Chapter Nine Rory

A driver takes us the short distance from the La Spezia train station to Portovenere, and then we board a boat over to stunning Riomaggiore, the southernmost of the five fishing villages that comprise Cinque Terre.

Before we departed, Gabriele distributed sunscreen and bottled water, his thick dark hair in particularly fine swooping shape. He asked if we’d like him to accompany us, and I said no, thank you. There is only so much tension one group can hold—the four of us reunited already feels like a peak tornado tunnel, seconds away from plowing everything over.

Anyway, Nate was quite the eager volunteer to navigate us through the five towns, instead of Gabriele.

“Fabrizio Salvatore will be your tour guide on the Sentiero Azzurro!” he keeps announcing, thoroughly butchering the Italian, wearing his brand-new panama hat for which he paid far too many euros from the first vendor we encountered. Fabrizio Salvatore is in fine form and mood, warbling “Volare” as the boat speeds along, seawater spritzing our faces. Nate adopts a new alter ego anywhere we travel together—it’s totally dorky and not PC and contrary to his typical staid composure. I’m grateful for it now, though, lightening the mood after his breakfast revelations.

We pull ashore to the most charming village that I am certain has ever existed: a pebble beach flanked by a harbor of colorful boats lolling in the tranquil sea, and above, pastel houses climbing skyward up the towering cliff. We file into a line to exit the boat, and in the standstill, Nate gives my shoulders a little rub. Maybe because we’re not making eye contact, I allow myself to sink into it with unexpected pleasure. One of the things I enjoyed most about life with Nate was when we’d stay in and watch Curb Your Enthusiasm, and Nate would rub my feet on the sofa. This is it, I’d think, surprising myself. This is the life I want. The next evening, though, we’d be on the hamster wheel again, me at a gala, him packing up suitcases again—the stillness, the quiet, extinguished.

When Nate ended our engagement, Max, ever the sensitive older brother, sent me one of those expensive shiatsu massage contraptions. Here is a substitute fiancé, the gift communicated without words. The note said, I’m here for you always, whenever you want to talk. But I draw the line at foot massage.

As Nate continues warbling his awful rendition of the Italian classic, the four of us stream off the boat and begin to roam the narrow medieval lanes. Up the steep stone hill we go, wrought-iron balconies clinging to pale yellow apartment buildings, villagers’ laundry languid on the bars.

Max gets gelato; it’s not yet ten.

“Where does it go?” Nate marvels, in an exaggerated Fabrizio accent, eyes flickering from the scoop of stracciatella to Max’s long, thin limbs. I stifle a laugh at my brother all Gumby-like in his hefty hiking boots and technical shorts with what look like a thousand zippers, like he informed the REI salesman he was readying to trek the Himalayas. Although, more likely, his assistant did the REI run.

“Sugar powers the brain.” Max licks up a beelining stream before it plops onto his forearm.

“That magnificent brain,” Caro says, and I am surprised to detect something acerbic in her tone.

We pop into stores selling olive oil and pesto, admire waxy produce in wooden crates outside little mom-and-pop shops, walking up and up the hilly town that, despite the heavy influence of tourism, still evinces a fisherman’s village at heart. Occasionally we pass our fellow train-goers, some of whom we boated over with—the photogenic Italian family kitted out in chic hiking gear; the red-faced man in his pom-pom beret, an eternal grimace on his face; the chatty couple from California on their fortieth-anniversary trip, who were seated beside us on the boat and told us allabout their magnificent therapist—Ira—who saved their marriage and to whom they are dedicating this trip. “To Ira,” they declared in unison, completely serious, their hiking poles spearing the air in punctuation.

“To Ira!” Nate whispers in my ear as they pass, and I can’t squelch a giggle.

As we ascend into the town, I pant with each step, sweating from every pore, cursing the Superga sneakers I wore in lieu of something more athletic like Nate suggested. Meanwhile, elderly ladies zip past with the light assistance of canes, shopping bags cradled in elbow nooks. I marvel that they walk this route every single day, farther even, up punishing steps to their houses hugging the cliffs.

Gabriele posited two options for our day: either leisurely exploring the five towns, stopping for limoncello and lunch whenever it strikes our fancies, taking the train between a couple of towns to minimize the mileage—or else forgoing the train, hiking the whole eight miles, and adding a rugged detour into the highlands to the mix to boot. Nate was for the rugged hike, no surprise. Max vacillated, I suspect both because of his sporty outfit, and because he always likes to impress Nate. To Max, Nate epitomizes cool, like some sort of James Bond.

Still, in the end, Caro and I cast the deciding votes, opting for leisurely exploring. So after walking up the main thoroughfare, we wander back down to the peninsula that juts into the sea, rounding the bay, where fishing boats bob in tranquil waters, and above us, multicolored houses are baked into cliffs. There are houses in ochre and sherbet and salmon pink, weathered and storm beaten, climbing up toward azure sky.

“This place is insane.” Caro applies lip gloss, then returns it to her Gucci crossbody bag. No surprise—Caro has also opted for the cute end of hiking gear.

“Insane.” I slip on my round Ray-Bans, which Max told me look like I stole from John Lennon. It wasn’t said lovingly—he’s clearly pissed, fairly rightfully so, that I haven’t told him yet why I’m upset.

Every Italian wears sunglasses. I first noticed it in Rome, amid my observation that Italians are uniformly well turned out. Men endure this heavy heat in suits and trousers, eschewing short sleeves, opting for proper socks. God forbid Italian men reveal an anklebone. Women, too—no sign of athleisure, except for the tourists, only locals in figure-hugging tops and skirts. It is important to them to fare una bella figura—make a positive impression. I learned that expression from Ginevra, of all people. Though you wouldn’t think it on first appraisal, with her wild purple hair and black caftans, Ginevra quite cares about her appearance. She applies her eyeliner with militant precision, has an entire dressing room devoted to her extensive makeup collection, all the latest and hottest stuff. She’s unexpectedly vain, even if the package she pulls together somehow misses the mark—heavy, aging powder, cakey foundation, spidery false eyelashes that weigh down her eyelids.

My sunglasses are using my nose as a slip and slide. I push them up, grateful for the reprieve they give my eyes. Not from the sun alone, but from having to turn out. Maintain my poker face. With everyone showing up to surprise me on this trip, I need that cover now, that concealment.

Successfully sunglassed, my eyes flicker on over at Nate. God, does he actually want me back?

It’s still so shocking, to process him here, this person who used to be synonymous for me with home. LA was never home for me—even though it was the right place to pursue being a news anchor, I always found the city too sterile, too superficial.

After Nate ended things with us, I remember staring numbly at the ceiling for so many nights, conjuring this dream scenario, not the train but his return. In the past couple of months, though, something in me shifted, began to scab over the wound. At the start of our relationship, we talked for hours, about every subject. I felt like I let Nate inside my soul, and he splayed his out for me, too. But maybe over the years, we both put up our little orange traffic cones: Don’t come this way; veer around there. Annoyances grew and fermented. I would say, You’re on your phone all the time when we’re together. I didn’t vocalize the hurt underneath. I miss when we’re just quiet together. When you’re paying attention to nothing but me. Were those realistic expectations after ten years, though? In the end, we both retreated into our hurts. We made little corners for our traumas, our pains.

The difference is, I wanted to stay. And Nate decided to go.

Interesting, though, what he revealed, that he’s started therapy, is assessing his childhood. Nate has two parents who love each other, who love him; but still, his childhood broke him, in the small ways that are the big ways, in the end. I always thought two loving parents were the ticket, but maybe I was wrong. If I’d had a mother, would it have made me a different person? Catalyzed different, somehow better choices? Or is even wondering about it a kind of crutch, a forever excuse? There’s always someone who has it better, after all. And usually many someones who have it worse. I know that intimately, from years of reporting on the greatest tragedies on earth. I think we humans are all just variations of Humpty-Dumpty, forever trying to put ourselves back together again.

Now Nate announces in his American Nate accent that he’s guiding us to Manarola, the next town, a mile or so. Then he switches to Fabrizio Salvatore, starts warbling “Volare” again.

“Nel blu,” he sings, horridly off-key. “Dipinto di blu.”

Somehow he’s still sexy when he channels Fabrizio Salvatore. It makes him even more sexy, maybe, that he isn’t good at everything and can laugh at himself.

“Dipinto di bluuu.”

The pianist in the dinner car played “Volare” last night, and Nate Shazamed it. There’s no chance the lyrics will leave him, or us, for the duration of the trip.

“You know the song’s about a man who dreamed of painting himself blue and flying?” I ask. I don’t mention that Gabriele told me that.

“Nel blue, dipinto di blu,” Nate sings louder, smiling. He’s as handsome and charming as ever, but something’s itching at me, like Nate’s going overboard in his effort at endearing himself to me. I used to find his impressions purely cute. But I’m almost… am I… starting to find the bit annoying?

“You know one line, but you do rock that one line,” I finally say.

“Come sei dolce!” he says. It means, “You’re sweet.” He’s got lines, Nate. And leave it to him to already have a dangerous grasp on Italian hours after arriving in the country.

He smiles, wraps a quick arm around me, but instead of stiffening, for the first time since we broke up, my body relents, accepts a real embrace. I stare down at his hand that’s absently stroking my arm, at the blond hairs dusting his forearm. This is Nate, not Fabrizio. And I do miss him. I do miss us. I feel myself liquefying, melding back into him, my organs gone to mush, my head misty.

It can’t be this easy to just start again—or can it?

We round the bend, descend a steep hill, and pause to drink from our water bottles. I gaze back at the distance we’ve traversed, then detach from Nate’s arm and head over to the wooden guardrail at the cliff. I tip forward a bit, mesmerized by the waves crashing against the dramatic rock formations that jut out of the sea. For what seems like many minutes, thoughts slosh around my brain, but I can’t seem to unpick any of them, make them fit, make them make sense.

Suddenly, I hear my name. It’s said sharply in a frantic tone. “Rory!”

That’s Max, I register, my eyes flickering back. Then all of a sudden, I am shoved sideways, right as a boulder whizzes toward me.