Page 51 of Ruin

I furrowed my brow, excitement brimming at the edges of my voice. “Brian, are you telling me I’m going to Italy?” I asked gently, my heart pounding as I struggled to contain the smile that was forming on my face.

“Looks like it, kid. You have a passport?” Brian’s voice crackled with excitement.

“Yeah, sure, I have one. Never used it, but I have it,” I replied, my thoughts momentarily drifting to the romantic vacation I had planned with Alex. A vacation that never happened.

“That’s great! I’ll send you an email with the details. Listen, I’ve got to go. I never know if Hannah is yelling at me because her water broke or she’s just hungry,” Brian quipped, his tone lightening.

“I understand,” I said, setting down the taco I had been holding onto for the last few minutes as the warm orange-hued Carnita juices began to roll down my hand.

“Hey, I know it’s a work trip, and you’ll do great. But try and have some fun! You work hard. Don’t think I don’t notice,” Brian added, his tone carrying a note of solace that made my brows furrow.

“Thanks, Brian. I’ll give it my best,” I replied earnestly as I dabbed my hands with a napkin from the stack of napkins in my bag. The dispenser at Chipotle always spit a fist full of napkins out at me in response to my light tug, no matter how few I intended to take.

Personally, I think it’s a marketing strategy. Prove me wrong.

I wonder how many times a day the underpaid employees have to refill napkin dispensers.

I hung up the phone and leaned back in my chair, a rush of excitement coursing through my veins.

Italy. I can’t believe it.

My eyes drifted to the window, where the cityscape of Midtown Manhattan stretched out before me. The sunlight glinted off the towering skyscrapers, casting long shadows over the bustling streets below. I imagined exchanging this view for the rolling vineyards and ancient architecture of the Italian countryside. The vibrant green hills dotted with rustic villas, the scent of fresh pasta and rich espresso wafting through narrow, cobblestone streets seemed like a dream.

Turning my attention to my laptop screen—and the now cold taco trio awaiting me—I noticed a new email from Brian sitting at the top of my inbox. Upon opening it, I discovered that it contained my travel details, a link to the vineyard’s website, my hotel reservation, and the contact information for the meeting I would have the first evening. I’d be meeting Antonio Romano, the General Manager of Vigneto Riserva del Regale.

A man whom I soon discovered was not on LinkedIn.

Cool. We love a plot twist.

With a mix of anxiety, excitement, and trepidation, I scrolled through the website of the vineyard and winery, which conveniently also housed the hotel I would be staying at. The website was very basic and minimal, consistent with that of a family-run business. As I clicked on the photo gallery tab, I was met with images that took my breath away as I leaned in toward the vivid screen.

Lush emerald-green vines rolled along the hills in perfectly symmetrical lines creating the illusion that they went on into the Italian hillside forever, or at least until they met the sea. A pink and orange sky hovered above as the setting sun perched itself atop a distant hill, as if it was admiring the vineyard from afar. I clicked my mouse, eager to see more photos of what was in store for me, only to be met with disappointment when I realized the gallery was that singular photo.

Well. I guess this is what Google is for. But first…the rest of Brian’s email.

My initial excitement quickly turned to dismay as I read through the travel schedule that outlined the daunting journey. A nearly nine-hour overnight flight, in economy, from JFK to Naples. Then a two-hour bus ride, also in economy, that would finally land me in Scalea, Calabria.

Fucking, Brian.

As if that weren’t enough, I had a dinner meeting scheduled with Antonio Romano the same evening I arrived. After the journey, I’d barely have time to freshen up before needing to be on my best professional behavior. And to top it off, I had a red-eye flight back the very next evening, leaving me little time to recuperate or explore.

Cool. So, to recap. Trip to Italy…without enjoying Italy. Nice.

I let out a sarcastic laugh, muttering to myself, “Nice, Brian. Lots of time for me to enjoy myself.”

I could almost picture Brian’s sheepish grin as he sent the email, fully aware of the demanding schedule he was imposing and failed to thoroughly describe during our call. The daunting travel, the pressure to impress Antonio Romano, and the brief window of time I had in such a beautiful place weighed heavily on me.

With a resolute sigh, I closed the email and turned my attention back to my lunch, steeling myself for the journey ahead.

Chapter Eighteen

Arik

Istood in the dark hallway. My mind was a maelstrom of chaos and guilt, flickering like the light that attempted to illuminate the space around me. Sam emerged from Claire’s room, and I could feel the frustration radiating off him as he closed the door gently with the click of the large metal lock sliding into place.

“I tried.” Sam’s voice was barely a whisper as he walked past me with nothing but an empty plastic bottle atop the tray.

At least she ate something and drank.