Dating Games(122)

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Inferno Excerpt





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In Greek Mythology, a person’s destiny was supposedly ruled by three Fates, or Moirai, named Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. They controlled each mortal’s thread from birth to death, ensuring each man’s fate would follow its prescribed course without any interference.

Centuries later, people still believe in this basic concept, that each person’s destiny is predetermined, that there is no such thing as coincidence, that every event in a person’s life was planned before they were even a blip on the ultrasound.

For the first twenty-eight years of my life, I’d insisted there was no such thing as fate. That most people used fate and the idea of a higher power, whether it be God or something else, to alleviate accountability for all life events, both bad and good.

Until I stepped foot on that Boeing 777 headed toward Rome, I’d viewed fate as something for the dreamers in life, not someone as practical and pragmatic as myself. I had no idea the next week would drastically change this outlook.





An overhead announcement snapped me out of my daydream, a man with a thick Italian accent indicating we were starting our initial descent into Fiumicino Airport. Glancing around the first-class cabin, I rubbed my clammy hands on my jeans, my heartbeat quickening as I felt the plane gradually leave the safety of the clouds in favor of the uncertainty of the ground.

For the past twelve hours, I tried to forget what I’d done, wondering whether I made the right decision in flying halfway around the world so I’d be as far away as possible when the shit hit the proverbial fan. It was something entirely out of character for me, but I was tired of acting in accordance with everyone’s expectations.

“A little more wine before we land?”

I glanced up at the lanky, somewhat flamboyant flight attendant standing in the aisle, a bottle of red wine in his hand.

“Si, grazie,” I responded, using the little Italian I knew.

“Prego.”

I held out my glass and he filled it, not spilling a drop, despite the few bumps the plane encountered as it prepared to land. My eyes focused on the obscenely large engagement ring still sitting on the fourth finger of my left hand. I felt like a failure. As I was so often reminded, my father didn’t raise failures. No doubt my parents had already made some excuse to Brock and his family for my absence from my own wedding, for having literally left him standing at the altar, waiting for a bride who’d already skipped town when she should have been walking down that aisle.

It didn’t matter that I was their daughter. They’d gladly throw me under the bus to remain in Brock’s family’s good graces. They wouldn’t care that I’d walked in on him fucking another woman in the home we’d shared for the past three years, in the bedroom I’d decorated, on the bedding set that was an early wedding present from my grandparents. They’d turn it back on me, saying if I put more effort into making him happy, he wouldn’t have felt the need to go elsewhere.

Our marriage was simply a power play, merging two of the most predominate Republican families in California…the daughter of a longtime United States Senator to Brock Kennedy Harrison, a rising star in the California Republican Party and member of the House of Representatives, not to mention son of the current Commissioner of the FDA. I began to wonder if the whole marriage was simply a way for Brock to increase his approval rating. I certainly wouldn’t put it past him…or my parents.

“We’ll be landing in Roma in thirty minutes,” the attendant’s accented voice cut through my thoughts.

I gave him a small smile and brought the wine to my lips, then looked out the window, the June sky clear with a few clouds. Below the plane was nothing but miles and miles of pristine ocean.

“Business or pleasure?” a smooth voice asked over the dull roar of the engines.

I remained in my own little dream world, imagining what it would be like to marvel at Michelangelo’s masterpiece on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. To see the Trevi Fountain. To wander through the gardens at Villa Borghese.

“I said, business or pleasure?” that same voice asked once more, with more force this time.

I turned my head, my gaze falling on a man I guessed to be in his late thirties sitting across the aisle, a cocky smirk on his face. His deep chestnut eyes narrowed on me as he raised his own glass of wine to his full lips, his thick hair matching the darkness in his gaze. Being the fiancée — former fiancée — of a man who took personal hygiene to the extreme, I had grown accustomed to his clean-shaven face, not one strand of hair out of place on his precisely groomed head. I thought I preferred it. But as my eyes raked over this complete stranger, his five o’clock shadow and slightly disheveled hair refreshingly sexy, my skin heated.

“A bit of both,” I answered, straightening my posture.

Neither choice seemed an appropriate answer for why I’d decided to hop on a plane to Rome. There were plenty of other options. I could have booked a flight to Fiji, or the Maldives, or Vietnam — three destinations at the top of my list. Italy had never even been on my radar. Perhaps that was why I chose it, thanks to my best friend’s prodding and encouragement. Perhaps it was my subconscious telling me it was time to start over, to become the Ellie I always wanted to be before my parents had molded and groomed me into someone I didn’t even recognize.