Page 51 of Italy Can Bite Me

“If you need a better view,” I murmur as I pass behind her, “I’d be happy to give you a lift. Though I should warn you about my wandering hands. Professional hazard.”

“I’d rather use Alice’s walker,” she whispers back with a ghost of a smile.

“Documenting your fascination with me?”

“No, I’m gathering evidence for a refund.”

“Ah, but my tours are priceless. Like that blush creeping up your neck.”

She quickly flips to a new page but not before I spot her fighting another smile.

“And here,” I announce to the group, maintaining my rhythm, “we have a masterpiece that’s pure seduction of form and light. The artist captured intimate details with breathtaking precision, using the tempera technique—pigments blended with egg yolk. Think of it as the early Renaissance’s version of Photoshop.”

Katie’s scribbling away, and I can’t stop staring. Those delicate fingers wrapped around that pen turn even the act of note-taking into something inexplicably sensual. And when she brings that pen to her lips, lost in thought?Fuck.I’ve never been more jealous of an inanimate object in my life.

But it’s not just her body that’s got me tied up in knots; it’s the way Katie Crawford organizes everything around her with such careful attention. After seven days of observing her, I’m learning her tells. Like how she taps her left foot when she’s processing information. I’ve started to recognize herproblem-solvingface—lips pressed together, head tilted slightly, and that little crease between her brows that’s always there because her brain never takes a break.

Her intensity is hypnotic. I’m finding it impossible not to be fascinated by her. She approaches each moment with the same unwavering determination, whether taking notes on Renaissance art or positioning her water bottle so the label faces perfectly forward. The world is one giant puzzle she’s determined to solve.

Fanculo. I need to stop obsessing over her.Stop letting myself get caught up in the secrets behind those mesmerizing green eyes. Stop imagining how her soft, commanding hands would feel on my—

“Matteo!” Chester’s voice cuts through my Katie-induced haze. “When do we get to see the giant naked guy?”

“Um… ah, yes. It’s showtime, my friend.”

Time to focus on someone else’s dick instead of my own—Chester’s wish!

I lead our group through the crowded halls of the Accademia, where Michelangelo’s iconic statue of David is surrounded by a sea of selfie sticks and fanny packs. The crowd noise swells around us—a symphony of “Wow” in twelve different languages, incessant camera clicks, and at least five different tour guides trying to out-lecture each other.

“All right, my beautiful people, gather round,” I say, gently maneuvering Chester to the front. “Before we admireDavidin all his marble glory, Chester has something to share about his Wish Card.”

Chester straightens hisi’m with stupidT-shirt(the arrow points up at his own face)and clears his throat. “You know me—always cracking jokes, being the group clown.” The usual mischief in his eyes dims. “But today I want to tell you about my Gladys.”

I give Chester a comforting pat on his shoulder.

“This trip to Italy? It was her dream. She talked about it constantly—wanting to see the art, savor the food, experience it all.” Chester’s weathered hand presses against his heart. “She’s still with me, right here. And let me tell you, she would’ve loved every single minute of this adventure with you all.”

Katie edges closer, and I catch the shine of tears in her eyes.

“Gladys, she always laughed at my jokes,” Chester continues. “Especially the bad ones. God, she had this snort-laugh that could wake the dead, but it was the most beautiful sound on the planet. Even when I told the same terrible pun for the thousandth time, she’d giggle like it was the first time she’d heard it.”

I scan the group, and my seniors all wear the same glassy-eyed expression. Stan’s arm tightens around Rose’s shoulders. The Dawson sisters clutch hands. Even Aunt Deb has stopped making eyes at Howie long enough to dab her cheeks with a silk handkerchief.

I look at Katie again, and the longing on her face guts me. After that dickhead Jared left her, she still wants this soul-crushing kind of love. Can’t she see? She’s lucky to avoid wasting half her life before realizing love’s cruel truth. Before the inevitable, that love always fucking ends in loss. Someone is left behind—left trying to solve an impossible problem—left to have their heart bleeding out for eternity.

Which is exactly why I have a system. My life, my way, my rules—it’s all flings and early-bird exits because I’m not strong enough to survive the devastation of that kind of love. It hijacks your entire existence.

Chester surveys our group, his smile wobbling but genuine. “This trip—since I lost my Gladys—has been one of the best times of my life. Traveling with you guys, swapping stories, and getting to know your wonderful personalities has been more fun than I could’ve imagined. You’ve become more than just travel companions; you are my friends.”

“Oh Chester…” Rose lifts a tissue to her tear-streaked face, sniffing softly.

“So folks, I’ve got a little request, and I hope you’ll humor me.” Chester’s familiar grin starts to return. “I want to have a silly photoshoot right here with David. That’s right! I want each of us to take the funniest, naughtiest pictures we can with the giant ol’ naked guy. Then I plan to put them all together in a collage and print them on one of my famous wacky shirts. That way I’ll always have this memory close to my heart.”

He gestures toward the towering statue. “Because if Gladyswashere, this is precisely what we’d be doing. She’d be pretending to pinch his marble behind while making me take twelve different angles. What do you say?”

“For Gladys!” The cry rings out from thirty voices, echoing off the gallery’s vaulted ceiling. Even the security guard, who definitely doesn’t speak English, raises his fist in solidarity.

What happens next can only be described as elderly anarchy.

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