Page 125 of Italy Can Bite Me

ITALY CAN BITE ME.I’m so done with this whole damn country.

The sun is fucking irritating, poking through the hotel curtains like a nosy neighbor with nothing better to do. The digital clock on the nightstand blinks 12:00 over and over, acting like it doesn’t know the time—which is appropriate since I’ve lost track of it too.I shut off my phone about three emotional breakdowns ago, hoping for a message from Matteo that never came.

I burrow deeper under my pillow fortress, but the sounds of Rome invade anyway. I can hear the hum of Vespas zipping down streets, the chatter of tourists, and the low, rhythmic tolling of church bells that somehow sound judgmental. It’s as if the chimes are saying, “Quit being so dramatic, American!”

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. The memories linger: the rough stones of that alley wall against my back, Matteo’s hands cradling my face—that kiss was like he was trying to pour his entire soul into me.

“Ti amo, mi amore.”

I love you, my love.

And then he walked away.

I stood there like a statue, watching him leave.Why didn’t I yell, chase, beg—do something?Every cell in my body wanted to go after him, to hold him, to force him to see that his struggles don’t make him less worthy of love. But I couldn’t move, not as the bitter truth pierced my hopeless heart.

He doesn’t want me in his life.

He’d rather run than love me.

And then there was Jared.

After Matteo disappeared, Jared and I finally talked. Not the kind of fake, surface-level talk we’d perfected during our relationship, but therealkind that should have happened long before.

He apologized for the ambush proposal, admitting my mother’s powers of persuasion rivaled only my own. I admitted that my obsession with planning and control isn’t just about keeping things in check; it’s my go-to coping mechanism for dealing with anxiety. And he owned up to being a lazy partner who’d gotten way too comfortable letting me sort his world into neat little boxes.

I returned his ring, wished him a lifetime of fossil-hunting happiness, and that was that.

My mother, predictably, went nuclear.

“You’re making a huge mistake, Katherine!” She hyperventilated. “Marriage is the goal of life. Security! Stability! How could you throw all that away for a silly fling with some tour guide?”

For once, I didn’t whip out a bullet-pointed argument to defend my life choices. I just looked at her and said, “Marriage is not the goal of my life, Mom.Iam the goal of my life.”

And then something miraculous happened.

My brother, David “The Favorite Child” Crawford, defended me. “Katie doesn’t need someone else to validate her worth, Mom,” he declared, becoming the protective big brother I’d forever wished for. “She’s fully capable and destined for greatness. And anyone who can’t see how special she is? They don’t belong in her orbit.”

My mom didn’t say another word. Even Dad took my side and muttered something about how Jared’s tie collection was “concerning.”

In that moment, I opened my brain’s binder to the section labeled How to Be Perfectand dismissed it as total crap. I’d spent years feeling the need to systematically prove that I was enough. But now?

Poof.

Gone.

I ripped it out, shredded it, and tossed it in the trash—tabs, dividers, and all.

That was yesterday, but it seems like a lifetime ago. Today my family is wandering the streets of Rome, probably haggling over overpriced leather bags and taking selfies with random statues. And me? I’m… multitasking: turning hotel bedding into a first-class cocoon of sadness, debating which expensive room-service meal pairs best with misery, and googling how fast I can book a one-way ticket home.

Then a knock at the door.

Aunt Deb charges into the hotel suite like a champagne cork at a celebration.

“Up and at ’em darling! Your fairy godmother has arrived, armed with glitter, charm, and just enough fabulousness to banish this tragic little pity party!” She takes a dramatic sniff and recoils. “Sweet Mary and Joseph, it stinks like heartbreak and stale pasta in here.”

She pulls back the curtains and opens the windows. Rome floods in—the sounds and smells of coffee and chaos and other people’s lives.

“You’re disrupting my den of despair,”I mumble into my mattress.

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