Page 135 of Italy Can Bite Me

The whole bus cheers. Howie grins ear to ear while Deb basks in the attention—a cat on a sun-warmed windowsill. Katie’s brilliant idea to seek private financing saved us from those stuffy banks who tried poo-pooing our dream. With Howie’s billions backing us, we’re not just surviving—we’re fucking crushing it.

“How about you invest some of those Dixon dollars in a bus that doesn’t smell as if a skunk and a dumpster had a baby?” Chester shouts from the back.

“Sorry, amico.“ I caress our battle-scarred dashboard. “This old girl, she’s family.”

Katie snatches the mic from my hand. “Time to get this party started!”

I hit the music button, and the opening drums of “Pour Some Sugar On Me” blast through our freshly upgraded speakers. The disco ball—yes, I kept that promise—sends rainbow lights spinning across the bus interior like a kaleidoscope, turning our rolling disaster into a legitimate party venue. She may still smell, but dammit now she’s got style.

And then my bellissima, brilliant, slightly unhinged girlfriend launches into her signature K-Tease performance. Her hips start doing this thing that should honestly require a permit. The seniors lean forward like they’re watching the Second Coming, except instead of Jesus, it’s Katie Crawford bringing sexy back one questionable dance move at a time.

“Work it!” Aunt Deb shouts. “Remember what I taught you—swing those hips like you’re trying to hypnotize a cobra.”

Katie attempts a sultry shimmy but looks more like she’s being attacked by bees.God, I love this woman.

Just when I think I can’t possibly love her more, she proves me wrong.

The feather boa becomes a dangerous weapon as she twirls it overhead, nearly taking out Mrs. Thomas’s latest perm. But nobody cares because witnessing Katie Crawford doing the K-Tease is like watching a beautiful disaster in slow motion—you can’t look away.

“That’s it, baby girl.” My auntie jumps up, proud choreographer of this beautiful chaos. “Show them my signature moves. Thrust those hips with a little moreoomph—that’s how I snagged my Howie!”

Deborah distributes feather boas to our cheering crowd as though she’s Oprah. “You get a boa! And you get a boa! Everyone gets a boa!”

The seniors are living their best lives, waving their new accessories like victory flags.

Katie and Deb sync up their moves, and the guests go wild, absolutely loving it(I’m pretty sure the original choreography had much less seat grinding).Or maybe it did. This is Aunt Deb we’re talking about.

SCREECH!

Our tour vehicle swerves sharply—Lorenzo’s too busy watching the show in his mirror to notice we are drifting into oncoming traffic.

“Eyes on the road!” I shout.

His response? Mining for nose gold like he’s hoping to strike it rich.

Some things never change.

“Su-ZANNE!“ Deb sashays over to where Katie’s mom sits ramrod straight. “Show these youngsters where Katie got her irresistible moves.”

Katie’s mother shakes her head, lips pursed like fun is an infectious disease. “Deborah, really. I don’t think—”

“Come on, Mom,” Katie calls out. “Remember what we talked about? Being more spontaneous?”

Then it happens. Suzanne Crawford, queen of country-club brunches and perfectly coordinated tennis outfits, stands up. She adjusts her silk blouse, takes a deep breath like she’s about to dive into shark-infested waters, and starts… moving.

“That’s it, Suzy Q!” Deb whoops. “Show Katie how to twerk it.”

David Senior claps along, beaming at his wife and daughter like the lucky man he is. The passengers on the bus lose their shit as three Crawford women attempt to make Def Leppard proud.

I still remember the Great Italian Standoff, as we now call it. When Katie told her mom she was staying in Italy, Suzanne went through all five stages of grief in about thirty seconds. There were tears, accusations about throwing away her future, and at least three keynote speeches about the benefits of living in Los Angeles.

But sometimes distance brings people closer. Now Suzanne FaceTimes us so often that I know her tennis schedule by heart. Her Pinterest board description reads: “My daughter lives in Tuscany and yours doesn’t,” which makes her country-club friends green with envy.

This Christmas, I’m flying to Los Angeles with Katie—my first real holiday since losing my parents. She’s already got a five-page checklist of magical holiday moments wemustexperience together. Yesterday she ordered us matching Christmas sweaters, complete with light-up reindeer noses. Embarrassing? Yes. But I’d wear a musical sweater every day of my life to be part of this new family.

Katie attempts another spin, the boa creating a feathery tornado around her. Her jazz hands could guide planes safely to landing, and Cristo, I’ve never seen anything sexier.

I catch her eye and mouth, “I love you.”

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