Page 1 of Italy Can Bite Me

CHAPTER ONE

KATIE

Myfistsclenchlikethey’re crushing invisible stress balls.

With every crooked envelope Petra stuffs, I squeeze tighter. The dining room table—Jared’s precious antique mahogany—is a war zone of calligraphy pens, address labels, and ninety-seven wedding invitations. My best friend seems hell-bent on destroying each cream-colored tissue insert. Her weapons of choice? Neglect and clumsy fingers.

This is what I get for thinking I could wrangle Petra “Chaos Is My Kink” Brinkman into conforming to my wedding standards. We’re talking about the girl who turned her art history final into a radical, all-nude slideshow because—and I quote—“art should challenge the system.”

I release my death grip and adjust my sensible button-down blouse. It’s the blue one with tiny pink flowers that Jared loves and Petra calls my “sexy hall monitor” look. I’ve tied my golden-blonde hair into what I call a tactical ponytail, held by three hair ties—because backup plans should always have backup plans.

It’s not paranoia, it’s preparation. There’s a difference.

Sign.

Seal.

Stamp.

Another invitation goes on the stack.

“For the love of all things laminated, what are you doing?” I lunge across the table to stop Petra as she attempts the next envelope assassination. “That tissue paper looks like it just survived a booger bomb. Did you use it as a Kleenex?”

“Seriously, Katie?” she responds, then twirls a strand of jet-black hair around her finger with mock concern. “Oh no. Someone better fucking call 911! We’ve got a full-blown catastrophe here.” Her leather jacket creaks as she slouches deeper into her chair, the Harley Quinn to my Monica Geller.

Her smirk could start a rebellion—which, knowing Petra, is usually the plan. She’s the human embodiment of a red flag wrapped in edgy ripped jeans, combat boots, and band tees. The silver rings on her fingers aren’t just accessories—they’re tiny brass knuckles waiting for an excuse.

Cam holds up her hands like a seasoned parent at a toddler playdate. “Petra,¡concéntrese!This is Katie’s big day—you know how she feels about perfect corners.” She pulls out her phone. “Ooh, we gotta film this moment. I’ll edit it into your wedding video.”

Camila, or Cam as we affectionately call her, is the sunshine that brightens up our little trio. Despite already working twelve hours as the personal videographer to a highly demanding YouTuber, this Latina powerhouse is here, supporting me—organizing envelopes with a smile. She’s rocking her work uniform: cargo pants that could smuggle an entire film studio, her chestnut hair pulled up in a scrunchie, and a black hoodie that’s seen more influencer meltdowns than a TMZ highlight reel.

We shouldn’t work as friends, the three of us. On paper, we’re a recipe for disaster. But somehow that random art history class freshman year at UCLA clicked everything into place.

“That’s it.” Petra slams both hands on the table. “Mandatory pizza break before Katie murders us over ink smudges.”

“No! No food near the—” But she’s already whipping out a CPK takeout box. “The crumbs! Think of the crumbs!”

The smell hits me like a roundhouse kick of deliciousness to the face. BBQ chicken pizza: my ultimate weakness. Well, that and a fresh pack of highlighters.

“I really shouldn’t. I just watched my boss film a disgusting two-hour mukbang video, but…” Cam leans forward anyway, and Petra feeds her a bite with the tenderness of a mama bird. A very punk rock mama bird with a heart as big as her attitude.

“Crumbs!” I screech.

Fun fact: When we discovered our initials spelled CPK, I immediately created a PowerPoint presentation about friendship and destiny. California Pizza Kitchen became our headquarters for emotional emergencies, study sessions, and pivotal moments. Like the time we tried to convince Petra not to drop out of college and travel around Europe(spoiler alert: we failed).Or when we celebrated Cam’s first film festival win(cue the ugly crying into avocado egg rolls).And for the past six months, where we’ve been planning my dream wedding on Wednesday nights.

Seven years of friendship built on pizzas, cheap wine, and obscene amounts of butter cake. We’re talking late-night confessions, early-morning rescue missions, not to mention three-a.m. Target runs. And then there are Ben & Jerry’s therapy sessions and about a zillion group texts that start with “Quick poll.”

I watch my BFFs laugh as they inhale another slice of pizza. Petra’s sprawled out in her chair, not giving a single fuck. And Cam, even exhausted, radiates a passionate spark that makes you believe anything is possible. They both exist with such effortless ease—it’s unfair.

Because I’m over here, sweating through my floral-blouse-and-cardigan combo, trying not to hyperventilate over improperly stuffed envelopes.

Oh God. The corner’s bent.THE CORNER IS BENT!

My hands tremble slightly as I adjust one more invitation, the expensive paper crinkling under my unyielding grasp. My Excel brain is already creating columns: Signs of Imminent Breakdown, Panic Level, Number of Envelope Rearrangements in the Past Hour.

Thankfully, they don’t see it. They have no idea the binder under my elbow is essentially my emotional-support animal. Inside, everything makes sense. Each carefully written to-do list, each meticulously organized tab, is a testament to my desperate need for control. Everything has its place.

Unlike my current mental state, which is best described as an avalanche of anxiety.

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