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The only reason Mylo refers to it as our honeymoon is because this is the first vacation we’ve taken together. And, of course, since the guy’s loaded, he spared no expense when planning our trip to Siena.
He takes my hand and leads me down the stairs to the main floor. Pulling a folded guidebook from his pocket, he flips to a page near the back of the book and points to a section he highlighted. Knowing I don’t want to read it, he summarizes for me.
“It says the heart of Siena is divided into seventeen districts, orcontradas, each with their own flag and mascot. These are used primarily to celebrate the two horse races that take place in the city square each year, but there are themed fountains and museums in each neighborhood and they have community events all year long.”
When he flips to the page with the flags, my eyes zero in on one in particular. “Is that a dragon? There’s a dragon district?”
He nods, his entire face lighting up with excitement. “There is.”
“Okay, well, that’s obviously our first stop.”
We hop in the back of the car and head through the large, arched gates of the city center, and spend most of the day strolling through the narrow streets of this medieval, gothic paradise. I can’t get over how beautiful it is, from the themed lampposts representing the colors and mascots of that particular neighborhood, to the unique black-and-white-striped marble facade of the city’s cathedral, to the rich green shutters and flower boxes that seem to adorn every window.
The moment I’m distracted by the stunning details above me, I trip over a cobblestone and remember that Siena is basically a group of small hills and I need to watch where I’m walking. Luckily, the moment my calves and ass get tired from walking uphill, the next street slopes downward, giving my body a break.
By early afternoon, my stomach is growling something fierce, and we stumble into a cute little restaurant in the dragon district since I refuse to eat anywhere else. I’m thoroughly enjoying my red wine and bowl ofcacio e pepewhen Mylo brings up my Mom’s condo.
“Do you plan on keeping it?” he asks. “You spend most nights at my house.”
I don’t know why this has been such a difficult decision for me to make. I never liked that house or the development it’s in, and I still can’t go up or down the stairs without picturing Mom’s fall. On the other hand, my entire childhood took place within those walls. There are bad memories, of course, but also a lot of good ones too.
I picture Mom, long before her diagnosis, cooking dinner in the kitchen while singing along to eighties hairband music. Or the hours she spent tending to the little garden she planted next to the patio. I had a complicated relationship with her, but she loved the hell out of her children. She worked hard and she loved hard.
However, those memories are already with me. I don’t need the house to remember how Mom was before the Alzheimer’s, and if Mylo and I are going to plant roots in Sudbury and start our lives together, I don’t think I want our story to begin in that condo.
“No,” I finally say. “I want to sell it.”
He reaches for my hand under the table and squeezes. “You are certain? You do not have to decide today.”
“I’m certain,” I tell him confidently. “Let’s get a new place that’s just ours, where we can make new memories.”
He smiles, and that dimple makes me melt in my seat. “I’d like that.”
Suddenly, Mylo drops his fork onto his plate with a clatter and lifts his nose into the air.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, noticing how his face has turned two shades paler than it was a second ago.
“I sense…something. A presence.”
That sounds ominous. “A presence? What kind of presence?” And because I can’t help myself––I blame the wine––I add, “A dragon presence, perhaps?”
He sniffs the air again. “Yes.”
At first, I think he’s kidding. He has to be kidding. But when his expression remains serious, I shiver. “Wait, what do you mean?”
Pulling out his wallet, he drops a wad of euros on the table and grabs my hand. “We need to leave. Now.”
He apologizes profusely to the staff in Italian as he drags me out of the restaurant and sends a text to our driver.
“Is he picking us up?” I ask as we walk-run down the street toward the city gates.
“No,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’m getting you outside the walls and we’re flying back to the villa.”
I want to tug out of his grasp and demand he tells me exactly what’s going on because this doesn’t make any sense. Does he really sense another dragon here? Is it an alien? Or a dragon shifter that was born on this planet? A dozen more questions float through my mind as we race toward the gates, wine and pasta sloshing around in my tummy and making me regret that second glass of red.
“This doesn’t seem like the most efficient way out of here,” I shout. My legs are short and my stomach is starting to hurt, but it’s not like he can shift in the middle of these crowded, narrow streets either. I don’t have a better plan, but I can say with certainty that this one sucks.
“You’re right,” he says as he stops and hauls me into his arms. Then he starts to run at full speed, and I have to turn my head into his neck to keep the constant jostling from making me sick. It takes several minutes to get outside the gates, but as soon as we do, Mylo finds the nearest copse of trees and heads straight for them.
