After I’ve hiked up the stairs and made my way inside my apartment, I run over to the other side of the living room to shut the curtains before Dylan gets a chance to turn his light on across the courtyard. I need to cut myself off from any evidence of that too-gorgeous man before I get even more hooked on whatever it is that he’s selling. I need to distance myself, need to keep myself from falling into the abyss again.

How is it that a guy who was the captain of the college football team—the sexy, smart, impossibly handsome blond god who dominated the halls and every girl’s heart in high school and university—has actually managed to get even hotter over the years? More baffling still, how the fuck is he still single?

It’s killing me to resist him. I want to open the curtains and yell across that I was wrong to tell him I just wanted to be friends. I want to shout, “Dylan! I made a mistake! Now get over here and take off your damn clothes!”

I want to spend the next four weeks in Rome walking the streets during the day, taking in the sights, and coming home at night to make love with him in a creaky old brass-framed bed until we can’t even walk anymore. I want him to kiss me on the Spanish Steps, by the Trevi Fountain, under the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I want him to whisper lascivious words to me in St. Peter’s, to secretly push his hand up my skirt under the table of a five-star restaurant. I want all the things we never had.

But more than anything, I want to feel again. I want to let my heart open just a little and see what’s in there.

The thing is, I do feel. I feel for myself, I feel for him. He’s still all the things I loved back in the days before he broke my heart. Only now he’s better, wiser.

Of course, so am I.

Wise enough to know that maybe it’s better like this. A good male friend is a rare find, and maybe it’s smart to keep him at arm’s length.

I’m pondering the entire stupid dilemma when a gentle knock sounds at my door. If it’s Dylan, I have no idea how I’ll resist grabbing him by the waist of his shorts and dragging him into the apartment so I can have my way with him. My resistance is seriously compromised.

But I have to resist. I have to control myself. I can’t fall hard all over again, or I’ll end up crashing into the ground and shattering into a million pieces.

When I pull the door open, I’m already saying, “Listen, Dylan,” but when my eyes find my visitor’s, I slam my mouth shut. Oh, my. It’s Giancarlo, the handsome young man from downstairs.

Shit. I told him I’d go on a date with him.

Shit. I’m not sure I want to anymore.

“Mi scusi,” he says. The words flit to my ears like music in the air. “I don’t mean to disturb, bella, but this message was left for you.” He hands me a slip of paper, which I grasp in a tense fist.

“Thank you—I mean grazie,” I reply, smiling at him, relieved. Relieved that instead of a man whose attractiveness scares me half to death, I’m looking at a man whose attractiveness just makes me slightly horny. Harmless Giancarlo is almost a breath of fresh air after an evening spent resisting Dylan’s charms.

“Okay, good night,” I add, ready to seal myself off from humanity. I don’t feel like acknowledging the date that may never happen. I just want to forget that men exist, for a little while at least.

“Bella Lucia,” Giancarlo says before I have a chance to close the door. Those were Dylan’s words earlier, too. He lays his palms on the frame and leans towards me, those blue eyes of his narrowing as he looks me up and down. “It turns out that I don’t have to work this evening. Would you like to have a drink with me?”

“Tonight?” I reply, anxiety forcing my brow into a state of wrinkled tension. Right now I’m way too screwed up to think about a drink with this guy. “I…I can’t, not tonight.”

I’m about to say, “or ever” when it occurs to me that I’m being stupid. Why shouldn’t I, after all? “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m really tired,” I add sheepishly. “But maybe another evening soon?”

He looks like a dismayed puppy dog. “Okay then,” he replies. “But soon, si?”

He’s smiling at me, his curly black hair dipping over one blue eye. This guy is like a walking sex toy designed for the frivolous pleasure of randy single chicks. I could make a killing if I learned how to produce Giancarlo clones for the masses.

“Yes, yes, soon,” I say, smiling to myself as much as to him. Somehow Giancarlo makes me feel so worldly and mature. “I’ll tell you what: come by some other day and ask me out again. I promise I’ll say yes.”

The smile that erupts on his face looks practiced, like he’s studied exactly how to take on the appearance of a wicked young sex fiend. Maybe there’s a course at a local Roman university called Seducing Tourists 101. I suspect that he got an A+.

“All right. But if you say no,” he says, “I will pound on your door until you agree to go out with me.” He says the words emphatically, like he’s taking charge of my life. For a moment I balk at his tone. I want to say, “Listen buddy. Fuck you,” but the wide smile that spreads over his features tells me he’s kidding. Thank God.

As I shut the door behind him, I marvel for the second time tonight at how weird life is. A gorgeous man has just demanded—again—that I go out with him. And I’ve said yes. The problem, I realize as I heave a deep sigh, is that he’s not the man I really want to go out with.

Turning to face the apartment, I realize that the crunched-up note is still in my hand. Unfolding it, I see that it’s from Katherine, who’s apparently already popped by to say hello. She wants to meet tomorrow. Well, well. My social calendar is filling up.

Relieved to get to hang out with someone who doesn’t have testicles, I pull out my phone and shoot a text to the number that she wrote down for me.

“Katherine—yes, I would love to meet up somewhere. Am free tomorrow morning.” Some part of me wants to keep the evening free. Despite my resolve, I know perfectly well that it’s because the evening is when there’s a chance to see Dylan.

Dylan, who’s just a friend.

Dylan, whose body I want to claim with my mouth, my pussy, my everything.

Dylan, who has set my emotions reeling into a tailspin.

Dylan, who broke my heart.

I’m such an idiot.

“Great!” she writes back. “Meet me in the Campo de’ Fiori at ten, by Bruno.”

Bruno? I think, but I figure if she’s saying it, it has to make sense. Surely I’m resourceful enough to locate a guy with that name.

“Will see you then.”

When I’ve set the phone down, I remember that I’m supposed to call my mother and let her know I haven’t been murdered yet. It’s nine o’clock here by now, so according to my calculations, it’s noon in California. So naturally I procrastinate, heading to the bathroom to undress and hop into the shower for the second time to wash the sweat off my body. When I’m out, I feel refreshed and ready to take on the world.

Or at least the mother from hell.

I throw on the robe supplied by the travel agency and bounce over to the bed, my hair wrapped in a towel. Within seconds I’ve set up my laptop. It’s cheaper to make overseas calls online, so I poke in my parents’ contact number. My mother’s never gotten very good at using technology, and her ineptitude amuses me quite a lot. I’d be lying if I said I’ve never seen her try to use the TV’s remote control as a phone.

After a few seconds I see the top of her head on my screen, her dyed blond hair in wild disarray as I stare at her ceiling fan. No sign of her face, of course. Camera angles and Mom don’t mix.

“Oh, hello, dear!” she calls out. Apparently she can see me. Well, that’s something. “Good to see that you’re alive. I tried calling you last night, but when you didn’t answer your phone, I thought the worst.”

“I was in a taxi, Mom,” I reply, strategically neglecting to tell her about the driver who tried his damnedest to give me a heart attack.

“When I didn’t hear from you, I looked up the Roman police,” she continues as if she hasn’t heard me. “I was about ready to file a missing person’s report.”

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Everything’s just fine.”

“Glad to hear it, dear. You should know, I was watching the news this morning to see if any planes had crashed into the Atlantic.”

“And had they?”

“None.” She almost sounds disappointed. “What’s that thing on your head?” she adds, noticing the towel for the first time. “Is that the new Roman style?” Mom has always been good at jumping between topics without a care in the world.

“It’s a towel, Mom.”

“A towel? You had a shower before you called your mother?” Actually, I had two showers and a sort-of-almost-date. But who’s counting?

“I wanted to look and smell nice for you.”

“You do realize I can’t smell you, don’t you? Computers aren’t that advanced yet, dear.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“So, is Rome nice?”

“I just got here, so I haven’t seen much of it. But the parts I have seen are very nice.” I’m debating about whether to tell her about Dylan, but I don’t think it would be a good idea, somehow. I’m sure she met him when I was in high school, but even if she thought he was a nice boy then, she’ll probably assume he’s some sort of sexual predator now, like all men.

“Well, don’t talk to any strangers when you’re off wandering alone,” she says, like I’m four and incredibly stupid.

“Everyone here is a stranger, Mom. I don’t really have a choice, at least if I ever want to order food or, say, do anything whatsoever.”

“At least don’t talk to strange men. Unless they’re handsome. And rich.”

I snort. “You know, it’s the weirdest thing; I’m not so good at discerning a man’s wealth based on his appearance, Mother. But I’ll be sure to keep my wealth-sensor app running at all times.”

“There’s such a thing? Well, isn’t that something,” she replies. Oh my God, my mother is insane.

“Listen,” I say, trying hard not to laugh, “I’m going to get settled in. I’ll call or email you soon and let you know how I am, okay?”

“Okay, dear. Oh! I nearly forgot. Your father and I are going to come visit you.”

My head all but explodes. How the hell did she neglect to tell me this horrible piece of information?

“Wait—what?” I ask, suddenly wishing to God that she couldn’t see my face, which is wearing the same expression as it would if rotating blades were approaching my head. “Why would you do that? I’ll be home in a few weeks.” I promise not to talk to strange men or do anything bad. Just, please, don’t come visit. Please.

“We were talking about it, and we don’t think it’s appropriate for a lovely young woman like you to be wandering around a strange city alone for a whole month. You know what happens to women in cities like Rome.”

They have a great time, drink tons of wine and have so much sex that they can’t walk properly?

I press out a huge sigh. “What happens?”

“They get raped.”

“Mother,” I say, looking straight into the camera, “you say that all the time. And I’ve got to tell you, it’s bullshit.”

“Don’t curse at your mother, dear. And it’s true. I read it somewhere.”

“In one of your tabloids,” I reply. “I’m not going to get raped. Besides…” Here it comes. “There’s someone I know staying in this same building.”

“Really?” asks the top of her head. “Who is it?”

“Dylan Emerson. You remember him—he’s an old friend from high school.” It feels so weird to describe him that way. When she fails to respond, I add, “He was the captain of the football team in college. He’s an architect now.”

“Oh, that sounds all right,” she replies. “Is he handsome?”

“Very,” I tell her. All this is, of course, in the hopes that she’ll change her mind about visiting.

“Well, we’ll meet him when we come.”

My heart sinks. “You’re really coming? Have you even booked a room? It’s hard to find hotels here in the summer…”

“Yes, we’re coming,” she tells me. “And don’t worry about the hotel. We thought that since you have your own place, we’d just stay with you. We’ll be flying in next Sunday.”

You’re seriously inviting yourself to stay in my one-bedroom apartment for a week? Kill me.

“Mom, this is only a one-bedroom…”

“No matter. I can see your bed. It’s obviously a double. That will do nicely for us.”

“A week, you said?”

“Yes. We’re coming on Monday the fourteenth. Then onto Florence for another week. Isn’t it exciting? I’ve always wanted to go to Italy.”

“You’ve never wanted to come to Italy, Mom.”

“Yes, I have.”

“You told me I’d get raped by literally ever man in this country. Why would you want to come here?”

“It looks pretty. Besides, I won’t get raped, dear. I have your father to protect me from Italian perverts. It’s only single women who wander the streets alone who are asking for it.”

Holy shit. Kill me again.

My teeth grind together as I force out a smile. So much for my solitary adventure. So much for my sanity.

So much for Dylan.

A heavy exhale of surrender escapes from my chest. “Well, the apartment is very nice, Mom. I think you’ll like it.” Especially after I’ve run away to live in a cardboard box down by the Tiber River and developed a heroin addiction because my mother is a demented stalker.

“Good. Okay, well, I’ll leave you to your fun. Be sure to eat a caesar salad for me.”

“I’m not sure they make those here.”

“But wasn’t Caesar Roman?”

“He was, but—oh, forget it. You know what? I’ll eat a salad and report back.”

“Great. Bye, dear. Don’t get raped.”

“I’ll be sure to douse myself in anti-rape spray, Mother,” I growl as I hang up.

Kill me.