Italy Can Bite Me (Hot Mess Summer #1)

1. CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

KATIE

My fists clench like they’re crushing invisible stress balls.

With every crooked envelope Petra stuffs, I squeeze tighter. The dining room table—Jared’s precious antique mahogany—is a war zone of calligraphy pens, address labels, and ninety-seven wedding invitations. My best friend seems hell-bent on destroying each cream-colored tissue insert. Her weapons of choice? Neglect and clumsy fingers.

This is what I get for thinking I could wrangle Petra “Chaos Is My Kink” Brinkman into conforming to my wedding standards. We’re talking about the girl who turned her art history final into a radical, all-nude slideshow because—and I quote—“art should challenge the system.”

I release my death grip and adjust my sensible button-down blouse. It’s the blue one with tiny pink flowers that Jared loves and Petra calls my “sexy hall monitor” look. I’ve tied my golden-blonde hair into what I call a tactical ponytail, held by three hair ties—because backup plans should always have backup plans.

It’s not paranoia, it’s preparation. There’s a difference.

Sign.

Seal.

Stamp.

Another invitation goes on the stack.

“For the love of all things laminated, what are you doing?” I lunge across the table to stop Petra as she attempts the next envelope assassination. “That tissue paper looks like it just survived a booger bomb. Did you use it as a Kleenex?”

“Seriously, Katie?” she responds, then twirls a strand of jet-black hair around her finger with mock concern. “Oh no. Someone better fucking call 911! We’ve got a full-blown catastrophe here.” Her leather jacket creaks as she slouches deeper into her chair, the Harley Quinn to my Monica Geller.

Her smirk could start a rebellion—which, knowing Petra, is usually the plan. She’s the human embodiment of a red flag wrapped in edgy ripped jeans, combat boots, and band tees. The silver rings on her fingers aren’t just accessories—they’re tiny brass knuckles waiting for an excuse.

Cam holds up her hands like a seasoned parent at a toddler playdate. “Petra, ?concéntrese! This is Katie’s big day—you know how she feels about perfect corners.” She pulls out her phone. “Ooh, we gotta film this moment. I’ll edit it into your wedding video.”

Camila, or Cam as we affectionately call her, is the sunshine that brightens up our little trio. Despite already working twelve hours as the personal videographer to a highly demanding YouTuber, this Latina powerhouse is here, supporting me—organizing envelopes with a smile. She’s rocking her work uniform: cargo pants that could smuggle an entire film studio, her chestnut hair pulled up in a scrunchie, and a black hoodie that’s seen more influencer meltdowns than a TMZ highlight reel.

We shouldn’t work as friends, the three of us. On paper, we’re a recipe for disaster. But somehow that random art history class freshman year at UCLA clicked everything into place.

“That’s it.” Petra slams both hands on the table. “Mandatory pizza break before Katie murders us over ink smudges.”

“No! No food near the—” But she’s already whipping out a CPK takeout box. “The crumbs! Think of the crumbs!”

The smell hits me like a roundhouse kick of deliciousness to the face. BBQ chicken pizza: my ultimate weakness. Well, that and a fresh pack of highlighters.

“I really shouldn’t. I just watched my boss film a disgusting two-hour mukbang video, but…” Cam leans forward anyway, and Petra feeds her a bite with the tenderness of a mama bird. A very punk rock mama bird with a heart as big as her attitude.

“Crumbs!” I screech.

Fun fact: When we discovered our initials spelled CPK, I immediately created a PowerPoint presentation about friendship and destiny. California Pizza Kitchen became our headquarters for emotional emergencies, study sessions, and pivotal moments. Like the time we tried to convince Petra not to drop out of college and travel around Europe (spoiler alert: we failed). Or when we celebrated Cam’s first film festival win (cue the ugly crying into avocado egg rolls). And for the past six months, where we’ve been planning my dream wedding on Wednesday nights.

Seven years of friendship built on pizzas, cheap wine, and obscene amounts of butter cake. We’re talking late-night confessions, early-morning rescue missions, not to mention three-a.m. Target runs. And then there are Ben & Jerry’s therapy sessions and about a zillion group texts that start with “Quick poll.”

I watch my BFFs laugh as they inhale another slice of pizza. Petra’s sprawled out in her chair, not giving a single fuck. And Cam, even exhausted, radiates a passionate spark that makes you believe anything is possible. They both exist with such effortless ease—it’s unfair.

Because I’m over here, sweating through my floral-blouse-and-cardigan combo, trying not to hyperventilate over improperly stuffed envelopes.

Oh God. The corner’s bent. THE CORNER IS BENT!

My hands tremble slightly as I adjust one more invitation, the expensive paper crinkling under my unyielding grasp. My Excel brain is already creating columns: Signs of Imminent Breakdown, Panic Level, Number of Envelope Rearrangements in the Past Hour .

Thankfully, they don’t see it. They have no idea the binder under my elbow is essentially my emotional-support animal. Inside, everything makes sense. Each carefully written to-do list, each meticulously organized tab, is a testament to my desperate need for control. Everything has its place.

Unlike my current mental state, which is best described as an avalanche of anxiety.

What if I forget something crucial?

What if I can’t live up to the expectations?

What if I’m just… not enough?

The doubts creep in like shadows, threatening to overwhelm me. I’ve always been the one with the plan, the one who knows exactly what to do and when to do it. But this… this is different. This is my wedding, and everything needs to be perfect.

I pause my envelope quality control inspection to trace my fingers over the raised lettering on one of the invitations. Katherine Crawford and Jared Wagner request the pleasure of your company… Eight weeks. In eight weeks, I’ll be Mrs. Jared Wagner.

Me. Married. First one of our little trio to take the plunge. It feels surreal, like someone took my well-constructed life plan and actually let me stick to my timeline for once.

According to my mom, marriage is the ultimate life hack.

Got anxiety? Get married!

Feeling stressed? Just say “I do!”

She’s convinced putting a ring on it will finally help me stop feeling like I need to be the queen of perfection and just… relax.

BEEP.

BEEP BEEP.

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP.

Cam’s phone buzzes like it’s having a seizure. “ Dios mío, este hombre…” She rolls her eyes. “Oh, surprise. The king of content has notes. He’s doing that thing where he watches my video edits in real time and sends a gazillion texts about every single change. I gotta get a new job, like, yesterday.”

Ah yes. Internet’s favorite “prankster,” Reece Dare. He’s built an empire by playing the lovable risk taker. Online, he’s all smiles, abs, and Silly String, but in reality, he’s as pleasant as a porcupine soaked in hot sauce and wrapped in barbed wire. We have an ever-growing list of names for him, categorized by our level of annoyance and booze intake.

Pre-Wine: Dick.

Two Glasses Deep: Prickwad Douchewaffle.

Post-Tequila Shots: That Assbag Fuckhole Prettyboy Who Knows It and Needs a Lit Firework Shoved up His Perfect Ass.

Poor Cam. She should be out there making heartwarming documentaries about baby sloths, saving the rainforest, or elderly dogs finding forever homes. Instead, she’s filming Mr. Mood Swing’s “totally authentic” morning routine highlighting his “effortless wealth.”

BEEP BEEP.

“Ugh! His fiancée is going full bridezilla. I have an award-winning documentary, and this is what I do with my life. She made me film seventeen versions of her proposal reaction. Seventeen! I had to schedule crying breaks.”

“Amateur,” I say, mentally adding “golden-hour tears” to my wedding photography shot list.

Petra barks out a laugh. “Guess we better get back to work so Cam can return to her personal hell.” She licks her greasy pizza fingers and reaches for an invitation.

“Touch my envelopes with those greasy fingers, and you’re gonna be the official wedding porta-potty supervisor,” I warn.

“I’m kidding. Calm your perfectly coordinated tits,” Petra says as she goes to the sink and washes her hands. “Who knew this was going to be the summer of back-to-back weddings and that Katie would be the sanest bride?”

“Speaking of weddings, Petra, how goes the Beverly Hills Barbie wedding planning? Is your future sister-in-law still doing the ruffly peach-colored bridesmaid dresses?” Cam said, teasing.

“God, don’t remind me.” Petra’s voice goes tight in that way it does whenever she talks about her brother’s fiancée. “She’s hired some makeup artist to ‘minimize the appearance’ of my tattoos. Heaven forbid anyone remembers the Brinkman siblings grew up on the wrong side of the country club.”

I catch the flicker of hurt beneath her sarcasm. Petra acts like she doesn’t care about fitting into her brother’s world, but I recognize that look. It’s the same one she wore in college when he stopped coming to her art shows.

“Hey,” I say, momentarily forgetting about my invitation anxiety. “Your tattoos are more than welcome in my wedding photos.”

“Which is exactly why your wedding is the only one I’m excited about,” Petra announces, then ruins the moment by pulling out her phone. “Now, about your bachelorette party…”

She starts scrolling through a website full of stripper photos and profiles, featuring men who clearly lost their clothes in some tragic laundry accident— hello, no shirts ! Each profile picture showcases another set of abs so perfect they seem airbrushed.

My fiancé Jared has his own distinct flavor of charm—he’s a big old huggable teddy bear in dress slacks and a matching vest, always topped off with a colorful, patterned tie (usually featuring dinosaurs). But these men… they could bench press all three of us while inducing orgasms with a sultry stare and some sexy whispers.

Why is everything suddenly so warm?

“No!” I squeak. “We’ll have a nice dinner at CPK. Right, Cam?” I deploy my best pleading eyes.

“ Lo siento. Sorry.” Cam’s betrayal comes with an apologetic smile. “I vote stripper! For documentary purposes, of course.”

“Dr. Hard Body is officially booked!” Petra announces triumphantly.

“Look at you, already acting like the perfect corporate assistant,” Cam says.

Petra groans. “This is my last week of sweet freedom before I enter my brother’s corporate hell. Bro already sent me the employee handbook. It’s like fifty pages of ‘don’t embarrass the family name.’ As if I haven’t made that my personal brand for the past twenty-five years.”

“Maybe you’ll surprise him,” I say, slapping on some fake optimism. Truthfully, no binder of advice—no matter how thick—could get Petra get through her first week without disaster.

“I’ll surprise him all right. Maybe I’ll get a new tattoo to celebrate my entry into corporate slavery. Something really visible. Like… Capitalism is a Scam , on my cheek.”

“Well, bright side, at least you’ll get to see Bryce on the daily.” Cam winces, instantly regretting her words.

Oh shit.

Red alert! Red alert! The B-bomb has been dropped! Initiate damage control protocols!

I watch Petra’s face do that thing it always does at the mention of her brother’s best friend—like she’s trying to swallow a particularly bitter pill while maintaining her couldn’t-care-less expression.

My heart twists. I’ve seen drunk Petra cry about Bryce Sterling exactly three times—once when she confessed she’d been in love with him since she was thirteen, another after she poured her heart out and he didn’t return her feelings, and again when he and his girlfriend bought that perfect little house in the hills.

Here’s the thing about Petra—she’s got two settings when it comes to feelings:

1. Run away.

2. Run away faster .

That’s the fucked-up thing about unrequited love—it hollows you out piece by piece. And Petra’s been giving pieces of herself to Bryce Sterling since middle school. Now she’ll be trapped in that corporate tower with him, watching him live out her dreams with someone else.

Every. Single. Day.

“It’s fine. I just have to get through this summer,” Petra mutters, picking at a hole in her ripped jeans. “Prove to my family I’m not the fuckup they think I am.”

“You’re totally gonna be the most badass assistant your brother’s ever had,” Cam says with that sunshine certainty of hers.

“Absolutely,” I agree.

Something in that moment hits me. This is the first summer our little group of three won’t be packing our bags and hitting the road together. Petra’s adulting hard with a real job, Cam’s busier than ever with her own career, and I’m about to tie the knot. I get it, marriage changes everything, but can’t this little part of my life stay the same for just a bit longer?

“Guys, I know you’ll both be really busy this summer, but…” I say, my voice getting embarrassingly wobbly.

“Oh God, she’s getting sentimental,” Petra groans. “Quick, distract her with a smudged wedding invitation!”

“Actually, I got you guys presents.” I reach under the sturdy legs of the dining table and hand them my surprise planners.

“Dear God, she’s breeding binders like rabbits.” Petra’s eyes widen in mock horror as she flips through the pages. “The woman’s planned our entire lives. Quick, Cam! Check if she’s booked your unborn children’s teeth cleanings.”

“Well, there goes your birthday present,” I deadpan. “But seriously, we’re each diving headfirst into these huge new chapters, and I don’t want us to lose touch. Things might get tricky when we’re not all together. Petra, that binder’s gonna stop you from torching all of Mexico at your brother’s wedding, and Cam, trust me, you’re going to need some chill time away from spoiled influencers in Hawaii.”

They both go quiet, looking at the tabbed sections. Pages full of our memories, our inside jokes, our complete failure to maintain any kind of normal friendship dynamic.

“You made a Best Friend Emergency Protocol?” Petra’s voice catches slightly.

“With cross-referenced crisis categories,” I confirm. “And a rating system for when to call versus text versus initiate an emergency CPK intervention.”

“Complete with pizza topping recommendations based on emotional distress levels,” Cam reads, her eyes shiny. “BBQ chicken for general life crises, Hawaiian for guy problems—”

“And meat lovers for total emotional breakdowns,” Petra finishes. “‘Cause when crying wipes you out, you need protein.”

“I can’t believe you documented our stress-eating patterns,” Cam says.

“Seven years of data doesn’t lie.” I shrug, trying to ignore the lump in my own throat.

Cam pulls us into a group hug. The apartment door opens with a soft click, and my heart does its usual happy dance as Jared walks in. He’s wearing navy slacks, a tailor vest in the same shade, and a bright yellow tie covered in dinosaur fossils. His sandy-blond hair is perfectly disheveled, but when our eyes meet… something’s off.

“And that’s our cue to evacuate,” Petra announces, standing up like someone pulled a fire alarm. “Nice tie, Indiana Jones. I’ve been wondering, are you forced to wear those at the museum, or do you just like blending in with the fossils you’re always fondling?”

“Bold words from someone dressed as a Hot Topic manager with an identity crisis.”

I take in their usual banter, mentally cataloging the micro-expressions on Jared’s face. Hmm. What’s up with him?

“Before we go,” Cam pipes up, “hypothetically speaking, if someone in a polar bear costume was pranking people at the Ice Age exhibit, how much trouble would they get in?”

“Probably enough to warrant police involvement.” Jared chuckles. “I don’t recommend testing that theory.”

“The museum could use the publicity.” Petra shrugs. “It’s not like ‘forced field trip destination’ is bringing in Gen Z.”

Cam’s phone explodes with an onslaught of notifications. “My boss’s latest emergency awaits. Later, lovebirds!”

“Try not to organize the fun out of everything, Katie,” Petra says, walking out the door.

“Text when you get home!” I call after them.

“Yes, Mom!” they chorus back.

Jared studies the dining room table with the same intense focus he gives to potential museum acquisitions. The one that means he’s cataloging every flaw, every imperfection, every minute detail that’s somehow not quite right.

But the explosion of wedding invitations, response cards, and my well-organized binders can’t be what’s bothering him. As a professional event planner, I regularly turn our Pasadena apartment into Command Central for everything from Hollywood wrap parties to product launches to celebrity sweet sixteens. Just last week, this room was buried under samples from some Gen Z influencer’s tragic attempt at a streetwear line.

They’d managed to misspell aesthetic on every single piece of clothing. Yes, really.

Jared’s always championed my spreadsheet-loving soul and my dream of someday owning LA’s premier event-planning empire. So why is he looking at my chaos— our wedding chaos—like there’s a forgery hiding in his precious museum collection?

My hands itch to straighten the already perfect stacks of envelopes, to fuss over the pile of response cards for the umpteenth time. Because that’s what I do when I’m nervous—I organize the shit out of everything until the universe makes sense again.

“We’re crushing these invites,” I say, my voice hitting that manic octave that usually makes Petra hide my label maker. “Only thirty-two to go! And wait until you hear what I pulled off—I snagged us the ultimate cake-tasting appointment on Friday during your lunch break. Your mom’s coming too, and—”

“Katiebug.” The way Jared says my name makes my Type A senses tingle. And not in the good way. “Let’s take this conversation to the living room.”

Danger danger. Serious conversation alert!

Current status: Mild panic rising.

I follow him, mentally running through all the imaginable outcomes he could say. He plops down on the opposite end of the couch, his focus darting to my hyper-organized shelving unit. It’s a masterpiece, really, with each wedding prep item neatly tucked into its own special bin or binder, like little soldiers ready for inspection.

“I’m just going to come out and say it. Something amazing happened today.”

Phew! Amazing, I can handle. Amazing can be documented, categorized, and filed appropriately.

“The British Natural History Museum is doing this incredible special exhibit.” His eyes light up like an excited puppy. “Lost Worlds: Fossils from the Dinosaurs’ Golden Age. And they want to collaborate with us!”

I feel a little tug in my chest. This is my Jared—the guy who once created an entire video presentation explaining why a T. rex couldn’t actually roar like in Jurassic Park . How can I not love him?

“That’s fantastic! When is it? I’ll jot it down in our joint calendar. I’ve got us scheduled through—”

“Actually…” He grabs the back of his neck. “Harrison broke his ankle this weekend. They want me to go instead, to oversee putting together the exhibit.”

“Babe, congrats! I can add it to the Career Milestones section in our—”

“For the summer.”

My brain stutters to a halt like a printer running out of labels.

“The… the whole summer?”

“I know it’s a lot,” he says gently. “But this is huge, Katie. The kind of opportunity that usually takes years to land. And since we haven’t sent the invitations yet…”

“Haven’t sent—” I sputter.

Panic meter: Reactivated.

“Hear me out. We could treat it as an early honeymoon. London this time of year is beautiful. We just postpone the wedding until—”

“Postpone?!”

Internal panic level: Maximum… Critical… Oh my God, I forgot how to breathe!

“But the timeline!” My voice hits that special octave reserved for organizational emergencies. “The caterer! The DJ! Do you know how many favors I owe my boss?”

“I get it. You put a lot of work into this,” he says, reaching for my hand. “But sometimes the best things in life aren’t planned—”

“Not planned?” I laugh. “Jared, I have contingency plans for my contingency plans. What if it rains? What if there’s a heat wave? What if your grandpa chokes on a fish bone even though he requested the chicken? I’ve accounted for everything!”

“This is what I’m talking about.” He sighs. “Life doesn’t always follow a perfect schedule.”

“That’s precisely why we need one!” I grab my wedding binder, flipping rapidly through tabs. “Look, I’ve already mapped out each possible scenario. See? If we postpone, we lose our vendor deposits. The church’s next available date is in two years!”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches under the coffee table and pulls out my secret binder. The one labeled: Katie and Jared’s Happily Forever After (Version 5.3 now with updated retirement projections).

My heart stops. Literally stops.

This isn’t just any binder—it’s my crowning achievement, my ultimate creation, my blueprint for a lifetime of marital happiness.

“What’s this?” He flips it open to the Future Offspring section. His brows shoot up at my elaborately crafted timeline. “Katie… is this a personality prediction chart for our unborn children?”

“C’mon, what’s wrong with preliminary research?” The words tumble out, desperate and defensive. “You can’t just wing parenthood. What if they end up playing—God forbid—the trombone instead of joining the museum’s junior curator program?”

Jared’s eyes nearly pop out of his head with every page he turns. “A forty-year sex schedule? ‘Sexy times Saturdays,’ ‘Will we or won’t we Wednesdays’? Sex windows around the kids’ activities? And when you think I’ll need Viagra? Are you serious?”

I try to play it cool. “Yeah. No. Maybe… Hey, Wednesdays and Saturdays are basically our sex schedule now. We could always spice things up with ‘Try for It Tuesdays.’”

“Katie.” Jared’s sigh feels heavier than my complete collection of binders. “I love your ambition. Your ability to look ahead, to plan for our future together—it’s part of what made me fall for you.”

I wince, bracing myself. This is not the first time friends (and family) have told me this.

Katie, you’re a bit much.

Hey Katie, can you tone it down a notch?

Watch out! It’s control-freak Katie!

“Okay, I admit I got a little intense with the planning, but think about how happy we’ll be when everything goes exactly according to schedule!”

“This level of hyper-planning? It’s suffocating. I can’t spend the rest of my life with a person who can never be spontaneous.”

“I scheduled spontaneity! Alternating Sundays between five and six—”

“See, this is what I mean!” He jumps up, raking his hands through his hair. “Every little thing, every tiny decision, every freaking breath has to be scrutinized, organized, and tucked away in one of your ridiculous binders. It’s too damn much!”

My chest constricts. Each breath feels like swallowing glass. But I won’t cry. I refuse to let him see me cry. “Because that’s how you build a life together! How else can you make sure nothing goes wrong, nothing falls apart, nothing—”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do this.” His voice goes soft, and holy hell, that’s so much worse than the yelling. “We need to take a break. A total break.”

He won’t look at me. Why won’t he look at me?

“And I… I need the ring back, Katie.”

The ring.

My engagement ring.

The same ring I’ve cleaned every Sunday for the past two years. The ring I’ve built an entire future around. The ring that’s supposed to have its own photoshoot at our wedding, perched perfectly on my bouquet while I stand in the golden sunset wearing ivory silk.

Oh.

Fuck.

The room tilts sideways. This isn’t happening. This can't be happening. I have plans. Beautiful, detailed, laminated plans. There’s no tab in my wedding binder for “Surprise! Your Fiancé Just Torpedoed Your Entire Future!”

I want to scream. To tell him my binders aren’t just binders—they’re promises. Every tab, every schedule, every color-coded note is just another way of saying I love you. I choose you. I want forever with you.

But he’s already walking away.

There’s no contingency plan for this.