Page 55 of Italy Can Bite Me

Not that Jared ever… well. Why can’t I recall a single time when Jared made me climax.

Another pothole sends my water bottle soaring. It lands, rolls forward, and stops directly at Matteo’s feet. Without looking back, he picks it up and passes it to Mrs. Thomas. Who then returns it to me like I’m carrying the plague.

The bus sputters around another curve, and I start a new list.

Reasons I Need to Stop Fantasizing About Matteo Monti:

1. His touch turns my brain into sparkly mush.

2. His accent that does illegal things to my ovaries.

3. His smile makes me forget how to breathe(this is very impractical).

4. That growly Italian thing he does makes me forget my own name.

5. The way he kisses me like he wants to devour me whole.

6. His stupid rule has made it very clear that I’m off-limits.

7. His chaos must be contagious because I can’t think straight.

8. I’m supposed to be winning back Jared.

I underline that last one three times, just as Lorenzo slams on the brakes, sending my pen skittering under the seat. When I reach for it, I catch Matteo watching me in the overhead mirror.

The look in his eyes makes me forget every single item on my list.

Jared. Think about Jared.

I drag my attention back to my plan, my mission to make my ex realize what he’s missing. I refresh my Instagram feed again—hopeless. Either Jared hasn’t seen these photos of me draped over six feet of pure Italian temptation, or worse… he has and doesn’t give a damn.

The bus coughs and hacks as we climb the hill, and I’m totally hypnotized by the way Matteo’s forearms flex while he holds on to the overhead bar.

“These hills”—Matteo’s voice carries through the speakers—“were carved by centuries of— LORENZO! Both hands on the wheel!”

Our driver reluctantly abandons his quest for the elusive diamond in his nose, and the bus swerves slightly.

HOOOOOONK!

Like everyone else on the bus, I twist around in my seat to look out the back window. A sleek red Ferrari is practically dry humping our exhaust pipe, close enough that I can see the driver’s styled hair and red Gucci track suit.Really dude?Who coordinates their clothes with their car? A douchebag, that’s who.

It seems our bus’s turtle-like pace is a personal affront to Mr. Midlife Crisis in his red Ferrari, because he’s pounding on his horn like a serial masturbator. After years of LA traffic, this barely registers on my road-rage radar, but our bus full of senior citizens are not having it.

“The nerve of some people!” Margaret Dawson shouts like he can hear her.

The hill steepens, the hairpin turn mocks us from up ahead, looking more treacherous by the second. Our ancient bus wheezes with an ungodly sound… like a chain-smoking grandfather at mile twenty-six of a marathon.

Lorenzo rolls down his window, flips him the laziest bird I’ve ever seen, and motions the Ferrari to pass. The instant the red car starts to pull out—Oh God. A yellow Fiat comes screaming around the corner ahead.

The Ferrari swerves back behind us—just in time—his enraged horn blaring. Our bus belts out a dying groan, really selling the drama, before the engine calls it quits.

For a suspended moment, we’re frozen in time. Then gravity remembers it has one job.

We start rolling backward.

“LORENZO! Do something!”

Matteo’s shout is barely heard as the screams of the elderly tourists fill the bus. We’re rolling back down the hill and picking up speed.

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