“What?”
“I was just thinking. The name. Lanie Callaway. It suits you.”
“I would never change my name.”
“Not even Lanie Bloom-Callaway?” Rufus says.
“Wouldn’t it be Lanie Bloom-Callaway-Ross?” Meg asks.
“This is a moot conversation in so many ways!” I say as my phone rings with a FaceTime call from BD.
“What’d I miss?” BD is on her Peloton, a rainbow sweatband around her head. “Meg told me you were meeting tonight, and then my Hinge date had to sit shiva for his ex-wife, so it turns out, I’m available.”
My doorbell rings.
“That’ll be Postmates,” BD says. “I sent you some Van Leeuwen’s vanilla. Meg told me about the V theme.”
“What’s the V theme about anyway, Meg?” Rufus calls over his shoulder as he goes to the door. A moment later, he returns with two pints of ice cream. “Is it to wish Lanie buon viaggio?”
Meg shrugs. “I was just craving Veselka.”
“Totally pregnant,” Rufus says, passing out spoons.
“Shut up,” Meg says.
“So,” BD says, “have we gotten to the part yet where Lanie is a free agent in southern Italy? Because those men . . . mamma mia! And we all know how she feels about chest hair. Lanie, honey, the Italian word for morning-after pill is pillola del giorno dopo. Say it with me—”
I bury my face in my couch pillow.
“You have two days in Italy all to yourself before the launch,” Meg says. “I recommend a shit ton of room service. And maybe Pornhub.”
“And journaling,” Rufus says.
“And a big, fat—”
“No, BD!” we all shout.
“Swim!” my grandmother says. “There’s a secret beach in Positano, a few coves south of the pier. I don’t know if you know this, Rufus, Meg—but Lanie’s grandfather and I stumbled upon it once, when we were young. Magic happened there.”
“Maybe you should drop Lanie a pin so she can retrace your, uh . . . steps?” Meg says.
“Or thrusts?” Rufus says, snickering.
“Because if anyone could use some magic . . .” Meg says.
“Some secrets can’t be told,” BD says and winks at me. “Besides, Lanie’s got to twirl her own linguine. Have a wonderful trip, my dear. Wear sunscreen. Drink a Campari on the rocks for me. And please, do us all a favor and don’t come back without having at least one irresponsible Italian tryst!”
Chapter Seventeen
“I fell in love with motorcycles on the back of my ex-fiancé’s bike,” I say to Piero, my new friend from the Neapolitan motorcycle rental agency, when we meet outside of customs. “For years, I meant to get my own license, but life got in the way. Then my ex-fiancé sold his bike, which led to our breaking up, which led to me being like: What am I waiting for?”
It’s eight a.m. in Italy, two a.m. back home. I had three cups of coffee as the plane was landing, and I fear it’s beginning to show.
“I’m here to give this speech in Positano. But I’m also taking a few days to myself. To work through some other stuff. And I figure—what better way to do that than on a motorcycle on the Amalfi Coast?”
I pause and take a breath. Piero nods like he’s only catching one out of every ten words, which is possibly why I’m finding it so easy to talk to him. He leads me out of the terminal, along the airport entrance’s sunny circular drive. I pause to take my first gulp of Italian air.
It doesn’t not smell like the arrivals drop-off at Newark, but it’s also deliciously exotic. This moment marks the beginning of a long weekend of warm sunshine and winding roads, of panoramic sea views and unhealthy amounts of mozzarella. I turn my phone to Do Not Disturb so I can fully soak it up.
Piero hadn’t waited while I paused to appreciate the moment. He’s speed walked three lanes of traffic ahead, so I hurry to catch up. I weave between gridlocked Alfa Romeos and Vespas, around chic Italian women wielding chic Italian roller-bags. Soon I see the parking lot where my bike awaits.
“I don’t have tons of riding experience,” I call to Piero, “but Bernadette—she was my teacher—she said never look down at where you are. She said to keep your eyes on where you’ll be. Don’t you think that’s good advice, metaphorically speaking?”
“May I please check the box for our most comprehensive insurance policy?” Piero asks, eyeing me over the top of his forms.
“That’s a good idea.”
He leads me to a carbon red Ducati Diavel. It’s just what I wanted: a sleek and shiny 1260, with a hundred and sixty horsepower, ninety-five elegant pounds of torque, zero to sixty in two seconds—plus a Bluetooth sound system soon to be playing many hours of Prince’s greatest hits.
“She’s beautiful,” I say.
“And all yours for the next three days,” he says, handing me the keys. “Do you need directions? Where are you staying?”
“Il Bacio in Positano,” I say and flash the portable GPS Meg slipped into my carry-on as a going-away present.
“Ah.” Piero grins. “My girlfriend says that is the most beautiful hotel in all of Italy. A place for lovers.”
“And self-lovers!” I clarify, mostly for myself. When he smirks at me, I add, “I didn’t mean it like that. Not entirely, anyway.”
Piero gives me a sidelong glance. He looks at my duffel bag and reaches into the pocket of his jeans. He pulls out a bungee cord. “Take this—”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I brought one.”
“You need two,” he says.
It takes me fifteen minutes after Piero leaves to attach the GPS to the windshield, ten more to secure my duffel bag to the luggage rack with the bungee cords, and another ten to capture a cute selfie to send BD and Meg and Rufus when I feel like coming back on the grid.
After that, it takes me ten more minutes of sitting astride the Ducati to work up the nerve to start the engine.
I tell myself that once I get on the road, I’ll be fine. But when I look past the parking lot, to the sunny street leading out of the airport, I see all of Naples zipping along at a pace that puts my heart in my throat. Bernadette said never to cry on a motorcycle, but anxious tears prick my eyes.
When I said yes to Italy, I thought that by now all my problems would be solved. The manuscript is in, minus one forthcoming chapter. My promotion is official. Why do I still feel like something’s missing?