Chapter Thirty Paradise Is Overrated
Chapter Thirty
Paradise Is Overrated
Poppy
The villa is stupid beautiful.
Like, offensively beautiful. The sort of beautiful that makes you want to punch something because how dare a place be this perfect when you feel this… not.
White stone walls. Warm terracotta tiles under my bare feet. Bougainvillea dripping purple over every railing like nature’s showing off. The infinity pool bleeds into the Mediterranean, all impossible blues that hurt to look at— they’re so pretty.
I’m on my third limoncello.
At 2 p.m.
Because that’s what you do in Portofino, right? You drink local liqueur and stare at the water and pretend you’re living your best life.
“This is amazing,” I tell no one.
The words echo off marble countertops.
I take another sip. It’s too sweet. Everything here is too sweet. Too bright. Too much.
My phone buzzes. CeCe, probably. Checking in again.
A glance at my phone confirms it.
Yep.
CECE: How’s paradise?
I send back a photo of the view. Let her think what she wants.
The truth? I’m not okay.
Not even a little.
Paradise is boring as hell when you’re alone. But it’s more than that.
I wander through the villa—because what else am I doing? The kitchen has one of those fancy espresso machines that I have no idea how to operate.
I flop on the bed. Thousand-thread-count sheets. A view that belongs on postcards.
And all I can think about is a grumpy lawyer’s guest cottage that smelled like lemon cleaner and came with a complimentary farting dog. The cutest little farting dog…
“Stop it,” I tell myself.
But my brain’s already there. Wondering if Muffin misses our morning scratches. If George has destroyed anything new. If Dean—
No.
I sit up and grab my planner from the nightstand because, of course, I brought my planner to Italy. I flip through pages of absolutely nothing because—surprise—I have no plans.
For the first time in years, I have nowhere to be. No timeline to manage. No crisis to solve.
It’s supposed to feel like freedom.
Instead, it feels like drowning.
I pour another limoncello. Walk out to the terrace. The town spreads below like a watercolor painting—pastel buildings tumbling down to the harbor, boats bobbing like toys, tourists wandering cobblestone streets.
Beautiful.
Empty.
Wrong.
My phone rings. Unknown Italian number.
“Pronto?” I answer, proud of my limited Italian vocabulary.
Rapid Italian fills my ear. Something about delivery? Tomorrow?
“Uh… no parlo italiano?” I try.
More Italian. Faster now. Frustrated.
“I don’t—sorry, I—”
They hang up.
Great. Even Italy thinks I’m a mess.
I lean against the railing. The sun’s perfect here. That golden Mediterranean light everyone writes poems about. Sings songs about. It makes my skin glow, turns my hair to honey, probably does wonders for my vitamin D.
I hate it.
“This is what you wanted,” I remind myself. “A break. Peace. No one needing you.”
Except, it turns out, maybe I like being needed. Like being in the middle of chaos.
Maybe I’m one of those pathetic people who only knows who they are when they’re fixing someone else’s problems.
Maybe—
“Signora!”
I turn. There’s a woman at my gate. Older, wearing an apron, holding what looks like a covered dish.
“Si?”
She launches into Italian, gesturing wildly. I catch maybe three words. Benvenuta. Welcome. Mangiare. Eat. Sola? Alone?
That last one hits weird.
“Si,” I admit. “Sola.”
Her face crumples with sympathy. She practically forces the dish into my hands, patting my cheek and making soft, pitying noises like I’m an abandoned puppy.
Then she’s gone, shuffling back down the path, probably to tell the whole neighborhood about the sad American girl alone in the big villa.
I lift the cover. Lasagna. Real, homemade, someone’s-nonna-recipe lasagna.
And suddenly I’m crying.
Not pretty tears either. The ugly kind that make your face splotchy and your nose run.
Because a stranger just showed me more warmth than this whole perfect villa, and I’m standing here in paradise feeling sorry for myself, slightly drunk, and somewhere in New York there’s a man who brought me a sandwich when I was covered in goat water.
I eat the lasagna standing over the sink like a savage.
It’s perfect. Of course it is.
Everything here is perfect.
And I’ve never felt more alone.
I pour another limoncello and go back to the terrace.
The sun’s starting to set. The whole sky’s on fire, turning the water to molten gold. Couples walk the beach below, holding hands. A yacht glides past, laughter drifting up on the breeze.
“Be careful,” I mutter, mocking his last words to me.
What kind of goodbye is that? After a week of... whatever that was?
Be careful.
Like I’m just another stranger. Just another wedding planner passing through.
“Asshole,” I tell the sunset.
It doesn’t argue.
I should be journaling. That was the plan—come to Italy, journal about my feelings, have some big epiphany about my next chapter.
Instead, I’m drunk on limoncello, crying over lasagna, and talking to myself in a villa that costs more per night than most people make in a week.
Living the dream.
I check the time. 8 p.m. here. 2 p.m. in New York.
He’s probably at work. Being important. Intimidating junior associates. Definitely not thinking about—
I throw my phone across the terrace before I can finish that thought.
Then immediately run to check if I cracked the screen because I’m not that much of a disaster.
It’s fine. Unlike me.
“One week,” I tell myself. “Give it one week. You’ll feel better.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie.
Because this view, this villa, this whole Instagram-perfect moment?
It’s just really expensive emptiness.
And the only thing I want—the only stupid, impossible thing—is to be back in a guest cottage, fighting with a goat, watching a grumpy lawyer try not to smile.
I finish the limoncello.
Tomorrow I’ll do better. Tomorrow I’ll enjoy paradise.
Tonight?
Tonight I admit what I’ve been avoiding since I left New York.
I miss him.
And that’s the most pathetic truth of all.