“Maybe next summer,” Giulia says a couple months into your stay in Genova. You'd just told her about the strange way your stomach heats over like magma every time a letter from Portorosso arrives, and you were really concerned because this had never happened before. Was it just a human thing? It's not until a month later, when a wittled Vespa with wood shaving still clinging to its form arrives in the post with your name on it, that your cheeks burst and tingle, the magma boiling over onto your face.
So, you suffer through the rest of the school year knowing, dreaming, and hoping. Maybe next summer. Maybe next summer. Maybe next summer. It runs on repeat, keeping pace with the heartbeat in your chest. And before you know it, it changes to maybe this summer, rattling in time with the wheels along the train track taking you back to him.
You're there a day earlier than you're supposed to be, but Giulia is an amazing friend and Signora Marcovaldo understands you just as well as her daughter, and assured you that Signor Marcovaldo has already agreed to keep your arrival a secret from Alberto.
You have enough sense to let your mother pluck and fret over you as soon as you get off the train, letting her smother you in a year’s worth of kisses. But as soon as she’s done and you’ve said your hellos and made promises to tell them all about your year over dinner, you take your leave. You’re almost surprised that your mom doesn’t protest, and instead gives you a gentle push followed by a “hurry up, already” from your grandma. Giulia doesn't miss a beat and grabs the luggage out of your hands as you make a mad dash down the hill towards the beach.
There are far more people who remember you than you do them. Most likely due to your seamonster-ness. Lots of nonne try to pinch your cheek on the way down or ask how you’re doing. A group of kids who you vaguely remember offer you a slice of anguria in exchange for a chat, but you wave politely and tell them you’ll come by another time. Ciccio and Guido, who are less intimidating now that they’re no longer out for your blood, even offer you a ghiacciolo. You decline and before you can even ask, Ciccio directs you to where Alberto is currently on the beach. With one final wave, you make your way out of the piazza and finally, finally get to the beach.
He's wading in the sea, a couple of giggling kids holding his tail hostage as his fins flick water into their faces. He's grown, filled out some, enough that his limbs aren't as gangly as the previous summer and he looks less like a stray cat that you found off the street, but the energy he exudes is so much the same. You can feel it radiate off of him from where you stand; rays of the sun hit and warm you just the same as his laugh does.
Pebbles fly out wherever your feet pound, your legs more in tune with your heart and working faster than your brain. Your shoes are off but you can’t remember where or when you chucked them aside. He spots you hurtling towards him just as soon as you shout his name, his tail now free. He lets out a loud whoop of laughter and starts running over to you. He's close enough now that you can see the freckles dotting his face; they’re like scattered star matter from a supernova.
You crash into him before he can even finish crying out your name, his grin so wide that his eyes crinkle at the edges, and your arms wind tightly around him, wrapping him in a big hug to make up for all the ones you missed out on these last 9 months. He lets out a laugh. So do you. And then you both dissolve into a fit of giggles. He’s a steady warmth against you, kind and comforting as sunlight filtering through a window on a summer afternoon illuminating the words on a page of your favorite book. You’ve never felt safer anywhere else in the world. He grabs your uniform in his hand pulling you closer to him.
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