Evelina was talking to Theo in Italian, something that made them both chuckle, but when I walked out, their eyes snapped to me.
“Bellisima!” Evelina said on a gasp. She shook her head, advancing on me and tugging at the fabric in a few places before she snapped her fingers and scurried off toward the shoes.
My eyes found Theo next, and he was trailing his gaze up from where my bare legs showed through the bottom of the dress, up my thighs, along the lines of my hips and waist and bust until he met my eyes.
Fiery hot coals smoldered in his irises, his pupils dilating the longer he stared at me. He was still reclining on the couch, seemingly unaffected save for the swallow I watched strain his throat.
“Do you like it?” I asked on a whisper, absentmindedly playing with the strings that tied around the waist.
His nostrils flared, but before he could answer, Evelina rushed back over, thrusting a pair of beige wedges into my hands.
“With these,” she said, and then she pulled my hand into hers, opening my fingers and dropping the yellow sapphire earrings into my palm. “And these. Trust me,” she insisted, and before I could argue she was ushering me back into the dressing room. “It will be perfect.”
Against my persistent arguing, we left the boutique with me wearing the orange maxi dress and the earrings. Blessedly, I’d convinced Theo and Evelina that I couldn’t walk in the wedges, so they’d settled on a strappy pair of leather sandals that I loved as much as the dress. In the white paper bag that swung from my arm were the clothes I had been wearing, along with the olive one-piece swimsuit, which was the compromise I offered to keep Theo from buying me a five-thousand-euro Italian leather jacket.
I still couldn’t believe he’d bought all of it for me. I thought it would sink in as we walked the streets and hidden valleys of the town, or that I’d forget about it altogether as I got lost behind the lens of my camera. But I marveled at the way the silky-smooth dress felt against my skin every second, every minute, every hour of that day. And my fingers absentmindedly wandered up to tuck my hair behind my ear now and then, and every time, I’d brush the gemstones of those sapphire earrings and smile.
If I’d thought the places we’d hit on the coast so far had been gorgeous, they paled in comparison to the sights Positano offered.
My memory card filled with colorful shots of lemon tree farms and cobblestone streets, of the dozens and dozens of staircases around every corner, of clothes drying on a line strung from one pastel house to the other. I gasped at the sight of the water through small windows and alleyways, lost my breath at the way the ivy crawled the ancient walls of every building, and craned my neck in wonder as we walked down a street with flowers weaved together in a wondrous ceiling above us.
“Theo?” I asked as we both stared up at the floral ceiling, the soft hum of tourists buzzing around us.
“Yes?”
“Why did you name your boat Philautia? What does it mean?”
Theo smiled a little when I glanced at him, but his eyes were still on the flowers above. “That’s an easy question with a complicated answer.”
I kept silent, waiting.
After a moment, Theo nodded toward an empty staircase nestled in an alleyway. There was a man there playing a violin, and Theo pulled a one-hundred euro note from his pocket, giving it to the man and whispering something in his ear. The man’s eyes bulged at the note first before he smiled and nodded at me politely, excusing himself and leaving us alone.
Theo took a seat on the third step, waiting until I sat next to him before he said, “Did you know there are seven different words for love in the Greek language?”
“Seven?” I asked, arching a brow. “Do you mean like how we have love and lust?”
Theo shook his head. “Much more than that. I’m no expert, but the way I understood it when I first heard the story, it’s like… there are different levels of love. Different shades. For instance, you can love your mom, but not in the same way you love your favorite restaurant. And you can love your dog, wanting them to be safe and cared for, but it’s different from the way you might love a lover, with passion,” he said, and his eyes met mine then. “With desire.”
I swallowed.
“The Greeks have understood this for a long time, so they have different words for love, depending on what kind it is. Like Ludus, which is kind of like our version of having a crush on someone, flirty and fun. Or Eros, which is passionate and consuming, sexually driven,” he explained, smirking a little when my cheeks flushed. “The way a first love might be.”
I nodded, tucking my hair behind my ear and glancing at the tourists passing by just to catch a breath. After a moment, I looked back at Theo again. “So, what kind of love is Philautia then?”
Theo smiled. “Self-love.”
“Hmm,” I mused, frowning a little as I tried to piece together why he’d pick that one. “Well, are you going to tell me why you chose that as the name of your boat, or do I have to guess?”
He chuckled. “Well, what I loved about this word is that it encompasses more than just a lovely concept. Sure, part of it is self-love in the way we see it in the States.” He paused, folding his hands together where they rested between his knees. “Like, oh, it’s been a long work week, tonight I’ll run a hot bath and read a good book kind of love. But the other side of Philautia addresses the more selfish kind of loving yourself. Pleasure-seeking. Narcissism, if you will.”
I frowned. “So, you’re telling me you’re a narcissist,
