtful questions,” he says, then pauses. “But I don’t have an answer. I really don’t. I’d say it would have been a long shot—just given our age.”
I nod, murmuring that that makes sense, as I find myself wondering what it would be like if Tyson and I were together. Together together. It’s an absurd thought—untenable for so many reasons—and would pose an existential threat to our friendship. The chances of things working out with us would be nil, especially given that “working out” implies a permanent relationship, and I have no interest in that. With anyone.
I take a deep breath, then switch gears, suggesting we take a stroll around town.
“Sure. That sounds nice,” he says.
I smile, then get up, heading inside to change my clothes.
“Wait a second,” Tyson says with a laugh as he follows me over to the closet. “Is ‘a little stroll in town,’ a euphemism for ‘shopping’?”
I smile and shrug, quickly selecting a white romper that I “borrowed” from my television character’s wardrobe.
“Yep,” Tyson says. “I’ve just been played.”
I laugh. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re about to put on that expensive onesie from your show.”
I laugh, surprised that he was actually listening to the conversation I had with Hannah yesterday about the fact that I probably should have returned the outfit.
“It’s not a onesie,” I say. “Babies wear onesies. Onesies snap at the crotch.”
“Hey. Some girls wear tops that snap at the crotch. I’ve seen them.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you have,” I deadpan. “And those are bodysuits, buddy boy. Not onesies.”
“So what is that thing called?” he asks, pointing to it.
“This thing is a Valentino romper,” I say, although the costume designer had actually referred to it as a playsuit—a name that only made me like it more.
“More like Romper Room,” Tyson says.
I laugh and blow him a kiss before turning in to the bathroom to change.
Chapter 25
Tyson
I am sitting on the balcony with Lainey, reading her script and trying not to think about last night. Her body is incredible and our chemistry undeniable, but more than anything sexual, I keep returning to that vulnerable look on her face in the shower. In that moment, she really did seem like a different person.
I tell myself it was an illusion—the confluence of alcohol, attraction, and something in the Italian air—and that she’s the same old Lainey. But as we read the script—which, incidentally, is surprisingly deep for a romantic comedy—I find myself wondering if maybe I have it backward. Maybe last night’s glimpse of her—stripped bare of all her usual bravado and defense mechanisms—is closer to the real Lainey.
Watching her in her element reinforces this idea, especially as she reads a few scenes aloud. I’m struck by how difficult it must be to convince an audience that you’re someone else—and how adept Lainey is at it. She really seems to lose herself in the character, and her serious approach to her work not only fills me with admiration but turns me on. At one point, I find myself getting hard, wanting to touch her.
Fortunately, Lainey suggests we take a stroll.
“Sure. That sounds nice,” I say, thinking that if we don’t get out of this room soon, I won’t be able to resist kissing her.
—
We start out on Via Camerelle, which Lainey calls the Wilshire Boulevard of Capri. As we wander in and out of all the high-end shops, like Gucci, Pucci, and Dolce & Gabbana, Lainey teaches me the concept of atelier. For the first time, I really stop to consider the craftsmanship that goes into couture clothing.
From there, we go to Carthusia, Capri’s famed perfumery. While Lainey tries on scents, I delve into the history, reading all the placards adorning the walls. I give her the recap, explaining that in 1948, the Prior of the Carthusian Monastery of Saint Giacomo discovered the formula for the perfumery’s original scent, which had been lying in the monastery’s library since the fourteenth century.
“Love that!” She grins at me, then goes to buy two bottles—one for her and one for Hannah.
Our next stop is Amedeo Canfora, one of several sandal-making shops in town, and apparently the one favored by Jackie Kennedy and Grace Kelly. I look around at the displayed memorabilia, including a photograph of Jackie taken the night she came into the store. The caption, in Italian, reads “Wife of President Kennedy.” Next to it is a log of her purchases and a tracing of her right foot, which includes her measurements: twenty-two centimeters for the width and twenty-three centimeters for the span of her arch.
Meanwhile, Lainey gets to work designing her sandals. After much agonizing, she chooses a flat base, a medium-brown leather T-strap, silver hardware, and little jingle bell charms. We watch as an older lady (who happens to be the daughter of the original owner) gets to work making Lainey’s sandals.
Once they’re made, Lainey tries them on. She loves them so much that she decides to wear them out of the store, putting her other shoes in the box.
“Now your turn!” she says.
“I’m not really a sandal guy.”
“Oh, c’mon,” she says. “When in Capri!”
