“It’s not my problem,” I repeat. “Right.”
Chapter Sixteen
Giac and I return to La Musa around dusk. He parks his aunt’s car at her apartment and walks me home. The streets are uncharacteristically full of tourists, and an unsettling feeling takes over as I notice most of them are American. We’re nearly to my house when I see a man wearing aWomen EatT-shirt walking right toward us. A knot tightens in my throat. It’s happening. I’m about to be recognized.
My stomach drops. This is the moment I have been dreading. My head is fogged from the memory of last night plus the exhaustion of the whirlwind trip, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. I let my guard down and willfully walked down a street full of Americans without a disguise.
He lights up as he gets nearer; at least he’s a fan. “Isabella Rhodes!” He’s young—probably no more than 25 with bright blue eyes and dark hair underneath an LSU baseball hat. His socks are pulled up to his mid-calf and his pink shorts hit above theknee. If it weren’t for the shirt, I’d think he was any other young, Gen-Z American tourist.
“Hi,” I say, when he’s mere inches from me—his big eyes glow as he takes me in and my nerves ease. I am safe. He likes me.
“So, you’re really here, huh?” he asks, and I realize he’s clutching his phone, maybe even filming this entire encounter. A smack of familiarity of my old life hits me and it’s strangely comforting to slide back into this role. “I’m backpacking through Europe and rearranged my travels to come here after I saw the news about you.”
I plaster on my best affable politician smile. “Well, it’s gorgeous here, don’t you think?”
He laughs louder than what seems natural, especially because I did not say anything remotely funny. “I figured if it’s amazing enough that Isabella Rhodes freaking lives there, I should check it out.”
I watch myself place a gentle hand on his forearm. “Well, I hope you enjoy La Musa,” I say. “It was nice to meet you—”
“Charlie.” He scoots closer to me. “Could I get a picture with you?”
I look to Giac, who graciously offers out his hand for Charlie’s phone.
I slap on a smile and put my arm around Charlie. “Of course.”
“You banged the mayor?” I see Marisol’s eyes go wide. Congress is recessed, so she’s back in Tucson, lying inan inner tube in her in-laws’ pool to beat the desert late-May heat, no doubt multitasking in some other way I can’t discern offscreen.
“Don’t say that so loudly,” I say. “I’ll remind you I’m living at his very Catholic mother’s house.”
“And ya banged anyway.” She tilts the phone down so I can see her fidget with her nose ring. “Jennings is going to freak when I tell him.”
I feel a pang of guilt at the mention of Congressman Jennings. Nick was like a workplace big brother to me. He was among those to reach out when the news broke and among those I ignored. On my first trip back to DC after my loss, he didn’t say anything, he just wordlessly handed me an everything bagel with lox from my favorite place on Fairfax when I boarded his jet. I grimace at Marisol. “You’re keeping Congress briefed on my sex life?”
“He’s fully convinced you’ve lost it, so I’m letting him know you’re out there living your best life.” I hear a splash and Marisol’s out of the tube, wading over to the side of the pool. “I showed him a photo of Benito and he approves, FYI.”
“How are you on the Select Committee of Intelligence when you can’t keep a single secret?” I ask.
“It’s because I’m keeping national security secrets that I must gossip about everything else to get it all out of my system,” Marisol says. “You’re keeping America safer by banging the mayor.”
I sigh. “At least I’m still helping in some way.” An unpleasant pang of FOMO strikes throughme. It’s unexpected. Why should I feel jealous of Marisol’s congressional responsibilities when I’m banging the mayor? “There’s a lot going on with the town, with his family, who knows if it’ll even work out.”
“Ugh.” Marisol rolls her eyes again. “Can’t one thing be fun, Izzy? Can’t you not overthink on this particular matter?”
I consider. I wish it were that simple. “No.”
“I hate you.” She sets her phone down so I’m looking up at the bright, blue sky. I hear another splash and she returns to the screen with wet hair. “You would move to Italy under the guise of giving up your tumultuous career path only to latch on to the first man you find who just so happens to have messy drama.”
It stings a little to hear it put like that, but then again, Marisol always has a way of succinctly giving the truth—and if it sounds cruel, that’s on the truth of the matter, not her. “I guess I did trade one version of complicated for the other.”
“You really did.” She almost smiles. “At least this version has cunnilingus.”
“Please do not use the word ‘cunnilingus’ when you recap this conversation during your next filibuster.”
She ignores me. “I can see the headlines now: Rhodes Quits U.S. politics to Become Italian Politician’s Wife.”
I cringe. The last thing I want is for the media to catch wind of me and Benito. “I’m not going to be anyone’s wife. And Benito’s not a quote, unquote,‘politician.’ He became the mayor of La Musa to help out his mom.”
Marisol shakes her head to the side, seemingly to get water out of her ear. “Are you sure about that? He worked for a lord in the British House of Commons for years.”
