“Well, since I used to clean up puppy Verga’s shit in the house so Nina didn’t make him sleep in the barn with the sheep, he’s going to have to deal with some objectification,” James says.
He’s standing over me. I know because his shadow from my desk lamp is stretching all the way across the hardwood floor and then disappearing into the glass that spans the back wall. I don’t look up.
“Are you done ignoring me now?” I ask, pretending to read.
“No. This is work related.” His foot nudges Verga off of the stack of papers. “How many do you have left?” he asks.
“Not many. A few. Thirtyish,” I murmur, pulling Verga back over the stack by his legs.
“Christ, Ava. Are you rewriting them? You’ve been holed up in here for two nights—”
“Missed me?” I finally smile up at him and immediately regret it. He’s freshly showered and shaved. His shirt sticks to his pecs in a way that’s bordering on sinful, and I imagine touching his jaw. It probably feels like velvet or—
“Just give me the rest,” he says, bending over to grab them.
I smack his hand, probably harder than necessary, and Verga stands up too fast, alarmed by the sound, knocking his hindquarters right into my face. Now I’m as acquainted with the dog’s ass as he is with mine.
“I’m almost done with them, you bossy stronzo,” I say, scurrying onto my knees and pulling the papers back.
James watches me with a crooked grin that I want to knock straight with my fist.
I place the papers behind me and rush to stand the moment I recognize I’m on my knees in front of him, turning my face so he can’t see the flush that image has caused.
“I don’t need your help,” I say, brushing the dog hair off my bare legs.
“I didn’t say you needed it. I just don’t want to get smacked for keeping you from all that Italy has to offer,” he says, pointing to the view. I don’t need to follow his finger. I’ve memorized the way the sky turns from orange to pink to purple at this time of day, the way the hills beneath it slide into darkness with the change like they’re slipping beneath a favorite blanket.
“I think I’ve seen enough of what Italy has to offer,” I murmur, turning back toward my desk that suddenly needs to be tidied up.
James scoffs.
“You’ve barely made it past the piazza. You’re at the tip of the iceberg,” he says.
“Well, when the tip is enough to toss your life into a blender, why would you go looking for the rest?” I am trying to find something to look at because he’s boring a hole in the side of my face. I pick up my mother’s postcard and tuck it into the cover of the Calvino novel I’m reading so that he doesn’t see it. A week in Italy and not a word written. Fill it when the words find you.
Words aren’t finding me, Mom. But a bunch of bad shit found me. One of the bad shits is staring at me right now, making my skin feel too tight.
James takes a step closer in my periphery and I squeeze as close to my desk as I can. The guest house is suddenly far too small. It needs another point of egress. Or one less wall.
“Italy didn’t toss your life into a blender. You can’t blame a country for things going wrong in your life.”
I can smell his goddamned soap. I might as well be in the shower with him. Wrong turn, brain. Reverse. Reverse! The edge of my desk is leaving an indent in the front of my hip bone. I sidestep—smooth as a pothole—toward the built-in shelves.
“Here we go. Are you going to call me ignorant again? Or wait—how ’bout fake? Which insult would you like to launch, James?”
He lifts his brows and pretends to mull it over. I roll my eyes.
“Nothing has gone according to plan. You threw my phone off a cliff. My law seminar died ofE. coli. And my rental in town center is probably floating away toward the Adriatic Sea by now since you seem to be in no rush to save it,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady while I restack books that were perfectly stacked. But I can see his reflection in the glass that covers one of his photos hanging on the wall.
He shakes his head, sending a dark, wet curl onto his forehead. “I’m not going to dignify any of those accusations with a response. But questa è la vita, dolcezza. Life has its own plan for you—”
He sounds like my mother.Life does not care about your plan.
“—And don’t worry about the apartment. Besides, if we are pointing fingers, let’s not forget about the man who started this spiral—”
“Can we not do this again?” I ask, turning, my eyes finally settling on his. And now they’re stuck there. Damn it.
He nods and lets out a breath. I breathe right back at him.
