M

The next morning

In one more day Mira would see Jake Lewis for the first time in two years. Twenty-four more hours, yet her stomach was already in knots.

The uncomfortable feeling first stirred after breakfast, in the tucked away terrace of the charming B&B not far from the cathedral. And now, after hugging Sophie good-bye and turning the corner to a side street lined with boutiques, the nervousness had her keeling over.

She stood tall, smoothing out the skirt of her sleeveless linen dress. She then adjusted the straps of her backpack and the crossbody purse underneath it, reminding herself it was only a ten-minute walk to the train station.

Easy.

An overnight stay in Florence had not only been fun (up until the morning nerves), but sensible. Sophie needed to take a train to Rome, and Mira was headed even farther south to Naples. They could've traveled together until the first stop in Rome, but with Sophie's returning flight to New York not until late afternoon, she'd opted to spend the morning in Florence—a chance to roam a charming city tailormade for tourists.

Before long, Mira arrived at the central Florence train station. The platforms were lined up row after a row, an orderly sequence that made things easy for foreigners. When Mira checked the digital information board, everything was problem-free, the same as it had been for every one of her journeys via rail across Italy. If she did have a question, there was always a kindly local more than happy to assist. All of this was a jarring contrast to that chaotic day in Paris from a lifetime ago, when the train hadn't come, she'd missed her flight, and had wound up stuck in the city for an extra twenty-four hours.

With Jake.

That twist of fate was fresh on her mind as she took her seat in cabin eight of the train to Naples. If the train had run on time that day in Paris, Jake would've remained a stranger to her and she never would've known what she was missing. Maybe that was the real emotional torment—being blindly unaware of the magical possibilities. Not that being unaware was particularly painful. It was more of a daily disconcerting feeling, hard to place and even harder to cure.

I'd rather take the pain.

Doing her best to get comfortable with discomfort, she tried not to obsess (too much) about why Jake was coming to the wedding. He must've known she would be there too. But that hadn't deterred him. Or maybe it had been the deciding factor. Or maybe he was simply showing up for Dembe, and barely remembered her at all.

It was an overanalysis game she wouldn't win, so as the train eased forward and out of the station, Mira pulled a creased pocket paperback out of her purse. It was the third in a detective thriller series—her favorite genre for whenever she needed a distraction.

An hour and forty minutes and one grisly (fictional) murder later, the train arrived at Roma Termini. Passengers disembarked and new ones boarded, buzzed on espresso and ready for whatever their journey to the south had in store.

Mira glanced out the window to see how many passengers still needed to board. She was eager to get to Naples, and even more eager to see the Amalfi Coast for the very first time. Once there, she'd be joining in on the pre-wedding fun—unlike Jake who hadn't RSVPed for the day-before festivities.

As the crowd thinned out, she caught a glimpse of a strong forearm. And an unmistakeable mess of bedhead hair.

"Holy shit," she whispered.

***

He hadn't noticed her yet, but Mira wasn't imagining things: Jake was waiting to board cabin eight of the train to Naples. She surveyed the seats in her vicinity; seven of them were empty, including the one across from her.

Her stomach recontorted into those earlier stress-filled knots (only now ten times worse). She wasn't ready to see him so soon. She wasn't ready to see him at all. What was he even doing here a full day early?

Jake boarded the train behind a family of four, while Mira, a few rows down, gripped the cushioned edges of her seat. It didn't feel like it had been two years since being wrapped up in his arms in Malibu. It felt like yesterday. He was tanned now, his hair a little lighter—no doubt from the California sun. She couldn't deny it, he looked better than ever. His white T-shirt and fitted jeans clung to his body, a look that made her long for every inch of him.

Time stood still as she drank him in, while for Jake, every second was a struggle, or so it seemed, as he tried and failed to shove his garment bag and carry-on into the storage section of the cabin. He eventually dropped his belongs on the floor in frustration. As he turned and ran his hand through his beautiful bedhead hair, their eyes met.

For the first time in two years.

He now stood motionless, while she found herself in suspended animation too. Multiple lifetimes passed between their eyes. Or maybe it was only three seconds.

A woman pushed past Jake and broke the trance, uttering a quick scusi before heading toward Mira and parking herself in the empty seat across from her.

Jake refocused on cramming his belongings into place. Once he finished, he pulled out his phone—probably to check his seat number. Then, to Mira's surprise, he pressed the button for the sliding doors to the adjoining cabin. As they opened, he stepped through and was gone. She'd forgotten about that—how passengers sometimes stuffed their luggage into the next cabin over if it seemed less crowded. One of the many gambles of European travel.

Mira craned her neck to see if she could spot him through the windows of the sliding doors.

Nope.

He was out of view and so he'd remain for the hour and eight minute train ride to Naples.

She was relieved. Of course she was.

Mostly.

***

Mira didn't read about grisly fictional murders on the train ride to Naples. She couldn't read a single page. Not when she was busy spending every minute of the journey agonizing over what came next. It was emotional torment, but no one could say that in experiencing that agony she didn't feel alive; or that every cell in her body wasn't hyperaware of every fragment of feeling a human could hold in the space of an hour and eight minutes. She couldn't find a way to put the feeling into words in a text-message update to Sophie. Her phone never even left her purse. She was simply there, silently aware of every thought and nervous breath passing through her.

As the train approached Napoli Centrale, the passengers rose to retrieve their smaller bags from the overhead racks on each side of the carriage. Mira did the same. As the passengers lined up in front of the doors, Mira considered waiting in her seat to catch another glimpse of Jake. Only, he wasn't her travel companion, she hadn't seen him for two years, and when it came to it, she didn't even know him anymore. Then there was that girlfriend of his. Or fiancé, or whatever she was, because unlike Sophie, Mira refused to believe they were broken up. She couldn't allow herself to believe it because if it were somehow true, she would lose her grip on reality and spiral back into the past.

Dangerous.

She joined the line and exited the train.

Out on the platform, the hot Naples air enveloped her like a blanket. It seemed the south hadn't gotten the end of summer memo, and despite feeling relieved about not having to lug around a load of belongings—thanks to Lorenzo shuttling her things to Amalfi in his car the day before—she had a feeling it was going to be a sweaty and crowded journey on the Circumvesuviana, the old and slow commuter train connecting Naples and Sorrento. And the bus ride to Ravello that would follow.

She groaned at the budget-conscious journey ahead, but had zero regrets about opting out of a ride in Lorenzo's car to spend one last night with Sophie. Traveling alone held the secondary perk of allowing her to make a special pit stop. But she would have to leave now to stay on schedule.

Before heading off, she sent a quick text to Sophie, reminding her to try a top-rated lunch spot in Florence. Once that was done there was nothing left to do but leave.

She cleared her throat. Took the first tentative step. And then another, all the while willing herself not to steal a glance at the random people leaving the train.

"Mira."

Or not so random.

Her feet stopped moving. Her lungs were suddenly desperate for oxygen. Or maybe it was the heat. She gulped in the muggy train station air, her resolve weakening by the second. The only way to get it back was to pretend she didn't hear him say her name. But that would be rude. And she wasn't rude.

Maybe a quick hello.

She spun around and there he was, luggage in hand and eyes right on her.

"Jake." Even saying his name made her spine tingle.

He offered up an awkward wave. "Hey."

She waved back, equally as awkward. "Hey."

Had they always been this bad at existing?

"You headed to Amalfi?" he asked.

"I am."

"I . . . umm . . ." He gestured to nowhere in particular, his cheeks flushed with nervousness. "I booked a taxi in advance if you'd like to head there together."

"No," she blurted.

He made a move to leave. "Okay. I should—"

"No! I mean, yes, it is a no, but only because I can't. Because—" She lost focus, her body seemingly melting into wax. This heat. Even in the linen dress it was excruciating. She attempted to air out the skirt in billowy waves. Like she was shaking the crumbs off a picnic blanket. Anything for ventilation. "Can we get off this platform?"

"Sure."

Jake stepped past her, leading the way to the exit. He didn't stop until they were out on the street. It was only then that she realized she'd offered to continue their weird exchange, when she was supposed to be avoiding him and everything he represented. That spiral into the past. She would deal with that, but first she needed to deal with the sun's blinding brightness.

She shielded her eyes and took in the strip of caffès bordering the street outside the train station, the patrons all in straw hats to ward off the powerful sunbeams. Nearby, Mira noticed a small patch of shade. She scurried over and Jake followed. The second she turned she felt the weight of his stare, those pale-blue eyes. She subtly angled her face away from his. "I can't share a taxi to Amalfi because there's something I need do."

"Mira . . ."

She sensed a teasing tone in his voice, and she couldn't help but peek at his expression. A knowing smile.

"What?" The nervousness from earlier gave way to a natural playful annoyance that had been such a part of their past dynamic. Like muscle memory.

"This thing you need to do . . . is it a bucket list thing?"

With those few words, she spiraled back to that day in Paris, all their greatest hits of banter and chemistry bubbling to the surface. It made her wonder if time and space were illusions, a possibility too big to comprehend. It was more confusing than the first few chapters she'd managed to read of A Brief History of Time before giving up.

She focused her attention on the present moment with Jake. "I'm not as predictable as you think," she said, delighting in the fact that they were having a conversation.

"Oh. My mistake."

She scratched her chin. "Technically, you're not mistaken."

He grinned. "Ohhh, Mira."

"In my defense, I one hundred percent do not have a bucket list for the Amalfi Coast."

"I find that shocking and impossible to believe."

"It's true," she said, the talking part of her brain not missing a beat while the rest of mind absorbed how well he remembered her. "This is Eloise's wedding. I'm completely at the mercy of her schedule."

"Except for this thing that will make you late."

"I won't be late. This won't take long at all."

"Can I join you, then?"

She felt a surge of warmth shoot straight to her heart. Like they were right at the beginning, when everything was thrilling and nothing could go wrong. In that moment all the present-day realities of life fell away. "What about your prebooked taxi?"

He scanned the street. "Plenty of taxis around. We can grab the next one."

We.

Ten minutes later, Mira and Jake turned on to Via dei Tribunali, a narrow street in the historic quarter of Naples.

"We're halfway there," she announced.

"Cool." He strolled alongside her, pulling his carry-on behind him.

The street was a mixture of charm (some cobblestone), local flavor (colorful laundry hanging from makeshift clotheslines), grit (intermittent garbage), and, as they drew nearer, a tantalizing hub of local eateries.

"Are you sure you don't want me to tell you where we're headed?" she asked.

"I trust you."

She felt another surge of warmth but this time with a hint of a nostalgic ache. They'd spent more time apart than they'd spent in each other's presence. A horrible imbalance. It made her wonder about a parallel reality, one where they would've stayed together. They might've been married by now, playing house in an airy bungalow in Brentwood with a baby on the way. She pushed the what-if to the corner of her mind, reminding herself that the only reality she knew would've made things a mess.

As Mira walked on at a steady pace—her overactive thoughts safely hidden behind her navigational efforts—she concluded it was best to enjoy this deceptively easy chat with Jake. The regret could stay lurking in the shadows. It was right around then that she noticed their destination. She slowed and checked her phone. "Right on time."

Jake glanced at the blue, red, and white sign that read sorbillo, est 1935. "A pizzeria? It's still morning."

"Only for one more minute."

He smirked. "You're as punctual as ever when it comes to your feeding schedule."

"I appreciate you making me sound like a sweaty pig at a trough."

He laughed. "It's a compliment. It reminds me how perfectly you scheduled the sweet, salty, and alcohol rotation of eating and drinking on that day in Paris."

That perfect day.

"I was obsessed with culinary delights back then."

He gestured to the pizzeria sign. "Was?"

She stepped forward. "Make fun of me all you want, but you'll thank me when this place opens up a few seconds from now, and we wind up having the best margherita pizza in the whole damn world." He didn't seem as excited as she was. She tried again, with hand gestures this time. "I said the best margherita pizza in the whole damn world."

"Did you use jazz hands like I did in Paris? I thought that was my thing."

The third surge of warmth landed straight in her heart.

Emotional torment. Highly recommended.