Page 85 of Heathens
“You’re looking dapper tonight yourself.” I swirl my fingers at his tux. “Though I still prefer the priest clothes.”
A bubble of nervous laughter escapes his lips—like he’s been holding his breath, waiting for this moment for ages—and his plants a light kiss on my cheek before shifting into first, thrusting us forward.
I’d never been in a convertible before, especially not in a place like this, but I knew—deep down, I knew—nothing would ever compare to this moment. The French Riviera—the Côte d’Azur, Salem corrects—is stunning. The sun is beginning to set as we drive east along the infamous coastal highway. The steep, rocky cliffs jutting out into the ocean are painted orange. The air is warm and humid, salty from the Mediterranean. Lush vegetation, deep blue sea, and charming, white villas dotting the cliffs make me feel as if we’re on another planet—the beauty unable to be contained. It spills over everywhere. The yachts, the opulent restaurants, the fancy cars that zoom past us—it feels like the most glamorous little stretch of the world.
“Where are we going?“ I ask once I see the cars in front of us stop at a border.
“Do you have your passport?” Salem winks.
I begrudgingly pull it out from my clutch and hand it to him as we pull up to a guard.
“Welcome to Italia,” he says, stamping our passports. “Are you here for business or pleasure?”
“Dinner. We’re here for dinner,” Salem answers, his French smooth and charming.
“Lovely. Have a wonderful dinner.” The guard hands our passports back to us.
“Welcome to Italy,” Salem says before driving forward.
My jaw drops as we pass through the border, suddenly in another world. The road opens up before us, the sky a muted orange and pink, splashing the colors across the tiny towns that dot the coast before us.
“Italy,” I repeat, grinning. “Oh, let’s just go to Italy for dinner,” I say flippantly.
“Naturally,” he jokes, laughing and placing a hand on my thigh as the gears level out and we begin to cruise along the coast.
“Where exactly are we going in Italy?” I ask, looking around as the wind whips the hair not secured by the silk scarf.
“Genoa. It’s about a two-hour drive.”
I sit back. “Will the restaurants still be open?” I ask, slipping my heels off and placing my feet on the dashboard.
Salem looks at me briefly and gives me an incredulous look, simply saying, “Of course.”
As if that explains it. Smiling, I throw my hands up as Salem notches the speed up a bit. I close my eyes and absorb the moment completely—the dusky sky, the cliffs, the endless sea, the feel of the scarf flapping behind me.
A couple of hours later, the deserted coast turns into small villas sprinkled in here and there. Dark—it's so dark out here, so peaceful. Up ahead, I see a city lit up, casting its light in every direction, turning the inky sky into a navy blue.
As we drive closer, Salem puts an arm around the back of my seat. “Welcome to Genoa,” he says smoothly.
The colorful city before us takes my breath away. It’s a medieval labyrinth. We exit the highway, snaking through the narrow alleyways. Salem parks in the first spot he finds, and I slip my shoes on. Fixing my hair, I smile as he opens my door and helps me stand.
“Are you okay to walk for a bit in those?” he asks, pulling his lower lip into his mouth and furrowing his brow in concern.
“Yep. I’ll be fine.”
“I can always throw you over my shoulder,” he adds, his voice husky.
I laugh and link my arm through his as he locks the car. We make our way down the narrow, cobblestone street teeming with people—locals, it seems. The buildings are peach and apricot-colored, red and turquoise and yellow. A rainbow row of stucco. Just past the Piazza de Ferrari—the central square with a fountain and surrounded by crumbling buildings—Salem pulls me down an almost-abandoned street. Tucked away is a small, four-table restaurant.
“You’ve been here before,” I say, my voice thick. This—he did this all for me.
“It was my mom's favorite city,“ he says, stopping and turning to face me. “We used to drive along the coast every summer—Paris to Rome, which is further south a few more hours. It was fun—our VW van, ice cream, books, and music. We always stopped here for dinner before my parents would drive through the night, continuing onto Rome. We'd wake up to the Colosseum and the Trevi fountain.“ He pauses and pulls my wig off slowly. “I want to see the real you tonight,“ he murmurs, bending forward and kissing me lightly on the lips.
“That sounds lovely,” I say into his mouth. Swallowing, I pull back. “I wish I’d met her.”
Salem gives me a sad smile. “Me too.”
It turns out, the restaurant is still open, despite the fact that it's almost ten at night. Salem speaks to the owner in stilted Italian, and I have no idea what they're saying. I just sip my wine and, when the senior woman hobbles back into the kitchen, I toast to Salem's mom.
