I SIT CROSS-LEGGED ATOP THE old rock wall overlooking the harbor, watching the sea gulls circle the boats below. It’s hot today, the salty air clinging to my skin, and I twist my hair into a bun to keep it from sticking to my neck.
The hourly train has just arrived in Vernazza; I can hear the sounds of tourists streaming down toward the bay, stopping to buy mint gelato and cups of strong espresso before they are drawn to the water’s edge. Kids screech and laugh as they swim out into the impossibly aqua sea, and people sun themselves across the rocks, their skin a coppery gold. There is a soft breeze as the tide rolls in, and I turn my camera around to snap a photo of the pastel houses crowded along the cliff’s edge.
Tonight, I will post the photos to my newly started blog, Girl Beside the Sea. I don’t have many followers yet—I started with just Carlos, Mia, and Holly—but I’m slowly starting to find an audience. There’s something satisfying about knowing people actually want to see my photographs and drawings.
I was inspired by my new boss, Lucca, who owns Il nome della rosa, a flower shop a block up from the ocean. He has his own blog where he writes about the medicinal qualities of the flowers he sells, and how certain types of pollen can afflict you with Delirio di amore: Delirium of Love. Although, my Italian still isn’t very good, and Lucca speaks very little English, so I could be wrong about the pollen thing. I’m also not entirely sure if what he’s paying me to work is fair, but I can make rent on my room and afford a few meals out a week at the amazing restaurants in town, so I don’t really care.
I’ve found an easy rhythm here, a routine that comforts me, and it replaces the stinging memory of Tate with something that doesn’t hurt. Most evenings, when the harbor is empty and quiet again, I wade out into the ocean and dip my head all the way under—letting myself be drawn out by the current—trying to drown all thoughts of him. It’s finally working, however slowly.
I lift my camera and snap a photo of a little girl wearing a pink-and-yellow swimsuit as she chases a dog out into the water, hands splashing as the waves lap up against her legs. The dog barks at her, tail wagging.
“Mi scusi,” a voice says behind me.
I set down my camera and turn, smiling. Tourists often ask me questions about the town, sensing that I might speak English. But when I look up at the person standing beside me, everything swerves briefly out of focus.
“Before you say anything—” Tate says, his eyes slipping to mine, and his T-shirt pressed tightly against his skin. “I want you to know that what you said on the plane was right—I’m sorry, Charlotte. Especially because it took me this long to figure that out.”
I stand up from the stone wall, the smile fading from my lips. I can’t believe he’s actually here. He seems so out of place among the tourists and the tiny houses and the sand and sea. This has been my home, my secret place, and to see him standing here among it all is a shock to my system.
“I wanted to make sure I did everything right with you, that I was careful...but in the end, I hurt you anyway,” he continues.
A black-and-white bird lands on the wall next to me. I glance at it, and then away to the sea, dazed.
“The truth is,” Tate says, and suddenly I can’t look at anything but him, “I’m in love with you, Charlotte.”
My lips drift open. Despite myself, despite everything, I’m stunned. He’s never said those words to me before. And I always thought it was because he never really loved me—never could love me. But maybe I was wrong.
“I’ve been in love with you since the beginning, maybe since that first night you agreed to go on a date with me. And I know that it might be too late—I’ve screwed everything up—but I’m still in love with you. I tried to be without you, I tried to forget, but I can’t get you out of my head. And now I know that I don’t want to.”
An orange kite whips across the sky above us, its tails fluttering in the wind. I lift a hand, shielding my eyes from the sun, and Tate takes a step closer.
“I hurt you... I know I hurt you, and I’m so sorry. You’re the only thing in my life that makes sense. Even the music, the thing I used to think I wanted above all else—it’s meaningless without you. And... I want to start over. No more rules, no more control. No more pushing you away when I get scared, or making decisions that should be yours. I want to do this right this time, finally.” He pauses again. “Can we start over?”
It’s taken him so long to get it, to realize he made it impossible for us to be together before. And maybe I should hate him for that. But I can’t. Instead, I realize that I’ve been waiting to hear him say it. I’ve needed to hear him admit that he hurt me, that he’s sorry, that he’s loved me all along. Tears skim down my cheeks, warm and salty like the air.