Chapter 7
COVERAGE: DEFENSIVE BACKS GUARDING RECEIVERS.
Mid-October
Within the privacy of my first-class cabin as I criss-cross the Atlantic, I take stock of where I am now versus when I was practically carried out of Bryce’s. I’m pleasantly surprised to find I’m doing okay. After all, from the moment I heard him spewing his version of “love,” we were done.
Finished.
As for me? Well, between my trip to China and covering World Skydiving Day in mid-July, my girls made certain I saw myself the way others see me.
After spending a day being pampered at one of New York’s most luxurious spas, they arranged for a boudoir shoot—something I never could have predicted would have closed some of the gaping wounds Bryce left with his callous words.
Not only that, they forced me to sit for it without a lick of makeup on. As Amy said, “We want you to see yourself as we see you.”
Emery promised, “You’ll understand after.”
Even Christin’s eyes sparkled with a secretive gleam, as if they knew more than they were giving away.
In the end, they were right. Wrapped in nothing but a sheet, hair caught loosely in a clip, Marcel Beauchamp didn’t just photograph me provocatively, he reminded me of the power of the beauty I held.
I may not be eligible to earn the title of a “Box Seat Barbie,” but I am beautiful in my own special way whether that’s a curl that draped over a bare shoulder, the way my lips part when I’m surprised or the way I throw my head back in laughter.
My girls, using Marcel as the tool, showed me who I was when stripped to the core. Like the other fifty billion women estimated to have lived before me, I demonstrated my magnificence. Power.
Invincibility.
Mentally, I’m kicking myself for letting myself doubt that, even for a moment.
Subduing myself to fit into Bryce’s world.
Is he confident enough to stand still while having every possession he carried combed through by the Chinese Civil Aviation Administration, simply because he carries tens of thousands of dollars of camera equipment?
Would he dare to leap out of a plane, well ahead of a platoon of pro skydivers simply to capture a world-record shot?
Dare to walk the red-light district in Amsterdam?
Travel via air, train, and bus to capture the mirror effect of the Uyuni Salt Flat in Bolivia?
No, that was me.
Once I stopped emotionally stunting myself, I recognized that, as much as Bryce was using me, I used our relationship as some sort of safety blanket. A talisman, perhaps, to keep me centered in the event I failed.
It was a ridiculous reason to remain in a relationship.
It was, however, a perfectly reasonable reason to end one—cruelty notwithstanding.
Had Bryce just ended things between us, there may have been some part of our history worth salvaging, I think not for the first time in the last few months.
It would have hurt but shown he cared, in his self-absorbed, narcissistic way.
Before my mind can travel down that path, an announcement comes through the first class cabin.
“Signore e Signori, stiamo per atterrare a Torino. Vi preghiamo di spegnere e riporre i dispositivi elettronici e di riportare gli schienali in posizione verticale.” I understand the gist enough from traveling to know the aircraft passengers are being advised, in conjunction with the gentle descent of the plane, to put away electronic equipment as we’re approaching Torino.
Immediately, I close my laptop and slide it into my backpack.
Even as the entire world is watching my ex, I’ll be exploring southern Italy just for me. Not because I have to, but because I want to.
And it’s time to do something just for me.
Once I pass through customs, the persistent buzz of the airport dissipates. I collect my rental swiftly and leave the airport behind me toward a road that offers unspoken opportunities as the landscape changes from glass and steel to a softness my soul is more than ready for.
Over the ninety-minute journey, hills roll into one another, making a mockery of artists who try to capture their majestic beauty.
I pass by vineyards, with grapes strung in careful rows caught in the late morning light.
The air, a mix of earth and sweetness that can’t be bottled, seeps through my pores as I crack open the windows.
This was the right decision. I congratulate myself as I drive through yet another small town whose church steeple pierces like a dark lance pointed toward the heavens.
Laundry flutters like welcome flags between the narrow balconies of buildings even as patrons linger at cafe tables butted up against stone storefronts.
I catch a glimpse of a ruined castle silhouetted in the distance while I weave my way through the Piedmont, as my driving skills are tested. I mentally mark the time so I can come back and explore the ruins at a later date.
After passing the sign for Canelli, I lift my printout of the email I received with the directions and warning me not to follow the GPS.
“Once you pass the town sign, slow down. Approximately two meters past the sign, there will be a row of chestnut trees. The gates to Tenuta delle Ombre will appear at the end of the lake.”
So focused on not missing the turnoff, I don’t realize I’m practically on top of the castle I saw in the distance. That’s when I spy the gates to Tenuta delle Ombre—Estate of Shadows.
I now understand why it was named that way as I drive up the long drive flanked by those magnificent chestnuts.
They act as sentinels as the gravel crunches beneath my tires.
Off to the west, the castle ruins lay in shadow.
But as much as I want nothing more than to turn my vehicle in that direction to explore, I know I have plenty of time.
For now, I need food and rest. So, it’s not without some regret, I head toward the stone villa built on the property.
Once I park on the pristine cobblestones, I slide from the vehicle and take in all that is Tenuta delle Ombre. In the fall Italian sunshine, the last vestiges of stress I’ve been carrying slips away. “This is where I’m meant to be.”
Footsteps approach. That’s when a voice that’s too familiar for my own good murmurs, “I was hoping you’d feel that way.”
Whirling around, my lips part in shock when I study the handsome dark-haired man in front of me. It’s not his gorgeous face that has me stunned speechless, but the fact I recognize it.
He hasn’t reached out once since everything went down.
Not once. Here I thought we were building a friendship.
I remember catching him when he fell, only to wonder some days if he would reach out to do the same for me.
My heart aches at the idea that our friendship was so one-sided.
That this is the face I see at what is supposed to be my Italian retreat makes me want to jump back into my vehicle and find another villa to decompress in.
My jaw clenches. I don’t say a word. Let him speak first.
Unfortunately for me, he comes closer. “Hello Maya.”
For at least half a minute, I stare into his dark brown eyes before I grit out, “Troy.”
His mouth quirks in a self-depreciating manner. “Can’t even manage the usual pleasantries?”
“Such as?”
“It’s nice to see me?”
My chin jerks up. “I’m not a liar.” Unsaid is, Not like you and your buddies are.
His lips firm. I guess my thoughts are easy to read. “Regardless of your opinion of me—”
I jump in, “You don’t want to know what I think about you.”
A light dims in his eyes, but he plows on. “Welcome to Tenuta delle Ombre.”
I twist my head left and right in confusion. “Why are you welcoming me here? Why not the owners?”
That’s when he reveals a truth that sets off an earthquake, with him standing at the epicenter. “I am the owner.”