“Bellissima.”
Beautiful is the last word I’d use to describe the disaster blinking back at me in the mirror. The villa concierge gave me a list of nearby boutiques, but after converting euros to dollars and realizing my budget was more suggestion than substance, I ended up here—in a shop that sells international calling cards, Pope-themed knickknacks, and a deeply concerning assortment of anatomically suggestive pasta. And, unfortunately, the only clothes my bank account can afford.
The airline still hasn’t found my luggage. The concierge offered to send my coffee-stained blouse to be cleaned, but it wouldn’t be back in time for my meetings with Edmond. So here I am. Desperate. But notthisdesperate.
“Bellissima, sì?”
The sweet, elderly shopkeeper tries again. Wispy gray hair frames her weathered face, and she gestures to me with the kind of hopeful smile that could probably sell sand to a Sicilian.
I glance down at the very... patriotic outfit she convinced me to try on. I’d hoped for some designer-inspired pantsuit or trendy wrap dress, but instead I’m standing under buzzing fluorescent lights in a royal bluetracksuit with the wordITALIAblazing across my chest like a tourist beacon. The stripes down the sleeves and pant legs? Red, white, and green. Naturally.
“Kardashian,” she says proudly, gesturing at me like I’m ready for the runway. Or a car commercial.
I try to chuckle. “More like Joey Tribbiani in a tracksuit,” I mutter.
And that’s the problem. I cannot show up to meetings looking like Italy’s unofficial mascot. The goal is toblend in, not become a walking souvenir.
The bell over the door jingles, and she shuffles off to help a new customer. I send up a silent prayer they’re bilingual and can help me communicate that I don’t want to look like a knockoff reality star. My hopes are dashed when I hear them break into enthusiastic Italian.
I duck back behind the curtain and stare at my reflection again. This can’t be my life. And yet—here I am.
My options are limited. If you love Ferrari, this place has an entire section. Fancy aprons featuring Michelangelo’sDavid? You’re covered. They even have T-shirts with quippy puns and jokes, like “Fuhgeddaboudit”and “Grab life by the meatballs.” I already have one of those—thanks to Ben.
Speaking of Ben, where is he when I need him?
No, I don’t need him. I need his Italian. That’s it. Just his language skills. Not his smile. Or the way he looks at me like he still sees the girl I was. I just need the Italian.
The tracksuit itches. Probably polyester. Or regret.
Ben’s T-shirt lies on the bench. It’s buttery soft and still smells like him—clean soap, something citrusy. Something... dangerous to my emotional stability.
I shouldn’t have worn it today. Last night, I shoved it in the armoire and put on the complimentary robe instead, pretending it didn’t matter that he left the shirt outside my door. But it did. And I hate that it did.
The gesture caught me off guard. Just like everything else about him lately. I keep trying to categorize him: the boy I once knew, the potentialthreat Athena warned me about, the man who stole my chocolate croissant. Still kicking myself for that lie.
Twelve years I’ve carried his voice like a splinter under my skin.“She’s a mess. Reckless.”His words chased me through college, into a job and a life that didn’t unravel every time someone let me down. And now Ben’s here, unraveling everything.
This morning was already a close call. I thought I was being careful, tiptoeing down the hallway to check the villa’s study where the meeting is supposed to take place this afternoon, only to practically run into Ben.
I panicked. Blurted out something about coffee, which technically wasn’t a lie. But Ben’s casual demeanor, his smug smile, the way he keeps acting like he knows me—it’s throwing me off.
My phone rings, yanking me back to the present. It’s my mom.
“Hey, Mom.” I check the time in Michigan. Five a.m. “You’re up early today.”
“Hi, honey! Quick question—do you know how to unfreeze a bank account?”
I close my eyes and sigh. “What did you do?”
“I may have flagged the autopay for my electricity as fraud again. The logo changed.”
Of course it did. Mom has come a long way since showing up on my doorstep with a suitcase, a loose grip on reality, and a promise to do better. But ADHD doesn’t vanish with good intentions. It still sneaks up on her—disguised as impulsive decisions, forgotten bills, and, yes, fraud alerts on recurring charges that help her stay on top of her payments.
I couldn’t trust her then—not when I was working two jobs and drowning in student loans I took out to support us both—but I couldn’t turn her away either.
With Joy’s help, we found the Lighthouse Sanctuary, a structured living community with job support and staff who understand ADHD. It’s been a godsend. But it’s not cheap. A sponsor covers a third of the residency program and I cover the rest. Mom takes care of her day-to-day bills.
I miss her. I just don’t miss the chaos.
