Our bodies wriggle into each other until we’re face-to-face with entangled legs, our hands dancing fingertip to fingertip, intertwining and unwinding.
“I got you,” he whispers as I sink deeper into the pillow. Then he surprises me, and maybe even himself, when he says, “I’m proud of you, Fielder. Seeing you prioritize your passions during this trip makes me more certain than ever that I am—have been, won’t ever stop being—unequivocally in love with you. I let you get away once, but I won’t ever let you go again.”
His body is a wood-burning furnace, and he is my fire.
This time,Iwrite a poem on his skin as he holds me.
One thing the room does not, in fact, have—an alarm clock.
When the sun streams in through the window, illuminatingour entangled bodies in the morning, I rocket launch out of bed.
The cobblestone streets are already bustling.
There’s a tall clock in the square, and I squint to read the hands and Roman numerals: 10:15 a.m.
Shit.
“RICKY, GET UP, WE’RE LATE FOR THE WEDDING!”
Topher and Sienna’s Wedding
SATURDAY
Chapter 23
Will Cinderella Dance Again?
Ricky’s clothes are still damp, and he smells like mold, but we have negative minutes to spare. The receptionist from last night tells us to get up to Viale Pasitea to catch a bus to Amalfi, which might have been nice to know last night, but there’s no time to get angry.
And certainly no time to find a charger and then wait for an Uber.
Ricky has twenty euros left, more than enough to get us back.
After checking out, we race up the narrow cobblestone streets, past art galleries and boutiques, cafés, and gelaterias, bobbing and weaving around bodies.
Positano is crowded and busy, plus the roads are narrow and hard to navigate, and we have no idea where we’re going.
We run, with a prayer on our lips and a fire in our legs. We have to make it back to the villa. Topher and Sienna are counting on us.
People scream at us, throwing arms in the air as we race up streets, past vendors trying to sell carpet bags and pottery.
Hopping railings and bolting up steps, we push oblivious tourists out of the way, but we don’t have time to spare to apologize. I’ll repent at the Duomo later.
Bursting out onto Viale Pasitea, which is dirtier and full of locals in stained tees and tourists in straw hats and pastels, we nearly get clipped by a Vespa.
“Fielder!” Ricky points to the most hideous souvenir shop. Next door is the bus stop. In the distance, the roar and rumble of an engine.
In the bus’s windshield in digital orange words—AMALFI.
Lungs on fire, we load onto the air-conditioned bus and flop onto the nearest seats.
“We did it,” Ricky croaks. “We made it.” His legs shake violently, so I place a hand on his thigh. “I hope Sienna is okay.”
“I’m sure she is. Topher is probably chill as hell. It’s the Coven we have to worry about.”
“I should be there.” He buries his face in his hands, and his feet squish, still wet from last night. “Help her get dressed. What if—”
“Cinderellawilldance tonight.”
