Page 123 of Wicked

Finally, on the third attempt, it starts with a roar.

I run around the car to check the tires, and I see the grill is still damaged and dented.

I give zero Fs because she is still going, and she can get me out of here. I go to pat Olive, knowing someone will soon find her, and let her free without her saddle.

Suddenly, Tito runs from the beach, and he is exhausted and confused.

As I drop to a knee, I feel even more emotional.

Tito runs into my arms, and ears down, he leans against me. Tears well up again as the sweet dog whines.

“Oh, baby…” I say, wiping tears away and holding him close.

Tito licks my face, and he must taste the salt. He whines louder, and it makes me sob even more. As I hold him to my chest, he leans into me. I can sense he knows.

Knows this will be the last time I ever see him.

“Look after Dante, Tito. I’ve… I’ve got to go. I won’t ever see you again.”

Tito licks my face again, and I hold his face in my hands. I want him to know this here is the last time we will ever see each other. It is the second sword to my heart today, and I can’t take much more.

“I’m sorry, Tito. I’m so, so sorry. Stay well.”

Pulling myself from him, I wipe tears on my sleeve and leap into the car. I look out as Tito’s big eyes stare back. I can tell he is confused, alone, and hurting.

I yell in frustrationand throw the car in first gear.

I race away, and only when I’m far down the road and out of the timeless village do I look in the mirror.

Tito has walked into the middle of the road, and he stands watching me. My heart shatters into a million pieces, and I know I will never recover from this.

Ever.

I drivelike a maniac and South towards Rome for thirty minutes. I ignore my beeping phone, but I finally force myself to slow and pull over. I book a flight leaving Rome in two hours, and then I push on. I think about the missed calls, even as I try not to.

It’s impossible. I missed calls from Dante, his grandmother, his sister, Parker, and even my boss! My boss, the woman who had used my name in her shitty article and just destroyed my reputation this side of the world.

The same woman who has likely demolished my reputation in travel journalismforever!

I drop the damaged rental car back at the rental parking area at the airport and not the office area. After putting the car’s key in the return slot, I head off like an animal on the run.

There is no way I’m emotionally capable to handle endless insurance forms or answer awkward questions in Italian or pidgin English.

As I head into Rome’s airport, I pull on my dark sunglasses. I am traveling light, and I only have my daypack, laptop, novel notes, mom’s book, a few tops, and a jacket.

I go through customs and immigration head down, stone-faced, and on autopilot. After I finally reach the gateway, I sit with my face in my hands.

I cry in silence as a flatscreen TV near me shows footage of a helicopter buzzing around a castle and people falling from horses.

After ten horrible minutes, I check social media on the debacle. Italian journalists are slamming my work, and they’re beyond brutal. The high society woman from the wedding even calls my writing ‘unacceptable vulgar trash from a foreign peasant’ on social media.

The thing is, I walked into a trap.

I wipe an eye for the twentieth time, and I realize my life is a disaster. My travel journalism career is over. I’ve lost Dante. I’ve lost Tito, and I’ve lost the friendships of everyone in Italy.

I look down at my stupid life, that being my old daypack and everything inside. I realize, there and then, I need to get my act together.

This is all I have! This isall I am.

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