Page 7 of Italy Can Bite Me

Cam:We’re here for you, babe. Whatever you need, we’re on it.

The Mission: Love and Matrimonybinder mocks me from my nightstand; its pastel purple cover is a monument to my teenage delusions. Empty wine bottles are littered all around it.Those definitely weren’t there when I headed to bed, were they?After bottle number three, details are fuzzy.

Yikes, preteen Katie really went overboard with the Lisa Frank stickers. That unicorn’s judgy eyes are tracking my every move. I flip open the binder, assaulted by the pure, innocent hope of fourteen-year-old me. Each page is OCD-level organized. Apparently even my teen hormones operated on a schedule. There’s an entire section titled “Boyfriend Intimate Relations Timeline,” complete with a step-by-step guide: hand-holding by week two and French kissing by month three—ifhis dental hygiene passes inspection.

Okay, so teenage Katie had never been kissed.

Sex was a mystery back then. Truth be told—it still kinda is. Jared and I do it, sure, but it’s the kind of sex you could squeeze in between brushing your teeth and debating if tomorrow’s outfit needs to be ironed. Routine—like Taco Tuesday. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I see the "Future Husband Requirements" checklist, and I feel a sharp dagger in my heart. Jared nails every single one: Reliable. Dependable. Loyal. Lets me win at Uno.

I can fix this. Iwillfix this.

My fingers hover over the binder’s pages. I want to rip them all out—destroy them with righteous vengeance. Instead, I calmly close the cover and set it back on the nightstand. Because what if he calls? What if this is simply a blip? A prewedding panic attack?

What if I’m lying to myself?

Cam:Just remember we love you big-time. No matter what happens.

Petra:And I’m great at slashing tires. Say the word.

A laugh unexpectedly bubbles up. God, I love them. This is why I can’t drag them into my mess. I’m the stable friend. Miss Reliable… the friend who has her shit together so they can lean on me.

Me:Love you too. But I promise, everything’s under control.

My phone buzzes one more time.

Petra:Uh-huh, sure. When you’re ready to stop living in la-la land, we’ll be here. With wine. And matches, because those hideous ties deserve a Viking funeral.

The smell of bacon and pancakes drifts into my room. Mom’s stress cooking again, her way of saying “I love you” without having to navigate the messy world of actual emotions. The familiar scent of butter, maple syrup, and concern makes my eyes sting.

“Well,winging ithas never made a quality husband fall into your lap.” Mom’s voice carries down the hall, precise as a metronome. “Real men want a woman with at least a five-year plan, Deborah.”

I tiptoe toward the kitchen and freeze at the echo of Aunt Deb’s raspy laugh. Picture a classic Hollywood movie starlet but with a voice roughened by decades of whiskey and sass. It’s a sound that has church ladies scrambling for their prayer books three towns over.

“Oh Suzanne,” Aunt Deb purrs. “Your daughter’s planning obsession is not the problem. It’s how she turns every simple decision into a military operation. The poor girl probably has a spreadsheet for scheduling optimal orgasms.”

I choke on air. Really, I should expect it from her by now. Deborah Fox has lived without a filter for seventy-two years. There is no changing her.

“I’d rather have an intimacy schedule than your… what was it last month? A nude meditation retreat with those Swedish backpackers?” Mom says with a special tone reserved for when Aunt Deb’s adventures cross into too-much-information territory.

“Darling, the culture’s more enlightened there!” Aunt Deb defends. “And Gustav was a spiritual guru—realigning my chakras and my lady garden. But the point is: Katie needs guidance. No man wants a woman who requires a toolkit and assembly instructions for her vajayjay.”

“I can hear every word, you know,” I announce, shuffling into the kitchen.

Mom’s wearing herLet's Get Whiskingapron and pressed khakis. She wraps me up in a hug, smelling of vanilla extract and childhood comfort. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is styled in its usual practical bob, not a strand out of place.

“Katie-kins!” Aunt Deb exclaims from her perch at the kitchen island. “Looks like someone’s been hit by the sad train and dragged through breakup town!”

She’s one to talk. The woman looks like a peacock mated with a Stevie Nicks concert—her caftan an obnoxious rainbow of jewel tones. She’s wearing enough jewelry to set off airport metal detectors, but, as usual, her strawberry blonde hair looks radiant against her flawless makeup. She’s a ball of chaotic energy and unsolicited advice(which she calls sage wisdom).

“Thank you for thatvery insightfulobservation,” I say, dropping onto the kitchen stool with a sigh. “Exactly what I want to hear after my fiancé dumped me.”

“Dumped?” Aunt Deb straightens up like someone just insulted her crystal collection. Her blue eyes flash with indignation. “Oh no, darling. Rule number one of being fabulous: we don’t get dumped. We simply redirect our fabulousness elsewhere.”

Mom slides a plate of bacon pancakes to me. “Jared’s having prewedding jitters. You two are meant to be. But you really should go to the salon and fix up those eyebrows. You’ll want to look your best when he comes back.”

“Or. You wake up in a foreign country on top of an Italian hunk and neither of you remembers how you got there. That’s how you heal a broken heart,” Aunt Deb declares, pulling out her laptop. “Behold!” She waves her hands at the screen as if she’s a game show host.

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