Page 8 of Italy Can Bite Me

The computer display explodes with enough Italian eye candy to put a Dolce & Gabbana campaign to shame. Images of sun-soaked vineyards and ancient ruins that make my control-freak heart skip a beat. There are pictures of charming villas with terracotta roofs, winding streets lined with cypress trees, and views that belong on postcards.

“Got this amazing deal in my inbox yesterday.” Aunt Deb clicks around on the travel website. “Monti Tours. Last-minute cancellation. It’s a steal, baby girl.”

I take a bite of my pancakes, trying to appear uninterested, but my eyes refuse to look away.

“We’ll be on a luxury bus tour. Every day we wake up somewhere new, hop on our chariot, and boom—another Italian masterpiece.” Her on-point manicured nail taps the screen. “Look at this itinerary—wine tasting in Tuscany, cooking class in Bologna, sunset boat ride in Venice. Even your spreadsheets would approve.”

Whoever snapped these photos isn’t just a photographer—they’re a storyteller. Each image is alive—like you could reach through the screen and feel the warm Italian sun on your face, taste the wine on your tongue, and hear laughter echoing off ancient buildings.

That does sound amazing. I do have plenty of vacation days.

“Two weeks touring Italy for half price! Don’t ignore the universe. It is personally demanding that you get your cute little uptight behind on that plane with me.”

She vibrates with excitement, her bracelets jingling a chaotic melody. “We’ll drink wine, eat pasta, and flirt with men named Giovanni. I tried to convince your mother to come, but she’s committed to grandma duty. Criminal, really, if you ask me.”

My mother sighs. “You know how it is with David—his job’s too important. He can’t take days off. Not when he’s so busy saving lives. Besides, he asked me months ago to watch the kids while Emma is at that medical conference.”

The mere mention of my older brother makes my skin prickle and break out in stress hives. Dr. David Crawford—handsome, successful heart surgeon—who of course comes with his doting trophy wife and two absolutely perfect children.

“The kids love spending time with Grammy,” Mom adds, her voice carrying that special warmth she reserves for all things David-adjacent. The same tone she uses when showing off his framed medical degrees to anyone who enters our house.

My mother insists she doesn’t have favorites, but anyone with eyeballs can see—it’s not me.

I stare at the travel website, at the joy and adventure playing out in sunlit Italian streets. My finger traces across an image of a couple laughing in front of the Trevi Fountain in Rome. That could be us. Thatshouldbe us. I need to prove to Jared that I can be that person—carefree, spontaneous, everything he said I wasn’t.

“Deborah.” Mom sighs, flipping another pancake. “You just got back from Thailand. Don’t you want to stay home for more than ten minutes?”

“Oh Suzy Q, if I could afford it, I’d travel every single day of the year. Life’s too short to sit still!”

“I’ll go!” I blurt out, surprising myself.

“Excellent!” Aunt Deb claps her hands together. “Smallish little detail—it’s a seniors’ tour. But honey, with your affinity for sensible shoes and early bedtimes, you’ll fit right in! You’re basically an eighty-year-old trapped in a twenty-five-year-old’s body.”

Mom’s spatula clatters against the counter. “Katie, honey, this seems… impulsive.”

“Exactly.” I straighten my shoulders, feeling courageous(or maybe it’s the pancake sugar rush).“Jared wants spontaneous, so that’s who I’m going to be!”

“That’s my promising little protégé! We are gonna rage across Italy like gladiate-hers. We’ll stumble back onto the plane two weeks later with full bellies, even fuller heart boners, and a contact list full of men named Stefano.”

I did it! No turning back now.

“We leave in two days!” she adds.

Oh God. What have I done?

No. This is the plan. Jared will see my vacay pics and know that I’ve changed. He’ll be begging for me to take him back.

Spontaneous Katie is going to Italy!

Now where is my passport binder?

***

“Theysayit’shardto get into the mile-high club, but honey, I’m running a loyalty program,” my aunt quips. “See any handsome devils?”

The elderly couple in 15D and E snap their heads around so fast their matching neck pillows wobble in perfect sync. I slump deeper into my premium economy seat, hiding behind my labeled Ziploc bag of artisanal snacks and disinfectant.

But Aunt Deb’s already dumped her enormous bedazzled leopard-print tote over my what-was-organized tray table. My water bottle topples. My color-coded Italy itinerary scatters. And—what is that metallic pink thing rolling toward my—

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