Reckless Abandon Read online

  I let out a stretch, arching my fingertips toward the ceiling. “Can we sleep first? I am jet-lagged and still on Ohio time.”

  Unzipping her bag, Leah moves some clothes around and talks over her shoulder. “No prob. I heard Italians like to eat really late anyway. You doze for a few. I’m too wired to sleep.”

  Leah pulls the largest pair of binoculars I’ve ever seen out of her suitcase and holds them up to her face.

  “What the hell are those?” They look like they belong to the CIA.

  “They’re Adam’s. He uses them for surveillance. I borrowed them for our trip.” She walks over to the glass door that acts as the main entrance into our suite. Opening the door, Leah steps out onto the veranda facing the marina and the view we were admiring earlier.

  “Those things are huge. There’s no way you’re carrying them around. And if you lose them, I don’t care how much Adam loves you. He’ll flip.”

  Leah lets out a loud laugh. I return it. We both know Adam staying mad at Leah is about as likely as me befriending an octopus who speaks French.

  See? Unlikely.

  I walk over to the bed and fall into it. My body sinks into the duvet and I actually sigh, it feels so good. My eyes are just about to set into sleepyland when Leah lets out a loud gasp.

  I prop open an eye.

  “Ems, Ems—come here, you have to see this.” She’s still on the veranda, her hand flapping at a million miles a second. Her eyes still glued to the binoculars.

  I let out a grunt and fall further into the pillow.

  “Emma!” She shrieks. It’s a hurry-up shriek, not a I’m-being-kidnapped shriek.

  Unwillingly and very tiredly, I roll off the bed and pad over to where she’s standing. When I reach her side, she hands the binoculars over to me and positions my body and the binoculars in the direction she was gawking at. I lift the binoculars to my face and look out on the marina.

  “What am I looking at?” I ask.

  “The boat. Do you see the boat?”

  “I see, like, a million boats.” I reply.

  “The ginormous boat, Ems. It’s huge. You can’t miss.”

  I pan the area where she’s positioned me to look. Sailboat, sailboat, sailboat, smaller vessel, smaller vessel, motorboat, hydrofoil . . . Ahh, I see it. Ginormous isn’t even the word. It’s twice the size of the ferry we took from Naples this morning. It’s impressive, I’ll give her that, but so not worth getting out of bed for.

  I hand the binoculars back to Leah. “It’s very nice. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some sleep to catch up on.”

  Leah pushes the binoculars back to my chest.

  “Look at the upper deck, spaz.”

  With an eye roll, I take the binoculars back. There’s the boat again. I see windows. I see a double staircase off the back of the boat. I see a seating area. I see . . . oh. Oh, have mercy.

  I see a man. Not just any man. I see a naked man. Naked in all his glory.

  Yup, I’m awake now.

  These binoculars are really powerful because from the incredible distance we are from the yacht, I can see the clear definition of his ass.

  It’s a good ass.

  It’s a gladiator ass.

  And that’s not all. His back is rumbling with muscle, cascading with each movement of his incredible body.

  Sweet Jesus, hallelujah.

  I can’t see his face because his back is to us as he is pounding into a woman. Maybe pounding isn’t the word. Grinding, thrusting, plunging—take your pick. I can’t see her at all because his masculine frame is blocking my view. All I can see of her is two legs wrapped around his lean torso. With each thrust, his gluts flex in and the lats muscles on his back pump out.

  These two are having sex. And it’s the really dirty kind.

  A pool of heat settles between my legs. The nerve endings in my chest spark alive and my cheeks flush with heat.

  It’s like the first time I watched soft porn. My friends wanted to see what it was about so they turned on Cinemax and we sat there in silence pretending we weren’t being affected. The truth was I was sitting there with a throbbing between my legs and the very strong desire to do something about it.

  I have that exact feeling right now.

  “My turn.” Leah says, grabbing the binoculars from my face.

  I breathe out through my puckered lips. That was hot. Really hot.

  And really sick of us to watch.

  “Leah, there has to be some law against you watching them have sex. Aren’t there, like, stalker laws?” I ask.

  “They’re having sex in the open. If we were home, they’d be the ones getting arrested.” She licks her lips and bites down on her lower lip. “I love Italy already.”

  Shaking my head, I walk back over to the bed and try to fall asleep.

  My mind racing with visions of naked men, it’s not so easy for me to fall into sleepy land as it was before.

  The first night of our sister sabbatical was more than I was ready for. After sleeping for five hours, Leah threw me out of bed and made me put on a very sparkly halter top and black capri pants for dinner. She insisted we wear capris in Capri. I couldn’t argue with her logic.

  After dinner, we went to the Piazetta Umberto I, the town square, got tipsy on limoncello and then followed a group of other twentysomethings to a club in town. Leah’s idea, not mine. There we drank more limoncello, and by the end of the night Leah had the entire club singing a Katy Perry song.

  Because that’s what Leah does.

  And apparently, even non-English–speaking Italians know the words to Katy Perry songs.

  While they sang and danced, I sat at a table and sucked down my drinks, plastering a fake smile on my face, trying not to ruin Leah’s “honeymoon” or elicit one of those looks from her.

  I caught her inspecting me a few times, making sure I wasn’t falling into a mood or withdrawing myself. She thought she was being sly, asking me if I wanted another drink when it was still full and hers was drained, encouraging me to drink up or telling me a joke and making sure I laughed at it, because, if I didn’t, then something must be wrong. Each time her eyes drifted over to mine, I’d bob my head to the music pretending I’m into whatever song the DJ is playing when I’d rather have been back in the room.

  This morning, my brain does not like the Teenage Dream lived last night and feels like I have fireworks going off in my head.

  Thank you, Leah, and thank you, Katy Perry.

  And thank you, limoncello.

  “Rise and shine.” My chipper roommate bounces on the bed. Since I don’t drink as much as she does on a daily basis, my body doesn’t process liquor as fast as hers does. I think I’m still a little drunk.

  “Go away.” My voice is deep and hoarse.

  “’Morning, Emma.” A male voice echoes from Leah’s speakerphone.

  I glance up at the clock beside the bed. “’Morning Adam. Holy God, what time is it over there?”

  Adam’s chuckle pours out of the phone. “Four in the morning. Just getting off the nightshift. You sound like you had fun last night.”

  I grumble at his reference to my morning man-voice.

  “You keeping my girl from getting into trouble?” he asks, knowing his fiancé oh-so-well.

  “Her talents for entertainment have rose to international capabilities.”

  Adam laughs again. “That’s my girl.”

  Leah talks back into the phone. “Okay, baby, let me go. I have to get this lazy ass out of bed or else she’ll sleep the day away.”

  Leah lets out a loud air kiss and Adam does the same before they hang up. With her knees still on the bed, she rocks back and forth making the bed move beneath me. “Let’s drink espresso and eat croissants. You’ll feel like new in no time.”

  I look up from the sheets I pulled over my head. She is dressed in a denim miniskirt and a white peasant shirt. Her hair is blown out in her signature bob but the front is pulled up in a mini poof and secured to her head with
a red barrette. Her pale eyes are light and bright; a far cry from what she should be looking like this morning after drinking her weight in lemon oil and sugar.

  “Ten more minutes,” I plead.

  “Nope.” She lifts the sheets off my body. “We have an island to explore.”

  “We’re gonna be here for seven more days.” My voice is starting to get back its natural characteristics. More feminine, less mannish.

  “And I don’t want to waste a second. Now, get out of bed and spend my honeymoon with me!”

  I peer up from her with vulture eyes. She really knows how to guilt trip me.

  I bang my fists on the bed and get up, not before getting my bearings and making sure the room isn’t spinning. When I’m sure the ground is even, I straighten my back and walk to the bathroom.

  There’s a shower, a stall and a sink for two in here. Since the bathtub is near the bed, there is plenty room for a large shower made for—you got it—two. I head straight into the shower and let the hot water hit my head and my back until I feel normal again.

  Out of the shower, I wrap my body in a towel and dry my hair over the double vanity made of rock. Like, literal rock that is jutting out of the mountain. It’s crazy cool.

  Looking at my reflection I see a girl who looks like Leah but so very different. Our faces are fairly similar. Almond-shaped eyes, nice noses, and a heart-shaped face. But that’s where the similarities end. Where her eyes are blue, mine are a light brown. She has Dad’s eyes; I have Mom’s. Leah also has this adorable cupid mouth that bows at the top. Yeah, mine doesn’t do that at all.

  And while Leah’s hair is almost white, my hair is an ashy color. It’s the kind of hair that’s too dark to be called blonde but absolutely not brown. It’s just ashy.

  Some people say I should get highlights but my schedule was always too busy to spend hours at a salon. When you’ve been playing the violin since you were ten, there isn’t much your life offers in the form of time. If I wasn’t at school, doing homework, or grooming my career, I was practicing.

  Well, now that that dream has died, I guess I have time to change my hair.

  I look down at my right hand and flip it over repeatedly, flexing the nerve. Biting at my jaw, I look back up at myself in the mirror and continue to get ready. I don’t want to think about that right now.

  “She’s doing fine.” Leah is in our room talking to someone. I turn the sink water on low and prop my ear to the door to listen in on her conversation. “Yes, Mom, she’s out of bed and in the shower . . . yes . . . yes . . . I’m making sure she’s eating.”

  Being thousands of miles away from my family doesn’t seem to change anything.

  “She thought I didn’t notice but she didn’t want to be out last night. She was a trooper. She’s trying.” Leah’s voice is so hushed; I have to strain against the door to hear her muffled words. “I have her meds just in case.”

  My stomach rolls at the thought of those damn pills, which I spent three months on. I didn’t know I was depressed. I just thought I was sad.

  And tired. So very, very tired.

  I didn’t know it had been three weeks since I got out of bed. I didn’t know I wasn’t eating. Who needs a shower when you have nowhere to go?

  My behavior led to a meeting with a Dr. Schueler, who had a lovely parting gift in the form of antidepressants. I didn’t want to take them. I’m strong. I’m an accomplished musician with a world-renowned orchestra. I have a boyfriend, a happy family and the world at my fingertips.

  At least, I did.

  Not anymore.

  So I took the damn pills and spent the next three months numb. So numb that I was void of myself. I hated taking them but only did so I didn’t have to see the look in my family’s eyes. The one that said they can’t move on until I do.

  Two months ago, I told Dr. Schueler I didn’t want the pills anymore. I wanted to do this on my own. She didn’t think it was a good idea but I stopped them anyway. I’ve been doing really well for the last eight weeks. It drives me insane that Leah felt the need to bring them with her.

  She probably did it for Mom.

  When I hear Leah hang up, I grab the sun block and walk it into the bedroom, motioning for Leah to apply some. She doesn’t even mention she was on the phone with our mom, and I don’t bring it up.

  Turning to the wardrobe, I pick out a pair of white shorts and a green tank top, opting for comfort over style. I slide on my Sperry Top-Siders and head out the door.

  “You are not wearing a fanny pack!” Leah chides as soon as I step outside.

  “Don’t knock it. I have our passports, cash, and travelers checks in here. No one is getting away with our stuff.” I pat down the bag holstered around my waist to make sure everything is secure.

  “There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don’t know where to start.” Leah’s arms flail about her body in mock exaggeration. Or maybe she’s being serious?

  “What’s wrong with my bag?”

  “Uh, everything?” She holds up a finger. “Numero uno, you are wearing a fanny pack.” She stretches out the words fanny and pack as if I don’t understand English and need to hear her diction perfectly. “Those are for tourists at Disney World and marathon runners. Are you riding the teacups or running twenty-six miles today? No. So take it off.”

  “It’s practical and keeps all our stuff safe.” It also happens to be super cute. It’s gray with white chevron stripes. It’s the most adorable fanny pack ever. If it were Gucci Leah probably wouldn’t mind. Maybe if I got a Gucci one—

  “Numero dos, that’s what a safe is for. Why are you taking all of our valuables with us?” Her hands are still in front of her body making dramatic gestures. I think talking to the Italians last night rubbed off on her.

  “It’s due, not dos,” I say.

  Leah just taps her foot and waits for an answer.

  “I am not leaving our money in some chintzy safe where anyone can walk out with it. Been there done that.” Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice . . . you know how it goes. “If you want to get stranded in a foreign country with no way to get home, be my guest.”

  She throws her hands up in the air. “Fine. Whatever. Take the stuff. Just leave that horrible pack in the room.” She concedes.

  Not wanting to cause a fight, I back up into the room and grab my shoulder bag, removing all the items from the fanny pack and inserting them into the new bag. It won’t be as comfortable but it will be more stylish. I shouldn’t worry. By midweek, Leah won’t care what I’m carrying her stuff in. She doesn’t carry a bag at all.

  Like Leah promised, after some espresso and a croissant, paired with some blood orange juice, my hangover is a dismal headache.

  Leah made arrangements for us to take a boat tour of the island, starting with the Blue Grotto and then winding around the island to see the sea caves of Capri. Since the tides don’t always cooperate enough for people to view the Grotto, Leah wanted to do this on our first day, just in case we aren’t able to during the others.

  We walk down to the Grande Marina and pass the vendors and shops we saw yesterday. Past the hydrofoil dock, there is a small area with many boats, anchored idly in the water.

  I follow Leah down a concrete path to a boat about fifteen feet long with an Italian flag waving from a pole in the center. The boat is completely open, a day bed taking up half of the boat with a small seating area in the back and motor for the captain to drive. It’s a leisure boat made for tours of the island.

  I take the gentleman’s hand who will be driving us on our tour and take my spot on the day bed, sitting up straight and holding on to my bag. Leah stretches out next to me and leans back on her hands, looking up at the sun.

  The gentleman escorting us on our tour speaks a little English, but it is very hard to understand with his thick accent. I know a tiny bit of Italian from taking it in high school, which doesn’t amount to much. We nod and pretend we know what he’s saying. All we can make out is that
his name is Raphael.

  Starting the engine, Raphael drives away from the dock and the rocking of the boat in the water forces me to brace myself. I place my hand on the bed behind me and lean back on my side, my back facing the water, my front to Leah.

  The boat turns left and drives us past the Grande Marina. Leah points out our hotel and takes a picture of it with her phone. Then, she snaps a few pictures of me and asks me to take a few of her in return.

  She slides the phone back in her pocket and goes back to taking in the sun.

  Before long, Raphael slows the boat down and Leah and I peer up to see why we’ve changed speed.

  Ahead of us is a sea of boats similar to ours and smaller wooden rowboats. They look like gridlock traffic, all idling in the water, dangerously close to the rock that is the island of Capri.

  “Grotto Azzurra,” Raphael says as he idles the engine.

  Amongst the boats before us, there is a larger one with a sign over it. It looks like a concession stand of sorts. Squinting my eyes I try to make out what the sign says. It’s where people pay their admission to see the Blue Grotto.

  Looking around, I notice there is a man to each wooden rowboat and ushering tourists from boats like ours onto the wooden crafts, and then paddling over to the concession to pay an admission.

  Leah asks Raphael why we can’t take this boat to see the Blue Grotto. He points to a very small opening in the rock. We watch as one at a time, the small wooden boats approach the opening that looks entirely too small for them to fit through. The man on the boat instructs the passengers to lay down on their backs as he pulls himself, and the boat through the opening by a metal chain that is mounted to the rock. The boat and its passengers disappear inside the sea cave.

  It looks slightly frightening.

  I glance at Leah with an unsure feeling. She shrugs me off and tells me to relax.

  Our boat is waiting in a line of sorts. Tourist boats like ours are all gathered in a mosh pit, there’s no telling who was here first. When it’s our turn, Leah and I will board a small wooden boat and be swallowed up by the sea cave. My stomach drops at the thought.