Problematic Summer Romance

by Ali Hazelwood

“My father is ill.” She gasps. “I’m so sorry.” “You should be, as it appears that he’ll pull through. The devil really does look after his own.”

“I didn’t know people your age had group chats.” “Do fuck off, Maya.”

I laugh through the lump in my throat, and glance at the other end of the orchestra, where Conor looks unusually tiny and insignificant—a feat for someone who makes any room feel smaller. It’s because of the stage, and the view behind him. The blues and the greens. The Ionian shoreline with its hilly coastal settlement. And then, in the backdrop of it all, Mount Etna.

What’s a tiny little bit of heartbreak, when faced with the vastness of mankind? Does it matter that a love is unrequited, if the universe started with a hot fireball and will end the same way?

I let out a typical Mayageddon groan and stomp away furiously, brushing past Conor, who holds out his bottle to me. “Have some water. It’ll calm you down.” “No. It’s always water this and water that, but when I try to drink the blood of my enemies—” “Can’t believe I’d forgotten,” he says, low. Fond, maybe. A few feet away, the others are straightening their shovel-made goal-posts. “Forgotten what?” “The monster within.”

“Why did you pick up, then?” “Because you called.”

“Okay, listen. I know you didn’t grow up with any digital literacy, so I’ll hold your hand as I say this. But—” “I’m hanging up.” “—there is this magic trick you can do with your phone, which is called silencing your notifications—” “I gave you an emergency bypass.” My heart skips so violently, I have to stop. Here, in the middle of a busy sidewalk. “You better take it off, or I’m going to abuse my privileges.”

Sunset in Sicily is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Vibrant fuchsias and blues brush across the sky, soften into stripes of coral and indigo that curl around Mount Etna. The ocean underneath is the same shade as a lavender field, and fragrances of rosemary and citrus waft up to the terraced gardens. Around the villa, down the cobblestone paths, the shadows of the walls lengthen, dusting the lawn. The garden is already bright with strings of light bulbs and the occasional lantern. Thanks to the marine breeze, what’s left of the sweltering heat is simmering down.

There is a softness to Conor’s tone that must come from the darkness, from excellent wine, from a long day on the baking sand.