“But it doesn’t matter, because he does not reciprocate,” I say. “I mean, we’ve touched exactly once. It was a hug—a good one—but it was under very particular circumstances. And then I didn’t see him for a month. Tonight, when I stopped by to congratulate him on the book, it was a mistake. He treated me like I was a door-to-door vacuum salesperson.”

“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” Meg says. “Maybe it’s a rebound crush?”

“Or something. It’ll fade. Italy will be good for me. I’ll get some me-time, and I’ll come back with my pheromones less . . . pronounced.” I sigh. “Either that, or I’ll die alone, and lose my job, and take all of Peony down with me.”

“Oooh,” Rufus says.

“What?”

“I was just thinking. The name. Lanie Callaway. It suits you.”

“I would never change my name.”

“Not even Lanie Bloom-Callaway?” Rufus says.

“Wouldn’t it be Lanie Bloom-Callaway-Ross?” Meg asks.

“This is a moot conversation in so many ways!” I say as my phone rings with a FaceTime call from BD.

“What’d I miss?” BD is on her Peloton, a rainbow sweatband around her head. “Meg told me you were meeting tonight, and then my Hinge date had to sit shiva for his ex-wife, so it turns out, I’m available.”

My doorbell rings.

“That’ll be Postmates,” BD says. “I sent you some Van Leeuwen’s vanilla. Meg told me about the V theme.”

“What’s the V theme about anyway, Meg?” Rufus calls over his shoulder as he goes to the door. A moment later, he returns with two pints of ice cream. “Is it to wish Lanie buon viaggio?”

Meg shrugs. “I was just craving Veselka.”

“Totally pregnant,” Rufus says, passing out spoons.

“Shut up,” Meg says.

“So,” BD says, “have we gotten to the part yet where Lanie is a free agent in southern Italy? Because those men . . . mamma mia! And we all know how she feels about chest hair. Lanie, honey, the Italian word for morning-after pill is pillola del giorno dopo. Say it with me—”

I bury my face in my couch pillow.

“You have two days in Italy all to yourself before the launch,” Meg says. “I recommend a shit ton of room service. And maybe Pornhub.”

“And journaling,” Rufus says.

“And a big, fat—”

“No, BD!” we all shout.

“Swim!” my grandmother says. “There’s a secret beach in Positano, a few coves south of the pier. I don’t know if you know this, Rufus, Meg—but Lanie’s grandfather and I stumbled upon it once, when we were young. Magic happened there.”

“Maybe you should drop Lanie a pin so she can retrace your, uh . . . steps?” Meg says.

“Or thrusts?” Rufus says, snickering.

“Because if anyone could use some magic . . .” Meg says.