Our Felicity

By Bria Daly

When Mich Burnetti opens his door, he’s sure the young girl on the other side is there by mistake. After all, he already bought cookies from the neighborhood Girl Scouts. But when the girl asks for him by his full name, a name few people ever heard, he’s sure her visit is just a prank set up by his friends. The almost 14-year-old Felicity then asks him if he remembers Elyse, a girl he met in Venice, Italy 14 years earlier when he was studying abroad. Mich not only remembers her, but sees his entire life in terms of that girl: before Elyse, with Elyse, and after Elyse. Mich, an architect, was a rising star when he met Elyse, a student of art. Their playful banter, great conversations, and common likes and aspirations made them a perfect match. Everything they shared was perfect, and one day Elyse left; she disappeared leaving nothing except for an unfinished canvas, the only piece she ever painted that Mich didn’t like. In Our Felicity Elyse and Mich share their stories going back and forth between Venice, where they met and the present, while Mich learns to be a dad to the teenage girl he just met. Through it all Mich has to accept Elyse back into his life for their daughter’s sake. Elyse has to find a way to make Mich understand why she left him, and Mich struggles to comprehend how he can hate someone he still loves. But more importantly, and if he’s to move forward, Mich has to find a way to forgive Elyse, or at least accept his fate after she stole 14 years of his daughter’s life. The common denominators for Mich and Elyse are Felicity (their daughter), the love they’ll always share, and a desire to understand what happened and make things right. Told with emotion, insight, and humor, Our Felicity is an exercise of introspection, told in a conversational way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bria Daly
• Release date: Mar 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311335159

Bria Daly

I'm a mom, wife, sister, friend, and author.My books are available in paperback, and as eBooks. Writing is something I've always enjoyed doing, but if you ask me what my greatest accomplishment is, I'd have to say it's my children, and with very good reason (I'm a super proud mom).About me...Bria Daly is a pen name created from the names of the most important people in my life: my husband and my two children.I was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina and I moved to the United States when I was young. I married a U.S. military man, and my husband's career took us to wonderful places around the globe. We lived in Japan, Germany, Argentina, Brazil, Honduras, and seven U.S. states. I feel privileged to have had the opportunity to see and experience different worlds and cultures. My experiences, the people I met, and the places I lived in, have made me the person I am today, and someone who appreciates all this wonderful world has to offer.I am also an advocate and defender of children, animals, the elderly, and the disabled. My house is always chaotic and loud. Chaos is not what I aim for, but it is what it is. Still, I don't think I'd want it any other way.My furniture is eclectic, our diets are all different (we have 2 vegans, a vegetarian, and an omnivore - I'm one of the 2 vegans), we have 3 dogs, 3 cats, 3 cockatiels, 2 hermit crabs, and two large fish tanks with a variety of fish (today, who knows what we'll have tomorrow?). And I believe my pets are my muses because they're ALWAYS with me and wherever I go.Thanks for giving me the opportunity to share my stories that are mostly family themed, because for me, family is what it's all about.If I can ask for on favor, it would be to please help me reach other readers by leaving a star rating or review whenever you get a chance. Visibility in online searches is based on author ranking and those numbers are generated by reader reviews.And another thing, and I really mean this, go ahead and contact me, I promise will write back. You can also visit me on Facebook, or stop be my website at anytime by going to https://briadaly.wordpress.com/Wishing you and yours my very best,Bria

Book preview

Where should I start?

Generally speaking, the beginning is always the best place to start; the end is nowhere near I hope, and the middle (what I consider to be every day from now on and until the end) is ever changing and constantly in the making.

The middle is the part I really have to work on, and what I like to think of as my new beginning.

My name is Mich (at least that’s the name I gave myself and the name I let people use if they expect me to answer), and two weeks ago, on a bright Sunday morning, my life was completely changed.

It happened something like this:

KNOCK KNOCK (although it was really a doorbell)

Who’s there?

YOUR DAUGHTER FELIX…

Felix who?

And just so you know, before she rang my doorbell, I didn’t know I had a daughter. I also was pretty sure there was no son, and I knew for sure that I didn’t have a dog, a cat, a fish, or anyone else I could claim as my own. It has been me and my ignorance for as long as I care to remember.

But now, it seems, I have a daughter and her name is Felix.

So that’s how it went down and now you’re all caught up. The rest as they say, is history, and history is being made every day of my new life in this new beginning, and in my new found role as a father.

The KNOCK KNOCK joke, if you can even call it a joke (which I’d advise you not to), is how I came to find out that I am the father of a teenager. I opened the door and saw a young girl I thought was a Girl Scout going door to door and selling cookies, and instead, she turned out to be my daughter.

My daughter is almost fourteen. I met her two weeks ago. The day she showed up at my door and walked into my home, is the same day she stole my heart and turned my life upside down – in a good way – because before that, even I knew my life needed a really good shake.

My daughter’s real name is Felicity – not Felix - and of course there’s a story behind that as well.

Her mother’s name is Elyse; Elyse calls me Miko or Mikollo. And Elyse is the only person allowed to call me anything she wants that isn’t Mich.

Chapter 1

I open only one eye to survey my surroundings because I know that two eyes would be an almost impossible feat to pull off.

I smile, although anyone watching would most likely call it a grimace, and it’s what I see and not how I feel, that make me smile:

I’m in my bedroom

Nobody is in bed with me.

I grimace some more in an attempt to smile, but it hurts. So I stop.

For some odd reason the bed feels particularly good right now despite the throbbing in my head. I’m sure it has to do with waking up alone in my own bed, free of pretense, and having no one to answer to, but more importantly, the relief is even greater since I can’t remember what I did last night, but whatever it was, I have no doubt that it was really stupid judging by how I feel.

I close both eyes, but it’s still bright even under my thick, and very heavy eyelids. I’m feeling like crap, and the sun’s cheerful intrusion through my blinds is starting to piss me off.

I’m an architect, so I designed and built this house on the beach with the knowledge that the sun is expected to make its presence known every day. Today however, I’m not in a welcoming mood.

I love this house and I love where I live. I’ve had more offers on this house than I’ve ever cared to count. As for how this house suits me, the house is ridiculously big for me, but it is perfectly situated on a patch of clean, sandy beach, and it makes me proud of all that I’ve accomplished and all that I’ve had to do, to get to where I am today. My house gives me my own piece of beachfront, my share of the ocean, a sense of pride and a boost to my ego, and lots of healthy sunlight that seeps in through my windows for a strong daily dose of vitamin D. But today (and lately there are too many today’s), I would gladly trade in some of that highly regarded vitamin D for some much needed darkness.

The custom shutters I ordered specially and paid a fortune for aren’t doing their job to blind the sunlight from my room, so I grab one of the pillows on my bed to cover my eyes (because I figure that might help), but my futile efforts to shield my eyes can’t compete with the likes of one of hangovers worst enemies. So I do the next best thing (because I’m just that smart), I throw a pillow at the window to make the brightness go away knowing damn well the extra effort won’t pay off.

With squinty eyes I roll to my side and look at the clock on my nightstand; it’s already past ten on this too bright Sunday morning. So once again, the sun wins; the earth will continue to rotate with or without my consent and I’ve already wasted half of the morning, so I decide it’s time to get up.

Too quickly - because damn my head hurts whenever I move - I sit up.

As my feet try to venture out from under the covers, they get caught in a tangle of sheets and what must be some loose articles of clothing. I pull out a sock, a t-shirt, and I see now that last night I most likely stripped down when I was already in my bed.

One piece of clothing actually gets caught between my toes as I’m trying to get up so I untwist it and I carefully pull it out.

It’s a thong…

A lacy black thong.

And my guess is that it isn’t mine.

Generally, finding a thong caught between my toes would be a happy discovery, but not now, and not today. I have a hard time admitting it, but that whole scene is really getting old.

Crap…

Crap, crap, and triple crap.

So I didn’t come home alone after all. And worse, I have no idea who the sexy, mystery thong belongs to.

How could I remember when I can’t recall where I went or what I did last night? All the evidence I have is that I did something dumb based on how hard my head is pounding.

Then it comes to me. I start seeing a piece here and a piece there, and in my mind, there’s a clear, thick bottle somewhere in between those isolated pieces.

So I see a bottle – well that’s a no-brainer – and it’s a bottle of Patron. And as the pieces come together I can almost hear loud music and laughter, and I can see dim lights in what looks like a bar.

I stare down at the thong and struggle to remember.

Okay, so I went to a bar, and I’m pretty sure I ended up going with Dan and Casey (my go-to guys), which would explain a lot. And it occurs to me how much I hate those guys.

Dan, I’ve known for over a dozen years, and Casey I met at the gym and we’ve been friends going on eight years now. They’re both single like I am, and they both like to party. The problem is we’re all getting too old for this shit, and I like to think that out of the three of us, I’m the smartest one. I also think that might be up for debate since I can’t seem to shake them even when I know their lifestyle will do me in. Which makes me hate them a little less, and now I hate myself more, for being somewhat smart and still going out with them.

I twist the thong between my fingers trying to jog my memory, but the miniscule and useless undergarment yields nothing.

Raquel?

Cindy?

Tina?

My head is throbbing and the Patron is only partially to blame; being stupid hurts even more. I’m 36 years old with more money than I know what to do with, and I should know better than to focus on a hobby that involves drinking.

Or Dan.

Or Casey.

Or even Cindy.

I hear the water in the bathroom running.

Quadruple crap.

Someone is showering, which means I’m not alone.

Awkward.

Awkward if I don’t know who she is, and awkward if I do and it meant so little to me that I can’t even remember what happened.

Note to self:

Kill Dan.

Kill Casey.

And then,

kill myself.

I look around quickly to find something to wear. Maybe she remembers as little as I do, but if she remembers more and is expecting something from me that I am positive I won’t deliver, I’ll be damned if I die without at least putting some shorts on.

I wrap the sheet around my naked body and painfully make my way to the dresser, barely making it back in time before I hear the shower go off.

Shorts on, I look around the room to see if the mystery woman left any clues for me to identify her by. I’d like to have an idea of what or who I’m up against before she steps out of the bathroom and I have to face the music.

Whoever she is, she left nothing to help me out. Correction. I see a pair of stilettoes perched against the wall. They’re in the corner, next to the door, and they look like something Cindy would wear.

I can’t help it. I’m disappointed. Not that I’d rather find out I brought home a stranger only to have to struggle with what to call her, but I’ve been spending way too much time with Cindy and I just don’t want her to get the wrong idea.

I wipe my frown as soon as I hear the door to the bathroom open, and I smell her before I see her. That’s Cindy alright. She always smells good. She probably carries cologne or perfume in her purse. But today my stomach isn’t up for any smells; good or bad.

I fix a fake smile onto my face before I look up to greet her.

Cindy is out of the bathroom and looking like total perfection except for her lack of shoes and at least one other item of clothing that is still snug in my hand. I look down, smile, and then use the thong as a slingshot to hit her with; just to make her laugh.

She giggles, bends down provocatively to pick it up, and then she just slips it in her cleavage.

I want to say something funny and explain that that’s not where it’s supposed to go. But who has the energy?

Cindy moves forward, still smiling, and plants a kiss on the top of my head. Her gesture is far from motherly because she makes sure to plop her bosom as far into my face as she can manage while dropping the chaste kiss on my messy hair.

Then with a smirk, and knowing damn well what she just did, she asks, Dinner tonight? and I cringe at how she looks so hopeful when she asks.

At a quick shake of my head, even Cindy’s rehearsed emotions show signs of disappointment.

She turns quickly without another word and leaves the room as I yell out a weak apology to her retreating back, but she just continues to walk away. My lame excuse for an apology is not enough to stop her, and maybe that’s just how I intended it to be.

The truth is: I never make promises, I always disappoint. I go out with women who give me something I want and I give them something in return. That’s all it is, and I know it sucks for all parties involved.

Chapter 2

I only get up when I hear the front door downstairs click shut.

I didn’t even offer Cindy a cup of coffee.

My mom comes to mind, which is really disturbing when I’m still half naked in bed and I just slung a thong at a girl who stored it in her cleavage. But my mom has a way of popping into my head even when I didn’t ask her in. And I can almost hear her.

This is not how I raised you to treat a lady.

So then I answer her, because… Well, what the hell? Nobody’s around to hear me answer her to even know I did:

Well mom, and since you insist on checking in at my brain even when you’re not welcome, I wouldn’t go as far as to say that Cindy isn’t a lady, but Cindy never made it, nor will she ever make it onto the list of girls I would bring home to mama, so breakfast wasn’t necessary or even expected.

The list of girls to bring home to mama is a very short list. There was only one name, it happened once, and that ship sailed a long time ago. And my mom knows it. She can fight it all she wants, but she won’t win.

I rub my head and try my best to shake the thought away. Today I don’t want to think about her; my head hurts too much already. And despite my roaming thoughts, I realize I am starting to feel better. I think I started feeling better the moment I heard the door click behind Cindy and I knew that I was finally alone again.

I smile as I think of this.

I’m all alone in my big house with nothing to do.

I smile wider, and this time smiling doesn’t hurt as much.

I’m smiling a big, fat, goofy, stupid smile I’m sure, because the thought of being by myself makes me happy.

Ten seconds go by and my face begins to hurt from all the smiling, and at the same time I have an epiphany:

I’m all alone in my big house with nothing to do…

And I stop smiling. Because now I’m depressed.

Alone. I’m alone and I have absolutely nothing to keep me busy.

But that’s not true. I do have options. I can go back to bed or I can go for a run. I can make myself some breakfast.

My stomach is off, so breakfast is out.

I can call a few friends and maybe we can…

No. No friends.

I’m writing my friends off; at least today I am.

Why shouldn’t I call my friends? Because my single friends are on my shit list, and my married friends are probably too busy being happy to give me the time of day.

A run it is.

Or maybe a leisurely walk.

So I start by leisurely walking over to the other side of my room and open the French doors that lead to a balcony that is practically tethered over the ocean.

My mom would be proud.

There she is again telling me I should be outdoors and not wasting the day away. One step at a time mom. I’m outside – sort of. In the sunlight. Now go away.

But despite my annoyance, the truth is I actually never get tired of the view I have from my bedroom window or any part of this house.

Building with a view in mind was never easier once I chose its location. The place I chose where to build this house is perfect, and I am proud. Career wise I did well.

I’ve had an incredible career. I’ve been featured in textbooks and magazines for a lot of the work I’ve done, but this house – my house – is my greatest achievement yet. Or maybe I just really like it.

I’ve been featured in Architectural Digest, Outdoor, Dwell, Architectural Record, and even Forbes, Sunset, and Coastal Living magazines. And in most of the articles, my picture is posted with my house as its backdrop, which means I’m not the only one who likes it. And I see people walk by and take pictures of it. Some just happen upon it, others make a point to find it.

The house has also appeared in scenes for a Hollywood movie here or there, with permission of course. Most were scenes of the house outside, from the beach, but they actually shot the interior for one show a couple of years back.

I look at my beautiful – empty – beach; I guess I’m not the only one who slept in. The white beach is still vacant and free of footprints, although I see a few telltales of bird activity along the shore.

I won’t go back to bed, I’ll go for a run and then veg on the deck and read a good book or maybe I’ll take a nap. Outside, of course, to get some sun.

Yes, I decide, that’s what I’ll do.

Chapter 3

I’m about to put on my running shorts over the compression shorts I like to wear when I run, when the doorbell rings. Cindy probably forgot something. I don’t get too many visitors, and rarely do I get them unannounced. People make it a point to come to my house; you can’t just happen by.

I scan the room to pick up whatever she might have left to take it to her so that I can get her to leave quicker, but I can’t find a single thing she might have left behind.

I run down the two flights of stairs from my bedroom that separate me from the front door and I can almost see Cindy’s tall form and not so apologetic face (most likely wearing a fib to get back into the door to see if we can make a day of it). I shake my head. Later; not today, I will have a sit down with Cindy and let her know that we should stop seeing each other.

Something has changed. I guess it’s a normal transition, but I see more and more of her now and I’m not even trying. She’s calling all the shots and I’m just going with the flow. One of these days she’ll expect something permanent, and I have to call it off before I have to tell her no. It’s – she is – convenient. And that’s a great part of the appeal. It’s all too easy, but I see the way she’s starting to look at me now and it freaks me out.

Like this morning when she asked if we could have dinner together.

Maybe that talk should come sooner rather than later.

I go downstairs and open my front door, automatically looking up to see Cindy’s tall form, that’s even taller when she wears her 3" stilettoes, but I don’t.

Standing in her place is a small and short figure. A girl. A very young girl.

She’s standing to the side of the door, wearing a backpack and crouching to put down a duffel bag she sets on my front steps.

I’m wearing my tight biker style compression shorts and nothing else. Suddenly, in front of this little girl, it just doesn’t feel right to be only partially dressed. So without a word, I close the door I just opened and walk over to the buffet near the front door that sits to the side of the formal dining room, and I pull out the first tablecloth I find to cover myself up.

It’s not until I’m out the door again that I realize the poor choice in my selection, but the tablecloth is around my waist already, and it’s too late to make a change.

My mother gave it to me – the tablecloth – she gave it to me a few years ago and I never put it to use until today. My timing sucks. It – the tablecloth - is a big joke, or at least I hope it was meant to be since I’ve always wondered where my mother could have found something so atrocious. The fabric is nice and it has an expensive air to it, but the design? There are cupids, grape vines, cherubs, and a very graphic orgy of the very many characters having their way throughout the design.

My mother has a wicked sense of humor, and here I am sporting this X Rated table cloth in front of a very young girl.

I know I’m blushing when I tell her, I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting company.

The girl looks me up and down and smirks.

Well that’s a relief, she says trying to get her eyes to look away, but having a hard time tearing them away from the X Rated scenes.

I smile nervously hoping I’ve already scared her and she’ll just leave, and then I quickly add, Oh, just so you know, I already bought some.

I give her what I hope is a very G Rated smile, and I start to close the door to end the awkwardness between us as soon as possible, but she stops the door with her outstretched hand.

"You bought what already?" she asks me stepping forward, while I’m trying to shut her out.

I see her blank look and start losing my patience, "Girl Scout cookies… I bought Girl Scout cookies. That’s what you’re selling, right?"

The girl rolls her eyes and she reminds me of my niece when she does this. My niece does that a lot, and I often wonder if it’s just for my benefit, or if everyone falls short in her cool meter.

Do you even know what a Girl Scout looks like? she asks, and I wait for her lecture. …They wear brown clothes and a vest or a sash or something and…

I look at the girl in front of me. She’s right. She doesn’t look like a Girl Scout. She looks more like a throwback from the 60’s. She’s wearing jeans with holes in every possible place as long as the important places are covered, a peasant shirt, several string bracelets, big feather earrings, and she has thick brown hair that is fighting against restraint in the form of a braid with ribbons intertwined through the braid to hold it all in.

She is strikingly beautiful and she is very young. She looks familiar somehow, but I know I never met her before. This, I would remember.

I don’t get solicitors around here. Selling door to door around here is unthinkable. Between the heat of the scorching sun and the distance between the houses, it’s not worth bothering to try to make a sale, whether it be a product, a service, or even religion. The cookies I bought were being displayed and sold from a small booth outside of my supermarket.

You’re absolutely right, I smile, I have a niece who is a Girl Scout, I lie to make myself sound less creepy, and you don’t look like one. Can I help you? Are you lost or something?

My niece could be a Girl Scout, but chose not to be. I think she was a Brownie, but traded in her sash for hoop earrings and a pierced belly button; she’s sixteen.

Thinking about my niece helps make me a nicer person, and I find myself thinking that if my niece showed up at a stranger’s front door, like this girl is doing, I would want that person to be nice to her and make sure she is alright.

On second thought, if my niece put herself in a situation of being alone at an isolated beach house with a stranger who is half naked on a deserted beach, I’d personally kill her for being so dumb.

You know you shouldn’t knock on stranger’s doors, right? There are lots of creeps out there, I say to her and I regret it when I see her eyes shift down to the cute little cherubs on my tablecloth who are all getting it on.

I’m uncomfortable, and I want her to leave. She looks uncomfortable too, but there’s obviously a reason why she showed up at my door and I want to know what she wants, if she is okay, or if she’s lost before she ends up leaving.

I see her shuffle a little, but she doesn’t seem scared. She clears her throat and then asks importantly: Are you Andrea Michele Burnetti?

I immediately realize that I flinch when she asks this. My name does that to me, and obviously if she knows my name, the girl is not lost. I pop my neck out farther and look around the beach uncomfortably to see if someone put her up to this. Nobody else is standing around, and nobody gets to call me by my given name, not even this girl if I can help it.

Even my parents aren’t allowed. They didn’t name me, my Italian grandmother named me, and they went along with it, so they’re just as much to blame. In Italy, my name is a good and solid masculine name, but outside of Italy, and here in the good ol’ U.S. of A., it’s an invitation for trouble, teasing, and lots of smirks. I learned that a long time ago when I was in school.

I look around to see if I spot anyone around to make sure this isn’t some kind of joke before I answer.

"Yeah, I’m… Mich Burnetti," I tell her, and automatically puff out my chest and use my most manly voice like I trained myself to do since early on when I realized I had a sissy name.

Thirty-six years old and I’m suddenly reminded of when I was twelve and I had to do whatever I could to fight off the comments about a name I knew to be far from masculine among my peers.

And as if she’s reading my mind, she tells me: "Andrea Michele…That’s a girl’s name."

Tell me something I don’t know, I say under my breath, but to her I say, "Mich? No, not really. I don’t know too many girls by that name, and then smiling I add, Now how about I give you a twenty-dollar bill and you forget you ever heard any of those other names you just said?"

She giggles. I can probably get a lot more than $20 to keep that a secret, she says. It must really suck to have a name like that.

It does. So let’s forget this conversation ever happened and why don’t you tell me where you heard my name and why you want to know if it belongs to me. But wait, first tell me your name.

Felix, she says, and apparently she’s serious.

I choke, try not to start laughing, and then ask, You’re kidding, right? You mean Felix like the cat?

"What?" she looks confused, There’s a cat named Felix? No. I’m not kidding, although my real name is actually Felicity, but I’ll take a cat’s name before letting anyone call me Felicity.

I feel your pain, I say, but something starts nudging at me to learn more. Okay, so we both have sucky names, and now that we know each other’s darkest of dark secrets, what can I do for you? I was just about to go out for a run when you rang the doorbell.

Not dressed like that, I hope.

I look down at the orgy tablecloth I’m wearing and pull it tighter around my waist, No, not like this. I need running shorts and I need to lose the tablecloth, but you still haven’t answered why you’re here.

The girl turns a dark shade of pink and starts looking around uncomfortably, like somehow, and now that she’s taken a great deal of my time, she would rather be somewhere totally different and very far away.

I take another look around the beach and sure hope this isn’t a prank from one of my friends, because sending a pretty girl, correction, a pretty and very YOUNG girl to my house for some stupid prank would just be sick.

How old are you? I ask suddenly.

Thirteen, she says standing a little taller.

She’s very, very young.

So, Felix, or would you like me to call you Felicity?

She immediately shakes her head side to side and then smiling she asks, "Would you prefer Andrea or Michele?"

Point taken. What brings you here Felix? My house is far from the mall or the theater, and you can’t be lost if you know my name, so…

No, I’m not lost, she says fidgeting with a ribbon in her long, and very pretty braid, So, are you really Andrea Michele Burnetti? she asks again.

I’d love to deny it, but unfortunately I can’t.

…And you were in Italy about fourteen years ago on vacation? Or you were studying or something there?

I can see that she’s rehearsed her questions by the way she asks them quickly and as if she’s been through this conversation at least a thousand times, but I’m caught off guard.

Italy 14 years ago. Yes, I was there. I lived and died for the first time in Italy 14 years ago.

I’m suddenly winded because I remember my time in Italy very well. My whole life has been about that time. My life is actually divided according to the time I lived in Italy, and goes something like this:

Life…

before Italy

in Italy, and

after Italy.

I’m starting to feel the Patron from last night making its way up and into my throat again.

Yes, I reply while I taste my own bile.

Okay, she relaxes a bit, So do you remember a girl you met around the summer time in the year 2000? Her name was Elyse and she was studying at a school in Venice. In Italy...

I almost laugh, but my stomach and head are too weak to risk it any kind of movement or sound, except maybe for a slight nod I manage to pull off.

The question shouldn’t have been if I remembered. How could I not remember?

I had just graduated from college from the Ecole de Beaux Arts in Paris. I left France and the plan was to stay in Europe for another semester or two, and apply to get started on my masters as soon as possible; that’s when I ended up in Venice.

I have family in Italy, and I had been there often with my family, but never on my own. I wanted to tour the country, and I chose Venice as my first stop. If it all worked out, the plan was to stay in Italy to do my graduate studies. I spent four years in France, but I wasn’t ready to move back to the U.S. Not yet. I felt that Europe, and Italy in particular, had a lot to offer a future architect, and I was having fun.

So I had made some plans and they would have worked just the way I wanted them to, but in the end I didn’t end up staying in Italy after all. And it was because of Elyse that I wanted to stay in Venice, and because of her that I left.

Yes, I remember Elyse. Once I met Elyse in Venice, I stayed with her. We were inseparable, until we were separated, when it all ended abruptly and I still don’t know why.

Everything ended. Me. Her. Us. My plans, and I guess her study abroad program because she just up and disappeared. We parted ways.

I suddenly realize that I’m not alone with my thoughts, and there’s a girl studying my every move and still waiting for an answer.

Yes, I tell her, "Elyse went to school