I take a nice long shower once I’m inside and check my email as I sit at the dining room table. I’m happily swimming in an oversize T-shirt with a towel wrapped around my dripping hair. I get to Maggie’s email last and find it unusually short, just one line asking me to call her. I look at my phone but don’t pick it up. I’m not ready to connect back with reality. Not yet.

Opting to email her tomorrow, I instead decide that I’m going to finish my novel right now—or at least write something. Anything. I end up sitting at the table for a solid hour and imagine smashing my laptop into the floor every five minutes. I’m a day away from my deadline. A day away from jeopardizing so much of what defines me. My career. My reputation. I have to prove to the publisher and myself that my best work isn’t behind me, but with every passing second, that outcome seems less and less likely.

I need to write. I need to finish. I type out a sentence and delete it. I force out a paragraph and delete it. I rub my hands over my face and leave them there, leaning my elbows against the desk. My mind is clouded with thoughts of fighting my way to safety but all I’m doing is digging my own grave. Soon I’ll be down so deep that the sun will disappear, replaced instead with layers of dirt and cold, wet air.

I shake my head and try again, typing and typing until I’ve filled an entire page. My fingers fall away from the keyboard until I bring them back to the mouse a few seconds later to highlight everything I just wrote.

Delete.

20

A little after eight, Liam and I are seated at a cozy restaurant that’s within walking distance of the Trevi Fountain, but not close enough to be a tourist trap. Being this close in proximity to my favorite place in the world, I’m itching to travel the distance and stare at it for no less than three hours.

“Perhaps after dinner we’ll go see your fountain,” Liam suggests over his menu.

I smile and nod, knowing he must have chosen this restaurant due to its location.

A handsome Italian waiter with slicked-back hair soon comes over to greet us and finds us ready to order. We’re somewhat plain and picky eaters and both order rigatoni Bolognese. The waiter hates us. He does, however, brighten up when Liam orders an expensive bottle of white wine. Once the wine is poured, Liam sends the waiter away with a regal nod of his head and raises his glass, prompting me to do the same.