Uncomfortable

[three]

The train ride from Milan to Monterosso goes a little more like I thought it would.

I sit against the window in a row by myself and take in Italy. There's big city which quickly turns into outskirts. Flat land, wide open spaces, and trees become hills, mountains, and small towns. Everything seems greener, quainter, livelier.

I wonder if Europeans feel the same way about America the first time they visit. The amazing places we live in become mundane to us. We forget to pick our heads up, look around, and appreciate it. So, is it just the newness and excitement and sheer fact that I'm in a foreign place, or is it really that it's more spectacular? It certainly feels more spectacular.

I open my new book eventually. Lasso Me Hard is a wild ride.

I laugh out loud, I fan myself, I cry silently in public, and I'm left wound like a tight ball of sexual tension by the time I'm finished. No wonder romance readers have more sex. I am ready to rip off the closest stranger's clothes. And I almost forgot what this feels like—the smile you're left with from their happily ever after.

Why did I let Wyatt take this away from me—something I'd enjoyed?

Whitney, he'd say, those are mindless. That isn't reality.

Well, that's the point, goddammit. They are an escape from reality. I don't want to think for a hot minute. I do too much thinking every single day. I want to be immersed in some fictional lovey-dovey shit where people say and do unrealistic things and everything is perfect in the end.

This is what this trip is going to be about. I am going to immerse myself, escape reality, and find myself again. There is no better place to do it.

The train slows. The brakes squeal.

We pull into the station where a royal blue 'Monterosso' sign is directly outside my window welcoming me. We're nestled against the side of a mountain. The train track in front of us disappears into a tunnel of darkness, but outside the sun is bright.

I step out onto the platform where a salmon-colored building is surrounded by a picturesque blue sky. It smells better here—like sea salt and sunshine. I bet it never rains. I bet there are no bad days allowed. This exquisite mountainside village has been blessed with nothing but happiness.

I pull up Carter's email. My maps app tells me the apartment is close, though I shouldn't be surprised. People walk in Europe.

My walk is dedicated to nothing else but taking in my new home.

I try to keep my head up and soak in everything around me, though I keep having to look down at the cobblestones beneath my feet because I've tripped multiple times already.

The buildings are yellow and pink and orange and red—all adorned with green-shuttered windows everywhere I look. I didn't know plants could be so beautiful. The greenery and flowers and vines hang from every possible hook or crack or step or pot. I hear Italian and English (and possibly others–languages are not my strong suit) muddled together, and locals and tourists are all brushing past me on foot and bikes.

I pass a café where the smell of coffee wafts out into the street. There are mosaic patio tables and colorful umbrellas that I cannot wait to sit down at. I pass a butcher shop and a wine bar. Everyone is coupled up or laughing in a group.

I'm so enamored it takes me a minute to realize the ringing that is following me is my own phone.

Sienna's voice trills loudly in my ear when I pick up. "How was the flight? Did you join the mile high club with a sexy Italian?"

"Nope," I say, obvious sadness dripping from my voice. I switch my phone to my other ear and my luggage to my other hand. "But my seat-mate would have if her husband had been with her."