Until I realized it was all fake. Every single bit of the life they represented. Just sparkly lipstick on a really ugly pig.
The house? Mortgaged three times over.
The money? Like the house, more debt and show than substance. As soon as Dad poured it in, it was pouring right back out to support their lifestyles.
The friends? Don’t make me laugh. A cow has more friends in a river full of piranhas.
The reality was, that was the good side. Things got even uglier. Dad gone on ‘work’ trips all the time with assistants half his age, Mom sipping mimosas until it was acceptable to switch to chardonnay, both of them treating me like an unwanted puppy demanding attention. I swear, neither of them had ever given me as much attention as they did when I jumped off their merry-go-round.
And I don’t regret it. I only regret not doing it sooner.
I hadn’t even meant to go so far when the whole mess had started. I’d let them control me, had gone along with their plan to marry me off to the son of one of Dad’s closest business associates, Robert Gunze II.
No, not a junior.
That was far too proletariat.
The marriage would have been essential to my parents, who would have gotten access to both the business connections and the society connections they’d long cherished.
So I’d dated Robert and had been told that he was my fiancé though he’d never proposed.
And I had accepted that it was to be my fate. Until Robert—
No, I’m not going back to that night. The important thing is that he crossed the line and I’d figuratively shoved him back over it and vowed to never let it happen again.
I’d told Dad what Robert had done, expecting him to be as shocked as I was, but he’d been on Robert’s side, horrifically asking me what I’d done to force Robert’s hand.
When I’d said that I wasn’t marrying that asshole, Dad had gone nuclear, angrier than I’d ever seen him as he ranted about working so hard to make this deal go through and how he wouldn’t let his mouthy daughter ruin the whole thing.
Deal.
Not wedding, not marriage.
A deal.
That’s all I was to him.
Numbers in an account ledger, a contract to be closed that fell through.
It’s all I still am. A failed business deal.
But that moment, something in me had snapped and I knew I was done.
Done doing as I was told, done trying to make them happy, done being that girl. I was determined to set out on my own, no more of their judging, no more smothering.
Just freedom to create my own life. Mine, not someone else’s.
And I have.
I packed up and left for Europe, with no plans or ideas of what I would do when I got here.
It wasn’t always easy, and at first, I wandered aimlessly, drifting from one tourist spot to another.
But slowly, my trek turned into a journey to find out who “Carly” was.
And when I let my joy, my humor, my sense of adventure free, I found a life more vibrant, free, and fun-loving than I could’ve ever imagined. It’s had tears, but also lots of laughter.
I’ve felt cold wind chill my spine as I shoveled for my dinner and swam in the Mediterranean without a care in the world. I’ve gone to bed with a stomach sloshing with good food and wine, or savoring a simple meal of cheese and bread.
Both are good, and both have made me a better person.
“You okay, Tesoro?” a soft voice asks from beside me.
Jostled from my reverie, I look up from my empty cup to see Strega, the coffee shop owner and the maker of the best espresso I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a lot.
Ever since I settled in Florence two months ago, Strega has taken me under her wing. Right now, she’s patting the wisps of grey hair escaping her bun and giving me an appraising look that misses nothing.
I give her a dimple-filled grin that belies the turmoil roiling in my belly. “I’m okay, just thinking about an unexpected trip I’m taking.”
She purses her lips and wipes down the table next to me. “Trip? I thought you said you were going to stick around Florence for a while, let me fatten you up a bit. You’re too skinny. You need some fettuccine in my famous cream sauce.”
I smile. She’s always trying to feed me, just like an Italian grandmother should.