“Italy,” I repeat, and I can practically hear her roll her eyes.
“Don’t say it like it’s a death sentence, Em. Italy! Italy!”
“I’m familiar with the concept,” I tell her, taking another sip of wine. “I just don’t know exactly what you mean. You want us to go to Italy? When?”
“Next week.”
I almost laugh. How … completely, typically Chess.
And she must hear that in my silence, because she goes on. “I’ve already got a place. This amazing villa outside of Orvieto called Villa Aestas. You will absolutely die when you see it, Em. And I was planning on writing the whole time I was there, but you could write, too. I mean, you’re healthy again, and I haven’t seen you in forever, and when we had lunch the other day, I was like, ‘Why am I not moving heaven and earth to spend more time with one Miss Emily Sheridan?’”
She’s drunk, I think. Not too drunk, but definitely a few cocktails in. Chess always gets chatty and grandiose when she drinks.
“Admit that this is the most genius plan you’ve ever heard in your whole life,” she finishes, and now I do laugh.
“It’s pretty fucking genius, yes.”
But something is holding me back from saying yes.
For one, it’s a little embarrassing to freeload so openly off of Chess’s newfound wealth. Am I that friend, the one she’ll tell people about later?
Oh, poor Emily, you know, we’ve been friends forever, and she was going through a divorce, so I wanted to do something to cheer her up.
Thinking about that makes my stomach lurch, but then I think about Italy. Sitting in the sun, soaking up new surroundings, new people, a new language. Plus, pasta.
“It’s six weeks, Em,” Chess goes on. “Almost the whole summer. Or the good parts of summer, let’s be real. There’s a pool, there’s a gorgeous cathedral nearby.…”
It isn’t really the perks that suddenly make my heart speed up. It’s the time. Six weeks. Six entire weeks out of this house, out of this life. Six weeks to try to get my career back on track and reignite my sense of purpose.
And, let’s be honest: six weeks of glamorous photos to post on Instagram and Facebook, where Matt still follows me.
“Okay, I’m in,” I tell her, closing my eyes as I say it, and on the other end of the line, Chess cheers.
“Yes! I knew you would be. I’m gonna send you all the information about the house, and then I’ll book your ticket.”
“I can get my ticket,” I say, and I can, although it’s definitely going to push one of my credit cards to its max. But if Chess is renting us an entire house for six weeks, I don’t want her to also buy my plane ticket. I have some pride, after all.
And Chess, thank god, doesn’t fight me on it. Maybe she knows better.
“Perfect. I’m leaving in two days, so don’t make me wait too long by myself, okay?”
I don’t point out that she could’ve invited me earlier. Instead, I promise her that I’ll find a flight soon, and when I hang up the phone, my face is almost aching from how much I’m smiling.
A summer in Italy with Chess.
A chance for a hard reset, something I desperately need. Something I want.
Something I deserve.
Fwd: Reservation for Villa Aestas June 6–July 29
From: [email protected]
Here you go! You won’t need to print out the parking pass they attached, I’ll deal with all that. But LOOK AT THIS HOUSE, EM!! You can google it and get even more pictures, it’s completely insane.
From: [email protected]
Buongiorno, Chess! Your stay at the luxurious Villa Aestas is all set! Thank you again for trusting me to set up the PERFECT summer vacation for you. I think you’re absolutely going to be delighted with Villa Aestas and the entire Orvieto area. Here’s a bit from the website:
Nestled in the hills around Orvieto in Umbria, Villa Aestas is an oasis of calm and serenity, full of historical charm while still catering to the sophisticated twenty-first-century traveler. While many of the home’s original furnishings from the 1800s have been preserved, the kitchen is fully modern, and the property’s three bathrooms have recently been remodeled. Only a fifteen-minute drive from the city center, Villa Aestas provides privacy and convenience, and for an added fee, a daily maid and chef service is available. Enjoy your stay in one of Umbria’s hidden gems!
From: [email protected]
Chess, you neglected to mention that this is a Murder House.
From: [email protected]
Does one murder a Murder House make? Besides, it was a bunch of rock star types in the seventies—honestly if murder hadn’t happened, it would be more of a surprise.
From: [email protected]
I do think one murder makes a Murder House, as a matter of fact! There’s a podcast about it! If some guy in an ironic graphic tee and stupid hat has spent ten hours narrating the terrible thing that happened in the house, it is a verified Murder House!
（But you’re right, this house is also gorgeous and I’m excited, and I promise to only mention the murder five times AT MOST.）
From: [email protected]
There’s my girl.
I see you in my dreams, he says to me as we lay together/Girl, you haunt me every night.
But he haunts my days, every waking moment/when he’s with her, there in the light.
And I wish I could hate her/wish I could hate him/wish I could set myself free.
But we three are tied together/a golden chain unbroken/and I think it’s strangling me.
“Golden Chain,” Lara Larchmont, from the album Aestas （1977）
MARI, 1974—LONDON
It’s raining again.
But then it’s always raining, the rainiest summer Mari can remember, and as she sits at the kitchen window of her more-than-slightly shabby flat, she leans her forehead against the glass, watching the water run down the wavy glass, the people on the street rushing by in a mass of black umbrellas.
The smog mixes with the rain, the sky more of a noxious yellow than gray, and she suddenly longs to be anywhere but London. Back to Scotland, maybe, where she’d spent a year when she was thirteen, living with friends of her father. The air had been clear there, cold and crisp, and she thinks air like that might be the only thing that can clear her head, that can sweep away the pain of this disastrous year.
In the other room, she hears Pierce laugh, and she knows she needs to get up from this hiding spot, to go talk to the various people gathered in their living room, and play the part of Pierce’s loving girlfriend. It’s what she’s been doing for the past year, after all, ever since they moved to this flat.
It’s too quiet here, he’d said, and had proceeded to fill the place with noise at every opportunity.
Mari understood that he thrived with an audience and didn’t blame him for it, but she’d wanted to write today—he knew she’d wanted to write today—which is why she’s holed up at the kitchen table they’ve squeezed into this tiny corner of their tiny kitchen, a notebook open and only two words written across the top of the page.