Page 4 of Italy Can Bite Me

“You made a Best Friend Emergency Protocol?” Petra’s voice catches slightly.

“With cross-referenced crisis categories,” I confirm. “And a rating system for when to call versus text versus initiate an emergency CPK intervention.”

“Complete with pizza topping recommendations based on emotional distress levels,” Cam reads, her eyes shiny. “BBQ chicken for general life crises, Hawaiian for guy problems—”

“And meat lovers for total emotional breakdowns,” Petra finishes. “‘Cause when crying wipes you out, you need protein.”

“I can’t believe you documented our stress-eating patterns,” Cam says.

“Seven years of data doesn’t lie.” I shrug, trying to ignore the lump in my own throat.

Cam pulls us into a group hug. The apartment door opens with a soft click, and my heart does its usual happy dance as Jared walks in. He’s wearing navy slacks, a tailor vest in the same shade, and a bright yellow tie covered in dinosaur fossils. His sandy-blond hair is perfectly disheveled, but when our eyes meet… something’s off.

“And that’s our cue to evacuate,” Petra announces, standing up like someone pulled a fire alarm. “Nice tie, Indiana Jones. I’ve been wondering, are you forced to wear those at the museum, or do you just like blending in with the fossils you’re always fondling?”

“Bold words from someone dressed as a Hot Topic manager with an identity crisis.”

I take in their usual banter, mentally cataloging the micro-expressions on Jared’s face.Hmm. What’s up with him?

“Before we go,” Cam pipes up, “hypothetically speaking, if someone in a polar bear costume was pranking people at the Ice Age exhibit, how much trouble would they get in?”

“Probably enough to warrant police involvement.” Jared chuckles. “I don’t recommend testing that theory.”

“The museum could use the publicity.” Petra shrugs. “It’s not like ‘forced field trip destination’ is bringing in Gen Z.”

Cam’s phone explodes with an onslaught of notifications. “My boss’s latest emergency awaits. Later, lovebirds!”

“Try not to organize the fun out of everything, Katie,” Petra says, walking out the door.

“Text when you get home!” I call after them.

“Yes, Mom!” they chorus back.

Jared studies the dining room table with the same intense focus he gives to potential museum acquisitions. The one that means he’s cataloging every flaw, every imperfection, every minute detail that’s somehow not quite right.

But the explosion of wedding invitations, response cards, and my well-organized binders can’t be what’s bothering him. As a professional event planner, I regularly turn our Pasadena apartment into Command Central for everything from Hollywood wrap parties to product launches to celebrity sweet sixteens. Just last week, this room was buried under samples from some Gen Z influencer’s tragic attempt at a streetwear line.

They’d managed to misspellaestheticon every single piece of clothing.Yes, really.

Jared’s always championed my spreadsheet-loving soul and my dream of someday owning LA’s premier event-planning empire. So why is he looking at my chaos—ourwedding chaos—like there’s a forgery hiding in his precious museum collection?

My hands itch to straighten the already perfect stacks of envelopes, to fuss over the pile of response cards for the umpteenth time. Because that’s what I do when I’m nervous—I organize the shit out of everything until the universe makes sense again.

“We’re crushing these invites,” I say, my voice hitting that manic octave that usually makes Petra hide my label maker. “Only thirty-two to go! And wait until you hear what I pulled off—I snagged us the ultimate cake-tasting appointment on Friday during your lunch break. Your mom’s coming too, and—”

“Katiebug.” The way Jared says my name makes my Type A senses tingle. And not in the good way. “Let’s take this conversation to the living room.”

Danger danger. Serious conversation alert!

Current status: Mild panic rising.

I follow him, mentally running through all the imaginable outcomes he could say. He plops down on the opposite end of the couch, his focus darting to my hyper-organized shelving unit. It’s a masterpiece, really, with each wedding prep item neatly tucked into its own special bin or binder, like little soldiers ready for inspection.

“I’m just going to come out and say it. Something amazing happened today.”

Phew!Amazing,I can handle.Amazingcan be documented, categorized, and filed appropriately.

“The British Natural History Museum is doing this incredible special exhibit.” His eyes light up like an excited puppy. “Lost Worlds: Fossils from the Dinosaurs’ Golden Age. And they want to collaborate with us!”

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