“Thank you for your offer, but that’s exactly why I came to Rome. One of the three of us is going to win this competition and turn our internship into a job, so I have a guaranteed one-third chance—Marco, Holly or me. That’s better odds than if I was up for some random position.”
“I know that, of course,” she answers sympathetically. “All I’m saying is you have support if and when you need it. I’m your older sister. It’s in my DNA to cheer you on—and to steal your clothes.”
I shake my head and smile. “You are and always will be the sweetest, most obvious thief, and I’m very lucky to have you.”
“You complete me,” she responds, deadpan. “Now, show me the view again so I can chug my wine and cry.”
I chuckle and turn the phone around once more so Daniella can see it all. We talk and joke for a few more minutes and I stay out on the balcony even after we hang up. It’s still so surreal to think that at this very moment we’re half a world apart. Yesterday I was serving an appetizer sampler to a table of nine, and now I’m in Italy, about to start an internship at one of the fastest-growing fashion labels, and the experience very well might change my life.
Or maybe it won’t. And all I’ll end up doing is graduating with a hundred grand in student debt with no long-term place to live and less than zero job prospects.
With that option being too terrifying to consider, I let the dreamer in me take the wheel while I still can. It isn’t easy. Try as I might to see this trip as a fun learning experience, I’m painfully aware that the next few weeks are going to be a game changer for me, one way or another. This internship and competition will make or break me. I’ll either become a beacon of inspiration or a cautionary tale. And looking out at the jaw-dropping landscape of this beautiful, bustling city, I can only hope that fate sets me on the kinder path.
3
Waking up with a dry gasp, I grab for my phone and see that it’s nearly six. I overslept. Idrasticallyoverslept. I’m red-faced and hot as a loop of screeching “no’s” and “why’s” reverberate through my brain. I then look down to see that I tangled myself in a thick blanket despite the heat. Stupendous. Flinging my body across the bed to escape the damp fleece taco I’m now engulfed in, I’m soon free and sprinting across the room toward the bathroom. I need to pull off a Cinderella-level transformation sans fairy godmother, who, in my heart and mind, will only ever be Whitney Houston.
Five minutes later I’m presentable, but just barely, when I rush out onto the terrace. I’m wearing the first thing I found at the top of my suitcase—a neutral linen romper—and my hair is twisted into a high bun. And not a delicate, whimsical high bun, but a desperate, please-don’t-notice-my-noticeably-unwashed-hair high bun.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Marco teases as I speed walk over to him and Holly. They’re already drinking chilled glasses of prosecco and I need to get me one of those asap. “Did someone just awaken from a highly vivid fever dream?”
I run my hands over my outfit, doing my best to smooth out the wrinkles. “Don’t be a hater just because I’m well rested and sprightly.”
“I was going say bed tangled and sweaty, but sure, that, too.”
Holly smiles into her glass at Marco’s snark, and I’m happy to see it, even if it is at my expense.
“Well,” I tell Marco melodramatically, “as you’re clearly half-mad with jealousy, I’m going to get a drink to give you time to adapt to my presence. Do excuse me.”
Whirling away, I leave my classmates behind as I whisk over to the side table where the much-needed prosecco is waiting. Pouring myself an ample glass, I look over the terrace at the sky beyond. The sun is just going down, gently filtering the world through a blue, pink and orange lens.
The terrace around us is illuminated with electric lanterns, and twinkle lights are woven around the top of the iron railing. The drink table in front of me has plenty of room for the appetizers, and two empty glasses are left unused.
“Do we know if the professor is married?” I ask as I rejoin the group.
“She didn’t mention anything to me,” Holly answers. Marco only shrugs and I figure we’ll find out the answer soon enough. As if on cue, a figure steps out onto the terrace, holding a tray of food, and we all straighten up, hoping to make the best possible impression on the professor. A split second later I see that it’s not the professor at all.
It’s Matt.
As in, café Matt. As in, irritating beyond all reason, almost makes me contemplate physical violence, Matt.
Dear freaking god, Matt is Professor Leoni’s husband!
My head spins and everything in my line of vision flips upside down. What. Have. I. Done?
“What the hell?” is what I end up whispering to myself.
He’s changed from his button-down and shorts into jeans and a navy polo, and his resting scowl face is perfectly intact. He’s making his way toward us with an undeniable air of authority. A dark prince in a captured kingdom and I’m ill-equipped to face him. Nearly reaching us now, his eyes scrunch up a bit as his gaze moves from Holly to Marco. When they then turn to land on me, he stops dead in his tracks.
“Violet?” he asks, sounding entirely shocked and not at all pleased. His freaked-out face flawlessly mirrors mine. I say nothing. I’m immobile. Silent and still like an unsettling statue that no museum would ever want. They’d station me next to the bathroom for sure.
Thankfully, Marco hasn’t lost his ability to speak, as I apparently have. “Wow, hello again,” he says to Matt. “Zero rudeness intended with this question, but what are you doing here?”
“I live here,” Matt answers, his eyes finally darting away from mine to answer Marco.
He lives here. Matt lives here. The once soft lantern glow now seems blinding.
“I mean, my mom lives here,” he amends. “I’m visiting for the summer.” Looking at me again, he presses, “What areyoudoing here?”
