I lick the chocolate from my fork and try not to groan—especially with Massimo across the table waggling his bushy brows at me every ten minutes. Nina has given me three little lava cakes—count them, three. As if she knew that the only thing that could bring me back from the ledge was her little mounds of gooey heaven. Italy, thus far, has taken my well-crafted plan and used it as toilet paper. One wipe by Ethan. Two wipes for my apartment and my coursework. And three wipes by the absent asshole, James. The study portion of study abroad is making lazy circles in the flushed toilet, and that awful spin in my head that I haven’t felt since after Mom is making it hard to breathe.
My mother’s voice gently nudges me toremember why I’m here. As if I could forget.
Though in reality I only promised to travel here, not stay. So contractually, I could call it a day and head back. Clean up the mess with Ethan and work out a way to earn my final credits at home.
The second the thought lands I feel sick to my stomach like I did when I was little and tried to hide something from her. Nothing twists the soul like guilt.
Maybe regret. Regret hurts too. Lucky me. I’ve got both swirling together like a twist of soft-serve ice cream.
And then someone dipped that soft-serve in a hard chocolate shell of anger.
I want nothing more than to call my advisor and get some reassurance about these impromptu changes, but he’s on an adventure expedition in the Galápagos. So I have to trust Leo and go with the terrifying flow. I’m more she-who-engineers-the-levees-to-control-the-flow. But I can adapt. I must.
I chew the last bite of cake slowly—consider lifting my plate for a lick, but when I look around to make sure no one is watching, I find Verga staring at me from beneath his skin flaps. He whines and I put the plate back on the table.
Nina and Leo have left me with their pervy tween son, and he’s watching me eat like I’m a rare zoo animal at feeding time.
“Do they not have chocolate in America?” he asks. His teeth are so perfect.
“Do they have braces in Italy?” I ask.
“You like my smile, no?”
Oh shit. Do not encourage. Do not engage.
I put my plate on the floor for Verga and ignore the imp.
“Dogs cannot have chocolate,” he tells me, wagging his finger twice at me. “Luckily there was none left on that plate after you made love to it.”
I scrunch my nose as I push up from the table. Time to escape. Nina has put me under strict instructions to take a walk up the hill path after I finish my espresso, and I’m unsure if anyone in their right mind would defy Nina. Though she did tell Massimo to leave me alone and, alas, alone I am not. But he’s obviously not in his right mind. My gaze settles on the bushy-headed boy as I round the table, being careful not to give Verga or him access to my ass.
“I don’t think the normal rules apply for this dog. I’ll see you around.” I finger wave goodbye.
“Don’t forget you promised me a swim,” he calls after me.
I pick up my pace and elongate my stride as far as it can stretch in my favorite dress, heading straight for the path in the woods that I have yet to explore, hoping not to be followed by prepubescent hormones. I pull my phone from my pocket, check that the ringer is on for the one hundredth time today, and then slide it back in its place, feeling pathetic for thinking that maybe I missed his call.Stay present, my mom reminds me, and I let out a long breath and focus on the scene.
The gravel and dirt is lined with shepherd’s hooks as it leads uphill through the trees, and hanging on each one is a tiny black lantern that casts a fan of soft light out toward my bare toes. The light is entirely unnecessary tonight with the full moon above, but the décor adds a sense of safety in the darkness.
The thought has barely grazed my brain when there’s a rustling in the leaves beside me. My hand goes to my hip where my purse always hangs, chock full o’ Mace and rape whistles that my dad thrusts upon me along with the crime rates in Philly every time we meet up for dinner. He can’t seem to comprehend the idea that the Main Line doesn’t really count as the city proper. The movement stops for a moment. Are there bears in Italy?
The leaves explode in the darkness and a huge wrinkly-faced mastiff bounds out of the brush toward me and leaps majestically through the air. I’m admiring said leap when two front paws connect with my chest, copping a generous feel, and I plop gracelessly on my ass. His tongue accosts me—gives me the kind of facial I’d pay hundreds for in Center City—while I try to karate chop him off of my chest. I’m a fly compared to him. I start to just play dead when the sound of a whistle fills my head and I think I’m imagining my rape whistle. But then the Beast is gone, up the hill and out of sight, leaving a trail of floating silvery dust in his wake.
A dark figure makes its way toward me down the hill, through the dust, and I’m reminded of that time when Harry catches Voldemort drinking unicorn blood. Except I’m the unicorn.
As Voldemort approaches, I notice he’s holding a camera in front of his face, the click of his finger in rapid succession just audible over the chirping crickets.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Voldemort would have been better,” I murmur, picking myself up off the path with as much dignity as one can muster after being mounted by a dog. I ignore the proffered hand and wipe off my dress.
“Verga has taken quite a liking to you,” James points out, snapping away as I fix my hemline.
“So it would seem.”
“Follow me,” he says.
“To further humiliation?”
