Page 59 of Italy Can Bite Me

The restless horses stamp impatiently. I climb into the carriage, suddenly very aware of Matteo’s eyes on me. I glance back just once to see him staring, looking somehow both lost and determined. He grows smaller as the carriages pull away, standing next to our sad, smoking bus like some kind of gorgeous Italian action hero.

My phone buzzes.

Italian Stallion:I saw the single tear in your eye. It’s okay to miss me.

I won’t admit to him, but I already do.

***

TheTuscansunbeatsdown on my head as I try(and fail)not to check my phone for the eighty-seventh time in the past hour. Not that anyone’s counting. Except me. Because apparently I count everything now, including the minutes since Matteo disappeared with our smoking bus.

“Observe,” Enrico commands, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle on the Sangiovese grapes. “In two months, these will become pure Italian magic. Like my bambino, and my wife, they cannot be rushed.” He pauses, then smirks. “Our Famiglia Passione Rosso, it isn’t just wine. It’s legacy in a bottle. And legacy takes time.”

Workers move through the vineyard like a well-choreographed dance, checking leaves and adjusting vines. The late-June heat shimmers off the hills, making everything look like a mirage.This can’t be real.

“See how we trim?” Enrico demonstrates with careful precision. “Make room for air, for sun. Like relationship—need space to grow, sì?” He chuckles at his own metaphor.

I hang back from the group, pretending to take notes but actually watching the fascinating mix of people working the vines. Some speak rapid-fire Italian, others definitely sound American, and I’m pretty sure that guy over there just saidcrikey.

“You like?” Caterina appears beside me, both hands supporting her very pregnant belly. “The vineyard, she is beautiful, no?”

“Yes, very. The workers—they’re from everywhere?”

“Ah, sì! Our volunteers.” She waves at a group of twentysomethings hauling equipment. “They stay in dormitory, work the farm, learn real Italy. Not tourist Italy.”

I watch the workers laugh together, their joy as obvious as their suntanned skin and dirt-stained clothes. “So they just… stay here? Work here?”

“One month, three months. We give them home, food, family. They learn Italian, travel on days off.” She pats her belly. “Some never leave. Like me.”

“I have a friend who did that,” I say, thinking of Petra’s fearless journey. “She traveled all around Europe, staying in places like this, trading work for room and board.” My throat tightens with a mix of admiration and envy. “She’s the brave one. I could never take on that kind of adventure.”

“Ah, many young people find themselves here.” Caterina settles onto a wooden bench, fanning herself. “Some running from something, some running to something. All find what they need.”

I snap a quick photo of the sun-drenched vines and send it to Petra.

Me:Hey, I’m at one of those volunteer places you told me about.

Petra:Well, well, well… looking to ditch your binders and run away like I did? I know a great tattoo artist in Florence.

Me:No! Just… realizing how brave you were to actually do it. To leave everything behind.

Petra:Stop. You’re making me feel things. I’m trying to look badass in my new corporate hell.

Petra:Wait, which vineyard did you stumble into? Need to make sure you’re getting properly corrupted.

Me:La Dolce Vite.

Petra:FUCK ME SIDEWAYS. YOU’RE AT ENRICO’S?!!

Me:for reals?

Petra:I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU’RE MESSING WITH ME, CRAWFORD. THAT’S MY FUCKING ITALIAN FAMILY.

Me:You’re kidding.

Petra:Tell Caterina her favorite delinquent says hi. Oh, and ask Enrico about the time he tried to make “drunk chicken racing” a thing.

Me:You’re not kidding?

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