All this is moot anyway – Nick just wants to talk.
Although, hedidgive that sexy AF monologue last night about all the things he wanted to do to me.
Argh! Which is it?
‘Would you like to stop somewhere? For a drink?’ he asks, the deep timbre of his voice cutting through the game of table tennis inside my brain.
‘I’m guessing not limoncello?’ I ask, glancing up at him.
He smiles. ‘I might need a break.’
‘Is that why you bought two more bottles?’
‘Gifts.’
‘Ah.’ I don’t ask who they’re for, because one of them might be for Pippa.
Up ahead, I spy a small restaurant with a terrace that overlooks the water. ‘How ’bout there?’ I suggest.
‘Sure.’
We wander over and are greeted right away, then shown to a table at the edge of the terrace. We order Aperol Spritzes and I angle my chair to take in the view.
The water is an incredible blue today –multipleblues, really, the shades merging and capped with white. In the distance, the twin peaks of Vesuvius are razor-sharp against the sky, and Naples unfurls along the coast.
I sit up straighter.
‘Nick? Look, we can see Naples.’
We exchange glances, then both look out across the water. Yep, Naples is definitely ash-cloud-free. We both take out our phones, tapping, swiping, and reading.
‘The airport’s reopened,’ he says, ‘while we were at the limoncello place.’
I read a headline that says the same thing, then skim the article. I look up from my phone, squinting into the distance, and spot a hydrofoil heading this way, sending my stomach plummeting.
‘I guess Europe’s opened back up,’ Nick says, his eyes fixed on his phone. He inhales loudly, his expression mutating into a frown.
The waiter returns with our drinks and sets a bowl of olives on the table between us.
‘Grazie,’ we say in unison.
‘Prego.’
When we’re alone again, Nick taps aggressively on his phone.
‘As you can imagine,’ he says, ‘flights are hard to come by – none at all today, but tomorrow… Hmm… I can get a flight to Frankfurt at two, then…’ He taps a few more times. ‘Looks like I can fly from there to Heathrow tomorrow night.’
My stomach is now in freefall, heading towards the earth’s core. Our little ash-cloud bubble has burst.
And Nick is leaving. Tomorrow.
‘Booked,’ he says, giving me a flat-lipped smile. He reaches for his drink, removes the straw, and takes a long pull, his frown deepening.
My mouth feels like it’s packed with sand. I pick up my glass and take a sip, trying to swallow the lump that’s lodged in my throat.
‘What about you?’ he asks as if it’s only just occurred to him.
‘Uh,’ I croak. I take another sip and clear my throat. ‘I’m going to stay. Take my original flight.’