Salt In The Wound

It was the kind of place people came to fall in love — not with people, necessarily, but with the slow rhythm of the sea, the painted pastel walls, the way the air tasted like lemons and salt. Vernazza, perched like a stubborn child between the cliffs of northern Italy’s Ligurian coast, didn't ask anything of you except to stop rushing. For Camilla Hart, that was exactly the problem. She stood near the end of the marina, her Nikon dangling from a faded leather strap across her chest. The sunset was burning over the horizon in the kind of orange that made editors swoon, but she wasn't here to chase color. She wasn’t even sure why she’d come here at all. Her last photo assignment had been a disaster — a cancelled shoot in Milan, an unexpected breakup in London, and her agent’s voice telling her to “take time off, Cam. Get your head straight.” So she had. And now she was in a town full of newlyweds and gelato, trying not to unravel. Her camera clicked, more out of habit than vision. A couple kissed against a crumbling ochre wall. A stray cat stretched between chairs. Life was happening all around her, and she felt like she was watching it through glass. Cam turned away from the water, brushing her wind-tangled hair from her face. She needed espresso. Or wine. Or both. She ducked into the side streets, letting the narrow alleys guide her without destination. That was the thing about places like this — you didn’t need a plan. The world opened up for you if you slowed down. Then she saw it — a small café with its windows thrown open, white linen curtains dancing in the breeze. A wooden sign above the door read Marina’s. Inside, it looked like every i********: dream: worn wood tables, pale stone floors, ivy curling from the ceiling beams. But it wasn’t the décor that made her stop. It was the music. Old jazz. Armstrong, maybe. Something crackling from a record player that made the air feel slower. She pushed open the door, and a brass bell tinkled above her. No one looked up. Two older women were deep in conversation at a corner table, sipping what smelled like lemon liqueur. A blackboard listed the menu in careful cursive chalk. Behind the counter, a man stood alone, polishing glasses with a navy cloth. He looked up at the sound of the bell, and Camilla felt something twist low in her chest. He was beautiful in the way you didn’t expect people to be in real life. Tousled dark hair, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a jaw lined with faint stubble. But it wasn’t his looks that struck her — it was the way he looked at her. Not with curiosity or flirtation. With recognition. As if he'd been waiting for her. “Buonasera,” he said, his voice a low, honeyed baritone. “Just you?” Cam nodded. “Just me.” “Then you get the best table.” He gestured toward the one closest to the window, half-shaded in golden light. She sat, unsure why her heart was racing. Probably just the wine she hadn’t had yet. A few minutes later, he returned with a small silver tray. A single macchiato in a blue ceramic cup, and a tiny biscotti. No menu, no questions. “I didn’t order yet,” she said. He gave a shrug. “You looked like you needed something bitter and small.” Cam blinked. “You’re not wrong.” “I’m Matteo,” he said. “I make very good guesses.” She took a sip. It was perfect — rich, dark, just enough bite to make her wake up. “Camilla.” “Camilla,” he repeated, tasting the shape of it. “Photographer?” She stiffened. “How’d you know?” He motioned to the Nikon at her side. “Not many tourists walk around with that kind of equipment anymore. You’re not here for the selfies.” “God, no.” “And not Italian,” he added. “But you speak just enough to say yes to the right things.” Cam’s lips curved despite herself. “Is this what you do? Read people like tea leaves?” He leaned his elbows on the edge of her table, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “Only the interesting ones.” The warmth spread faster than the caffeine. She studied him more closely now. His smile was easy, but not careless. His shirt sleeves were rolled with precision. And his eyes — grey, not brown — held something private, a flicker of melancholy well hidden beneath charm. She cleared her throat. “So, Matteo, do you own this place?” “I run it,” he said. “It was my grandmother’s. Marina. She used to say a café should be a second living room — somewhere people don’t pretend to be busy.” “Is that what I’m doing? Pretending?” He tilted his head. “Are you?” Cam looked away, suddenly too aware of everything: the faint tremor in her fingers, the rawness under her ribs. She hadn’t planned to talk to anyone. She hadn’t planned anything, really. “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she admitted, voice low. He nodded as if he understood more than she’d said. “That’s the best kind of arrival.” Outside, the sky had softened into lavender. The church bell in the distance rang once — a sound that echoed off the water and slipped into the cracks of the town like incense. Matteo straightened, brushing flour from his apron. “Stay for dinner. It’s fresh. I made too much.” Cam hesitated. She could say no. She could take her photos, go back to the rental flat, upload another meaningless sunset. But something in her said yes. Maybe it was the way he didn’t ask. Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was that for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t thinking about what she’d lost, but what might happen next. She looked up. “Okay.”