A Getaway To A Land Far, Far Away
MARY KATE
The balcony tiles are still warm from the afternoon sun, the heat radiating up through my bare feet even though the sky has slipped from gold to lavender.
It’s not a balcony, not really—more a little wedge of stone, a lip hung off the side of the palazzo suite, barely enough space for a bistro table and two iron chairs, one of them already hosting a puddle of half-melted granita.
Lemon, bitter and sweet, pooling at the rim of its glass, the sticky runoff painting the metal in translucent yellow streaks.
I drag my toe through the condensation on the tile, absently, as I watch the city rearrange itself for night.
Below, Rome is a tangled net of narrow streets and terrace gardens, every window catching the last dregs of light and burning it in stripes across the old, ochre walls.
A Vespa screams past, somewhere three or four floors down, the engine’s whine chased by laughter and the sharp rattle of a bottle uncorked.
At the end of the block, a church bell sounds—not the grand, tourist kind but a thin, stubborn peal, a single note that skips up the rooftops and out over the river.
It is, against all logic, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
I’m in one of Kent’s linen shirts, nothing under it, the sleeves cuffed twice and still threatening to eat my hands.
The collar is open, just to the point where you can see the shallow dip between my collarbones, and a little lower if the breeze kicks up.
The shirt is so white it glows in the dusk, and I love how it makes my legs look even longer, my skin pale as ivory in the cool shadow.
My hair is down, combed out after our shower but already going wild in the humidity.
The air smells like cigarettes, orange blossoms, and the ozone that comes before a summer rain.
I hear Kent before I see him. The scrape of a chair, the heavy step on the polished wood inside, the low hum of his voice as he ends a call. The glass door hisses open behind me.
His presence hits like a wave: a backdraft of sandalwood and male musk, his big body crowding the threshold.
He’s in jeans and a t-shirt, which emphasize his broad frame; his hair’s wet at the temples, his jaw newly shaven.
He leans against the frame, phone still in his hand, and watches me with that look—the one that’s half hunger and half devotion, the one that makes me feel both ten feet tall and hollowed out.
He nods at the city, then at me. “You’re going to catch cold,” he says, but there’s no judgment in it. Just the faintest curl of a smile.
I shake my head. “It’s warm,” I say. “Besides, you like me wearing as little as possible.”
“Fair.” He pockets the phone, then pads out onto the balcony, the stone cool under his bare feet.
He sets the phone face-down on the granita table, careful not to topple the glass, and wraps both arms around me from the back, gently nuzzling my hair.
We stand that way for a while, locked together, staring down at the river of scooters and tourists and stray cats picking through the cigarette butts in the gutter.
The evening is thick with sound: a woman yelling at her kid from a window, a distant ambulance, the flutter of pigeons roosting under the eaves.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” I whisper.
“It was so terrible back at home, and I couldn’t stay any longer.
Everyone was talking and whispering and saying nasty things about me.
I mean, a lot of people suspected it was a deepfake, but I don’t think anyone knew exactly what to think when there’s no way to prove these things. ”
Kent’s big arms squeeze me tight.
“It’s fine, sweetheart, and I’m happy to bring you to Italy. You’re an Italian major, so just consider this visit part of your studies. In the meantime, forgot about all that bullshit because Nate’s taking care of it.”
“Your tech guy?” I ask.
“My tech billionaire buddy,” he corrects. “Nate says his team’s already on it. The video’s getting scrubbed. Whatever’s out there now—they’re taking it down, frame by frame. He can’t do much about the people who’ve already seen it, but the rest will be dust by morning.”
The words hit me in the chest, a weight and a relief at the same time. I grip the iron railing, let my fingers go white against the black paint.
“Thank you,” I say, too quiet.
He shrugs, but it’s not dismissive; it’s the gesture of a man who can lift the world and knows it, but never brags. “You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart,” he says, voice low. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
A silence stretches between us, warm and humming.
I listen to the way the city moves, the air shifting from exhaust to basil to the cold stone scent of the Tiber.
Somewhere, a window slams, and a dog starts barking, then stops.
The church bell tolls again, one clear note, almost like it’s checking to make sure we’re still here.
I turn to him. “You didn’t have to,” I say, and my voice cracks at the edge. “I mean, you’ve already done so much. I just keep—” I make a helpless motion. “I keep fucking up your life, what with my mom, me, the videos, everything.”
He looks at me, then, full-on, his blue eyes piercing even in the failing light. He reaches across the space and puts his hand on my shoulder, thumb tracing the edge of the linen, and leans in until our foreheads almost touch.
“Mary Kate,” he says, soft but certain, “you are my life.”
For a second, I want to laugh. Or maybe cry. I do neither. I let his words land, let them settle into the space between my ribs, and when I finally inhale, I realize I’m shaking.
Kent pulls me closer, his hand drifting down to the small of my back, palm warm even through the shirt.
He doesn’t say anything else, just stands there with me, looking out over the city like we own it.
The streetlamps flicker on in waves, one block at a time, and the sky goes from lavender to a deep, bruised blue, the first stars popping out over the domes and towers.
I can’t let it go. Not yet.
“Do you think I should walk?” I ask, not looking at him. “At graduation. I mean, should I do it? Or would that just make everything worse?”
He’s not startled by the sudden shift in conversation. Then: “It’s your call, sweetheart. If you want to, I’ll be there. If you don’t, I’ll still be proud of you.”
I feel my chin go weak, my shoulders folding inward. I stare at the street below, trying to imagine my name called out, a crowd clapping, the eyes of a thousand strangers on me. The knot in my stomach gets tighter.
“I don’t want to,” I say, almost a whisper. “I want to be done. I want to leave it all behind.”
He nods, then lifts my chin with a finger, makes me look at him. “Then don’t,” he says. “You already did the hardest part. You survived.”
That breaks me. Not all at once, but in pieces. My mouth trembles; my eyes burn.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the words bursting out before I can stop them. “Again, I’m so sorry for all of it. For the videos, for Jeannine, for—” I close my eyes. “For every single day I made your life harder. Since I was a teenager and didn’t even know! Since the day you met me.”
He tilts his head, searching my face, and then he takes my chin in both hands, holds me so close I can see the flecks of gray at the edge of his irises.
“You didn’t make my life harder,” he says. “You made it real. You made it worth living. I was a fucking ghost, MK, before you. You brought me back.”
He kisses me then, slow and deliberate, his thumbs brushing the tears off my cheeks.
His mouth is soft but insistent, and the taste of him—cigarette smoke, coffee, maybe the ghost of lemon from my granita—makes me forget, for a second, that anything bad has ever happened.
I kiss him back, slow at first, then faster, letting myself lean into his body, letting the shirt ride up my thighs as I press against him.
I feel safe, and wild, and more myself than I’ve ever been.
He pulls back, just enough so we can see each other.
“I love you, Kent Robinson,” I say, voice shaky but true.
He smiles, and for once, it’s not a smirk or a mask or anything but pure, raw joy.
“I love you too, Mary Kate Ashton,” he says. “Always. In every city, every life. Even if you drive me completely insane.”
We laugh, together, the sound tangled with the street noise and the last, lingering notes of the bell.
The linen shirt slides off one shoulder as he pulls me closer, his hand slipping up under the hem to grip the soft skin at my waist. The city glows gold below us. For a moment, it’s just me and him and the whole world, breathing in sync.
He leans down and whispers in my ear: “I have something for you.”
My heart flips, nervous and greedy all at once.
“What is it?” I ask, half a smile on my lips.
He grins, wicked, and kisses my neck, slow and lingering. “A graduation present, even if you don’t walk. You’ve been so good to me, all year. Massaging my—” he pauses, leans in, “—testicular stone problem. But I’ve never repaid the favor. I think it’s my turn.”
I laugh, the sound half-nervous, half-thrilled. “You want to give me a massage?”
“I want to worship you,” he says, and the words go straight to my core.
I shiver, but not from cold. The shirt is suddenly tight over my nipples, the air cool on my skin. I look at him, and the hunger is back, bright as ever.
He picks me up, one arm behind my knees, the other around my shoulders, and carries me inside.
I squeal, but not loud; the sound is more a gasp, a flutter in my throat.
The door swings shut behind us, the city vanishing into a rectangle of blue beyond the glass.
The room smells like fresh linens, wet marble, and a hint of sex from the last time we made love on this very bed.
He sets me down on the mattress, careful, almost reverent. The shirt rides up, exposing my thighs and the curve of my ass, and I let it. I want him to look. I want to be beautiful for him.