Page 50 of The Wrong Vintage
We stare at the ceiling.
“This feels,” I begin, then stop.
“Preposterous?” he offers.
“Yes,” I agree, relieved. “Like we’re sixteen.”
“I’ve never been this well-behaved in my life.”
“That’s…comforting,” I deadpan.
He turns his head toward me. “Are you okay?”
I turn, too, just enough to see his outline in the low light. “I am. I’m just not used to this.”
“Me neither,” he admits. “Sleeping next to someone without expectations.”
The honesty makes my throat tighten.
“Good night, Nico.” With that, I hope I can put an end to this conversation before I say something stupid.
He looms over me, unexpectedly.
I can see him in the shadows, the light spilling in from outside.
He leans, brushes his lips against mine. It’s a whisper of a kiss, a mere caress.
“Buonanotte, cara.”
His voice is sexy, and I wish I had the right to turn into him, hold him while I sleep. It’s been a long, long while since I’ve been with a man, had the comfort of strong arms wrapped around me, making me feel less alone.
“Good night,” I whisper back.
But when he rolls away, I stay still, my hands clenched around the light sheet that is ideal for summer in Tuscany.
We lie, not touching, breathing in sync without meaning to.
At some point, I realize I’m smiling into the dark.
12
NICO
I don’t leave Pietra Alta the next morning.
That decision surprises me.
I woke up to an empty bed, but her perfume, her essence, lingered.
I spent a night in a bed with a woman for the first time without sex being involved—and yet there was undeniable intimacy, born out of our conversation, of us telling our stories, showing each other what made us who we are.
I kissed her last night—for the second time in our lives.
The first was when we married, when the priest gave us permission after announcing we were husband and wife. Then the kiss had been perfunctory, for the light, for society.
Last night, it was for her and for me only.
It was light in touch but erotic in intensity.
