Paradise is boring as hell when you’re alone. But it’s more than that.
I wander through the villa—because what else am I doing? The kitchen has one of those fancy espresso machines that I have no idea how to operate.
I flop on the bed. Thousand-thread-count sheets. A view that belongs on postcards.
And all I can think about is a grumpy lawyer’s guest cottage that smelled like lemon cleaner and came with a complimentary farting dog. The cutest little farting dog…
“Stop it,” I tell myself.
But my brain’s already there. Wondering if Muffin misses our morning scratches. If George has destroyed anything new. If Dean—
No.
I sit up and grab my planner from the nightstand because, of course, I brought my planner to Italy. I flip through pages of absolutely nothing because—surprise—I have no plans.
For the first time in years, I have nowhere to be. No timeline to manage. No crisis to solve.
It’s supposed to feel like freedom.
Instead, it feels like drowning.
I pour another limoncello. Walk out to the terrace. The town spreads below like a watercolor painting—pastel buildings tumbling down to the harbor, boats bobbing like toys, tourists wandering cobblestone streets.
Beautiful.
Empty.
Wrong.
My phone rings. Unknown Italian number.
“Pronto?” I answer, proud of my limited Italian vocabulary.
Rapid Italian fills my ear. Something about delivery? Tomorrow?
“Uh… no parlo italiano?” I try.
More Italian. Faster now. Frustrated.
“I don’t—sorry, I—”
They hang up.
Great. Even Italy thinks I’m a mess.
I lean against the railing. The sun’s perfect here. That golden Mediterranean light everyone writes poems about. Sings songs about. It makes my skin glow, turns my hair to honey, probably does wonders for my vitamin D.
I hate it.
“This is what you wanted,” I remind myself. “A break. Peace. No one needing you.”
Except, it turns out, maybe I like being needed. Like being in the middle of chaos.
Maybe I’m one of those pathetic people who only knows who they are when they’re fixing someone else’s problems.
Maybe—
“Signora!”
