“So what? Smiling’s overrated.”
She gives me a look that clearly says I’m full of it.
Three days. Feels like a lifetime. Feels like yesterday. Feels like I’m drowning in the space she left behind.
“Be careful,” I mutter again. “What a complete moron.”
Muffin leans against my leg, warm and solid and understanding.
At least someone gets it.
I make myself get up off the floor, trying not to notice how empty everything feels.
Same house. Same job. Same life.
Except I hate it now.
All of it.
Without her here to make it make sense.
Chapter Thirty
Paradise Is Overrated
Poppy
The villa is stupid beautiful.
Like, offensively beautiful. The sort of beautiful that makes you want to punch something because how dare a place be this perfect when you feel this… not.
White stone walls. Warm terracotta tiles under my bare feet. Bougainvillea dripping purple over every railing like nature’s showing off. The infinity pool bleeds into the Mediterranean, all impossible blues that hurt to look at— they’re so pretty.
I’m on my third limoncello.
At 2 p.m.
Because that’s what you do in Portofino, right? You drink local liqueur and stare at the water and pretend you’re living your best life.
“This is amazing,” I tell no one.
The words echo off marble countertops.
I take another sip. It’s too sweet. Everything here is too sweet. Too bright. Too much.
My phone buzzes. CeCe, probably. Checking in again.
A glance at my phone confirms it.
Yep.
CECE:How’s paradise?
I send back a photo of the view. Let her think what she wants.
The truth? I’m not okay.
Not even a little.
