I turn. There’s a woman at my gate. Older, wearing an apron, holding what looks like a covered dish.
“Si?”
She launches into Italian, gesturing wildly. I catch maybe three words.Benvenuta.Welcome.Mangiare.Eat.Sola?Alone?
That last one hits weird.
“Si,” I admit. “Sola.”
Her face crumples with sympathy. She practically forces the dish into my hands, patting my cheek and making soft, pitying noises like I’m an abandoned puppy.
Then she’s gone, shuffling back down the path, probably to tell the whole neighborhood about the sad American girl alone in the big villa.
I lift the cover. Lasagna. Real, homemade, someone’s-nonna-recipe lasagna.
And suddenly I’m crying.
Not pretty tears either. The ugly kind that make your face splotchy and your nose run. Because a stranger just showed me more warmth than this whole perfect villa, and I’m standing here in paradise feeling sorry for myself, slightly drunk, and somewhere in New York there’s a man who brought me a sandwich when I was covered in goat water.
I eat the lasagna standing over the sink like a savage.
It’s perfect. Of course it is.
Everything here is perfect.
And I’ve never felt more alone.
I pour another limoncello and go back to the terrace.
The sun’s starting to set. The whole sky’s on fire, turning the water to molten gold. Couples walk the beach below, holding hands. A yacht glides past, laughter drifting up on the breeze.
“Be careful,” I mutter, mocking his last words to me.
What kind of goodbye is that? After a week of... whatever that was?
Be careful.
Like I’m just another stranger. Just another wedding planner passing through.
“Asshole,” I tell the sunset.
It doesn’t argue.
I should be journaling. That was the plan—come to Italy, journal about my feelings, have some big epiphany about my next chapter.
Instead, I’m drunk on limoncello, crying over lasagna, and talking to myself in a villa that costs more per night than most people make in a week.
Living the dream.
I check the time. 8 p.m. here. 2 p.m. in New York.
He’s probably at work. Being important. Intimidating junior associates. Definitely not thinking about—
I throw my phone across the terrace before I can finish that thought.
Then immediately run to check if I cracked the screen because I’m not that much of a disaster.
It’s fine. Unlike me.
