“Some secrets can’t be told,” BD says and winks at me. “Besides, Lanie’s got to twirl her own linguine. Have a wonderful trip, my dear. Wear sunscreen. Drink a Campari on the rocks for me. And please, do us all a favor and don’t come back without having at least one irresponsible Italian tryst!”

Chapter Seventeen

“I fell in love with motorcycles on the back of my ex-fiancé’s bike,” I say to Piero, my new friend from the Neapolitan motorcycle rental agency, when we meet outside of customs. “For years, I meant to get my own license, but life got in the way. Then my ex-fiancé sold his bike, which led to our breaking up, which led to me being like: What am I waiting for?”

It’s eight a.m. in Italy, two a.m. back home. I had three cups of coffee as the plane was landing, and I fear it’s beginning to show.

“I’m here to give this speech in Positano. But I’m also taking a few days to myself. To work through some other stuff. And I figure—what better way to do that than on a motorcycle on the Amalfi Coast?”

I pause and take a breath. Piero nods like he’s only catching one out of every ten words, which is possibly why I’m finding it so easy to talk to him. He leads me out of the terminal, along the airport entrance’s sunny circular drive. I pause to take my first gulp of Italian air.

It doesn’t not smell like the arrivals drop-off at Newark, but it’s also deliciously exotic. This moment marks the beginning of a long weekend of warm sunshine and winding roads, of panoramic sea views and unhealthy amounts of mozzarella. I turn my phone to Do Not Disturb so I can fully soak it up.

Piero hadn’t waited while I paused to appreciate the moment. He’s speed walked three lanes of traffic ahead, so I hurry to catch up. I weave between gridlocked Alfa Romeos and Vespas, around chic Italian women wielding chic Italian roller-bags. Soon I see the parking lot where my bike awaits.

“I don’t have tons of riding experience,” I call to Piero, “but Bernadette—she was my teacher—she said never look down at where you are. She said to keep your eyes on where you’ll be. Don’t you think that’s good advice, metaphorically speaking?”

“May I please check the box for our most comprehensive insurance policy?” Piero asks, eyeing me over the top of his forms.

“That’s a good idea.”

He leads me to a carbon red Ducati Diavel. It’s just what I wanted: a sleek and shiny 1260, with a hundred and sixty horsepower, ninety-five elegant pounds of torque, zero to sixty in two seconds—plus a Bluetooth sound system soon to be playing many hours of Prince’s greatest hits.