Page 187 of Reckless Obsession

I grab a bottle of cold-pressed olive oil and drown the bread with zero restraint. Then comes a reckless amount of prosciutto di Parma, thick slices of buffalo mozzarella that practically weep cream, tomatoes, and a handful of peppery arugula. I grind black pepper over it until it looks faintly aggressive.

I lean my hips back against the island, take a massive bite, and let my gaze drift toward the open kitchen window.

The morning air sweeping in from the Ligurian Sea is crisp and cool. Early November is doing its job of clearing out the unbearable hordes of linen-clad tourists who usually choke this coastline. From where I’m standing, I have an unobstructed view of the water, shimmering in muted shades of pale sapphire and liquid silver. A five-minute walk down a private, cobblestone path gets you to the beach, but from up here in the villa, it feels like an entirely different planet.

It’s ridiculously quiet. The only sounds competing for my attention are the rhythmic crash of the waves against the cliffs below and a few overzealous birds singing in the olive trees outside.

Normally, silence makes my brain feel like an itchy, unpinned grenade. But out here? The silence is weirdly cooperative. My manic, lightning-fast brain and I have reached an uneasy truce over the last three months, which is— I feed it sensory overload, art supplies, and scenic views, and in return, it doesn’t try to spontaneously combust.

We’re thriving, honestly.

Three months ago, I arrived in Italy with Dante, and we spent the first two weeks in Tuscany. After the two weeks, I filed for a leave of absence from the fall semester.

The form had asked for a reason.

I stared at the empty box for nearly twenty minutes before typing: Personal circumstances.

Which was technically true.

My personal circumstances were that I had no interest in returning to a life that made me feel as if I were constantly trying to outrun myself. I needed distance. Not a weekend. Not an emergency escape. Actual distance, measured in time zones, languages, coastlines, and airports.

So I stayed.

Tuscany gave me hills folded into one another like green velvet. It gave me hot afternoons, vineyards, old stone towns, wines, and mornings where I woke up to a beautiful sunrise.

Then Dante took me south to Positano. I stayed on the Amalfi Coast for an entire month, getting lost in the ridiculous vertical maze of pastel houses, climbing thousands of stone steps just to feel my thighs burn, and taking ferries to neighboring coastal towns to study the dramatic Gothic and Romanesque architecture. I ate things with names I could not pronounce, swam in water so blue it looked synthetic, and met wonderful people.

After that came Sicily for a few weeks—raw, warm, loud, and chaotic enough to match the internal tempo of my nervous system. I drank and danced in crowded clubs with strangers whose names I did not ask for. I kissed people because I wanted to, left when I wanted to, and learned that freedom is not always a grand revelation. Sometimes it is simply walking home at sunrise with your shoes in your hand and not having to explain yourself to anybody.

Now I am here in Portofino. It’s quieter than the rest of Italy. It has narrow streets, pastel facades, and boats bobbing in the harbor, but this villa sits far enough from the center that I can hear birds in the morning instead of strangers shouting over each other.

The first thing I did when I landed in Italy was buy a brand-new phone with a local Italian SIM card. My old phone—along with every single message, missed call, voicemail, and digital ghost from my past—was turned off, shoved to the very bottom of my heavy leather luggage, and buried under winter coats. I haven’t touched it since.

On my new device, I don’t have any of my socials or email accounts downloaded, and there are only three contacts saved: Tyler, Lucas, and my mother.

I made my ground rules crystal clear to my mom during our very first call: Tell everyone else no messages, no calls, no forwarding messages, no exceptions. Tell my father and my brothers that if they try to track me down, I’ll vanish somewhere without an extradition treaty.

She had respected my wishes.

I don’t speak to Tyler, Lucas, and my mom every day. I don’t have the emotional energy for daily updates, and they know better than to demand them. But I send pictures sometimes.

A sunset in Tuscany.

A plate of pasta so beautiful it looked like it belonged in a museum. The sea from a boat off the Amalfi Coast. A badly framed photo of a cat sleeping on a scooter in Palermo.

Proof that I am alive, that I am somewhere beautiful, and that I have not disappeared entirely, even if I wanted to.

Dante has been a constant, grounding presence through it all.

He gives me space. Real space. Not the kind where someone says they are giving you room and then checks on you every two hours until you want to throw your phone into the sea.

He lets me vanish into coastal towns for days, take long walks, and go to clubs without him being there. He also lets me go swimming and exploring by myself most of the time. He lets me spend an entire day painting and emerge looking vaguely possessed, covered in oil paint and smelling of turpentine.

He also funds everything without blinking. The cliffside villas, private chartered boat trips, and endless dinners at expensive restaurants. He even bought me an absurd amount of professional-grade art supplies: heavy linen canvases shipped directly from Florence, handmade sable brushes, jars of pure pigment, and rows upon rows of oil tubes.

I have more than enough money to pay for my own entire existence three times over, but Dante insists with that infuriating, smooth Italian charm of his, and frankly, I’m not stupid enough to argue with a man who wants to spoil me.

I take another bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly as I wander out of the kitchen and into the room dedicated solely to my painting.