Page 107 of Better Than Gelato
“What if we stay here and never go home?” I ask. “Ooh! We could fake our own deaths! ‘Young couple dies tragically in Greek volcano incident.’”
“Or…” Jake says, “We could just come back on our honeymoon.” He gives me a hopeful look.
“That could work,” I say. “But if we end up marrying other people, that would make for a very awkward trip.”
I take a shower in our connecting bathroom, happy to rinse the sand and seawater out of my hair. The water pressure isn’t great, and it only gets lukewarm, but it still feels divine.
Fifteen minutes later, Jake knocks on my door. I’m sitting on my bed trying to brush out my hair.
“It’s me. Jake,” he says, which makes me laugh.Who else would it be?
“Come on in.”
I give my hair a vicious yank. The complimentary conditioner was pretty much worthless.
Jake looks fresh and clean from the shower, and his nose and forehead are kissed from the sun. He glances at the brush I’m holding in a death grip.
“Did I ever mention that Naomi taught me how to French braid?” he asks.
“You did not.”
He climbs onto the bed and sits behind me. He takes the brush from my hand and gently works out the rest of the tangles, starting at the tips. He doesn’t rush. His hands move slowly and tenderly, freeing each knot. Each brush of his fingers on my neck sends tingles down to my toes. Then he starts at the top and, strand by strand, works his way down, French-braiding my hair.
He doesn’t say anything and neither do I, but the air in the room seems to buzz with a charged energy like the beach before a storm.
When he’s done, he says, “There,” very softly, and puts the hairband at the bottom.
“Thanks,” I say. But I don’t move. Jake’s hands move from my neck to my shoulders and down my arms until he’s enveloped me. We stay like that for a long time. Eventually, he gives me a sweet kiss good night, and I lay in bed with my heart pounding.
* * *
There is a lot to enjoy about Naxos, and we spend the next five days doing it all. We spend an afternoon at a secluded beach near an olive grove. We’re the only ones there and the air is filled with the intoxicating scent of warm olive oil. We eat snacks and swim. And when the sky gets pink, we kiss and whisper sweet things to each other. It’s one of those moments when the whole universe seems to exist solely for our pleasure.
We spend one morning riding bikes around the port town of Naxos. We stop to visit a beach and quickly discover it’s clothing optional. I try to play it cool, but of course I turn bright red, because my body betrays me every chance it gets.
The low point of the week comes when we go to rent scooters. It’s not fair to call it a fight, but a disagreement doesn’t quite capture what transpires.
We wanted to check out more of the island and scooters seemed like a good time. I’ve never actually driven one, and I was excited to try. And then this happened:
“There’s not much to it,” the guy at the shop says. “Just take it easy on the turns. A crash could wreck your whole vacation.”
And I think,‘Easy on the turns. Got it. Let’s go.’
And Jake says, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
And I say, “Why not?”
And he says, “I don’t want to crash and wreck the rest of our vacation.”
And I say, “We’re not going to crash.”
And he says, “People crash. My parents put them back together every day.”
And I say, “We’ll be just fine.”
And he says, “I don’t think it’s worth the risk.” And his tone is so...conclusive. Like he is the decision maker, and he’s made the decision.
I don’t push or pout or complain. Even though I think it’s really stupid to miss out on something so fun.
