Chapter Two
The room is exactly like the photos Anita posted online but bigger in person.
It’s mostly absent of furniture save a twin-sized bed and small armoire, and the yellow wallpaper, which matches the exterior of the house, is peeling in the corners.
There are two framed paintings above the bed; one is of La Musa, the other of the house itself.
I don’t get the sense this room was ever a permanent residence for anyone, but rather a sparsely used guest room.
It’s located on the second floor at the end of a long hall lined with heavy oak doors, all closed tightly.
I take my toiletry bag out of my suitcase and cross the hall to the bathroom to set up. The door is shut, and when I swing it open, Benito is standing on the other side washing his hands in one of the double sinks. I yelp.
“Jesus,” I say. “You scared me.”
“Do you normally walk into a washroom without knocking?” he asks, his expression as stoic as ever, like he isn’t surprised I could be so rude.
“I didn’t know anyone else was up here,” I say. “Anita said the master was on the third floor. I assumed—”
“Old house. No en-suite, marble-countered, spa-tub, rain-shower bathroom for every bedroom like I’m sure you’re used to,” he says, turning off the faucet and drying his hands.
“Actually, my childhood home only had one and a half bathrooms,” I say. It wasn’t until my DC apartment that I even had my own bathroom for the first time. “They were both beach themed.”
“Why are Americans so obsessed with beach-themed toilets?” Benito asks, though more out loud as a hypothetical and not meant for me to answer.
I glance around the hallway. The sun is starting to set and it’s shining brightly through the west-facing window. “So, we’re sharing?” I ask. “That was not on the Airbnb listing.”
“If you find the accommodations unsuitable, you can leave,” Benito says all too quickly. “How did you even get such a long-term visa with no job?”
“I know a guy,” I say, because Ralph at the State Department kind of has a thing for me. Benito rolls his eyes. “The accommodations are fine. I’ve never had a sibling, so I’ll get to see what it’s like.”
He scowls. “You’re an only child?” His tone makes it sound like it’s a personality flaw and not the result of having parents who waited until their early 40s to have children.
“Which one’s your room?” I ask, pointing at the row of doors.
Benito stares at me for a moment then points to the door next to mine.
I laugh. “This is so great. We can stay up late and gossip together.” Benito sighs and leaves the bathroom.
I put my bag of toiletries down on the counter and follow him.
“We can play truth or dare and make prank calls.” He’s fully ignoring me.
“Oh wait, what should I do if I want to bring a guy home? Put a sock on the doorknob?”
He turns back to face me. “Is that a euphemism?”
“No,” I say, blushing a little bit. “It’s a thing. Like, roommates put socks on the door to let the others know they have someone over—” The first smile I’ve seen from Benito cracks across his face. “Oh, you know what I’m talking about.”
He nods. “I don’t think you’ll need a sock. There are no single men in La Musa other than Alfredo, who runs the meat market, but he’s pushing 90.”
“He sounds hot,” I say. Benito rubs his lips together, suppressing another grin. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave you alone,” I say seriously. “You’ll barely know I’m here.”
“I doubt that,” Benito says.
“No, seriously, I’m low maintenance,” I lie, but I’m trying. I want to be breezy and carefree. I will be breezy and carefree. “If I have any questions or concerns, I will take them to your mother.”
“I suppose as the mayor of La Musa, I should say you should bring them to me, but that’s fine,” he says.
I look at him for a moment. “You’re the mayor?”
Benito sighs, tapping on the edge of his door. “Yes. I am newly elected.”
The air leaves my lungs at the mere mention of the e-word. Even Benito, who has all the charm of a doorknob sock, can win an election. “Oh,” is all I can get out.
He watches me for a moment like he’s waiting for me to barb him for his job, but I am temporarily paralyzed. And nauseous. “I’ll leave you to get settled, then,” he says, opening the door of his room and quickly shutting himself inside.
I unpack while listening to a podcast about Real Housewives so my brain doesn’t have room to wander.
I’m settled and connected to the snail’s pace Wi-Fi by 8 p.m. I could venture out, I suppose, but to where?
Everything is closed, and even then, I’m too jet-lagged to fight my way through a conversation with my spotty Italian, but I’m also too wired to wind down for the night.
I look at my e-reader that holds the digital stack of books I downloaded before the flight.
When was the last time I even read something for fun?
My phone lights up with a FaceTime call from Marisol.
“Hello?”
“Bitch,” Marisol starts, as she is wont to do, “you are not pulling a Diane Lane and going all Under the Tuscan Sun on me.”
I collapse face-first onto the bed, using a pillow to prop up my head and leaning the phone against the headboard. “Well. . . technically I’m in Umbria.”
“You are not actually in Italy.” She’s blurry on the screen and I can’t tell if it’s my internet or her chaotic need to constantly be on the move.
“Mari, sit down, you’re making me nauseous,” I reply when I see her stirring something in the background.
“Fine.” She obliges, sitting at her kitchen table, the orange-and-pink desert sunrise visible in the window behind her.
Marisol represents Arizona’s Second Congressional District in Tucson.
We met on day one of new House member orientation.
Marisol, with her undercut hairstyle, nose ring, and tattoos, marched up to me in my pale pink suit and beachy blond waves and proclaimed we’d be the least palatable new members to our older, establishment colleagues, so we ought to be allies.
She was right. “What are you doing in Italy?” she asks.
“Last I heard you were ‘refocusing your efforts on changing politics at a local level.’”
That was the company line with the press when I left DC.
Fortunately, Marisol knows it’s bullshit.
“Wearing sundresses and comically large hats,” I say.
“Learning how to make pasta from scratch, seeing the sites with a hot tour guide, erasing all remnants of The Hopeful Person Formerly Known as Isabella Rhodes.”
“You’re not like—” Marisol leans into the phone and lowers her voice. “Offing yourself, right?”
“Jesus, Mari, no!” I sigh. “I’m going to change. I’m going to be different. My whole life was about the dream, and now the dream is dead. I’m over all the bullshit we put up with and completely disenfranchised with the myth of meritocracy. The myth of democracy.”
“Hey now, be careful what you say. I’m a United States congressperson and I could put you on a list.”
“Please exile me. It’d be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Marisol smiles—she’s one of those people who is stoic and expressionless 99% of the time, so it feels like a gift to get even the slightest of chuckles out of her. “Sounds like you don’t need the help. By the way, I met lover boy yesterday. He’s the absolute worst.”
My stomach churns at the mention of Levi. Levi. I wonder what he’s doing right now. Did he keep any of my staff? Did he rearrange the furniture in my office? Is he watering the snake plant my predecessor gifted me that I left behind as a gesture of goodwill I now regret? “How did he look?”
“Hot,” Marisol admits. “But not in a good way,” she adds quickly. “Evil hot. Like a young Stalin, you know?”
I laugh, relieving some of the tension that’s built up in my shoulders. “I don’t think it’s ethical to compare your congressional colleague to Stalin.”
“My hate for Levi Cross supersedes decorum,” she says. “You know that, Izzy. I’m ride or die.”
“He hasn’t even sent so much as a text,” I say, my voice quiet. “I thought we were friends. At the very least, I thought we were good friends. I thought that maybe even behind all of this, we would still be friends. It’s just hurtful on so many tiers, you know? I miss him as a friend.”
Marisol eyes me for a moment then moves the camera from one hand to the other. “Izzy, that’s fucking dumb.”
I put my face down into my pillow. “I know,” I say, lifting my head back up.
“I thought I was too smart to be blinded by love. I hate that I’m one of those girls whose whole life goes up in flames because she fell for the wrong person.
That wasn’t supposed to happen to me. This wasn’t supposed to be my life. ”
Marisol has heard this all before, so she doesn’t say anything but nods sympathetically.
“So, Italy. What are we doing in Italy?” Marisol asks.
“I told you. Wine, pasta, pizza, perching myself pensively on sun-drenched windowsills.”
“No, I mean why are you in Italy? And for how long?” She’s back on her feet now, sensing the serious moment has passed, and she’s unable to sit still for longer than a moment.
“Forever, I guess. I don’t know, I just had to go, so I left,” I say.
Marisol looks at me, her forehead creasing. “Wait, so you were serious in your email? You’ve moved to Italy. Like, actually moved? Do you even have a job?”
“I have savings. And when that runs out, I’ll get a job at a flower shop or something.” There’s a clang of something on Marisol’s end and she disappears. “Marisol?”
She pops back onscreen. “Sorry, making empanadas to prove to Jenny’s parents that I am not a workaholic.
” Her wife’s parents have changed parties since their daughter’s marriage, but Mari still feels the need to continuously earn their approval.
“Ok, so you moved to Italy. What do you hope to accomplish there?” Her face refocuses on my screen, and I know I have her full attention again.
“Marisol. Literally nothing. I want to be nothing and no one and impact no lives and make absolutely no mark on the world.”
Marisol moves out of frame again. There’s another clang and I can’t tell if it came from Marisol’s shock at my statement or her lack of culinary prowess.
“Look, Izzy, you know I don’t think anyone should feel like they need to serve the greater good ever if they don’t want to, but this is contrary to everything I know to be true about you. ”
I sigh. “What do you mean?”
“Everything you’ve done your whole life has been because you believe you’re destined to leave your mark, to change the world.
” I see a struggle with the oven, but Marisol continues, “You don’t seriously expect me to believe all of that has gone away because you lost one election? Because of one setback?”
“I’ve had plenty of setbacks. I got a B in AP Chem. Totally ruined my weighted GPA. I almost didn’t get into UCLA.”
Marisol exhales, exasperated.
I clarify, “I don’t know, Mari, this is what it’s all been for, this is what all my work has been leading to.” The familiar tingle of disappointment from when the election results started to roll in that night in November creeps back to the edges of my limbs. “I failed.”
“You did,” Marisol affirms. “But that doesn’t mean you give up forever.”
Her words sound right, but I can’t wrap my head around any reasonable path forward that would make them true. “I don’t know. I’m just done, Mari. I’m done.” I hear a beeping noise in the background. “Is that your smoke detector?”
Marisol’s head whips around. “Shit. I have to go.”
“Order takeout next time!” I shout. The screen goes black as she hangs up.
It’s quiet again. It’s so quiet. I’m used to falling asleep to city noise.
At my parents’ canyon home there was always the whir of a helicopter, the boom of fireworks at the Hollywood Bowl, the howl of a nearby coyote, and in DC it was the distant whoop of sirens, drunk college students, my upstairs neighbor working on his beats.
Here, it’s almost disturbingly quiet. The beginning of a horror movie quiet.
Maybe that’s what I walked into here. An old house, an ancient town, a grumpy owner—I freak myself out enough to turn the lock on my bedroom door to make sure no one can get in.
There’s no TV in the room, so I open my laptop, thank god I didn’t throw it out the window, and navigate to my recently most-visited website, allowing the drone of rich middle-aged women arguing about bedrooms on a girls’ trip to drown out my thoughts.