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“With my luck it would.”

“When the engineers began construction, they didn’t know the ground beneath it was soft. But it was too late, so as they continued to build the tower higher, they constructed a way to keep it in place even as it leaned. Sometimes the builders would get creative and try and weight one side to stabilize it. Whatever they did, it kept leaning.”

I tilt my head and follow the line of the tower. “Why did they keep working on something that didn’t make sense?”

“Because to them, it did. According to them, the strength was in the flaws.”

“You didn’t know me when I was a pushover. My mother tried so hard to toughen me up. When we were little, my mom took my sister and me to Radio City to see Cyndi Lauper in concert. Mom wanted us to see a brave Italian girl in action. When I got married five years ago, I was willing to blow the entire budget on a Sylvia Weinstock cake because I wanted a Leaning Tower of Pisa cake like Cyndi Lauper had at her wedding. When my fiancé and I went for the tasting menu at the hall, and it came time to talk about dessert, I proposed the Leaning Tower cake. I printed a picture off the internet and everything. But Bobby wanted a traditional cake with the buttercream frosting and the plastic bride and groom on top. Just like his parents had.”

“What did you do?”

“I caved.” I sigh in regret. “If I’m honest, that’s when I knew we were doomed. I’d lie in bed and think, how can a cake be a problem? It’s acake.”

“So you gave up your dream.”

“Because I was afraid to insist on what I wanted.”

“Straight people.” Conor shakes his head. “How about the next time you get married, you have whatever cake you want?”

“How about we climb the tower?”

“Aren’t you afraid of heights?”

“I choose to be brave.”

The winter sunover Carrara is a pearl in a white sky. I hold Smokey in my arms and look up at the mountain.

“This isitfor the view, Smokey. We can’t stay where we aren’t wanted.” I kiss the kitten and put her in the basket for her morning nap. “Don’t worry. I got you. Whither I go, you will whither with me.”

Signore Fabrini has an apartment for rent on the ground floor of the building next to the Caffetteria Leon d’Oro. Signorina LeDonne gave me the tip over a free espresso because she is a cat lover. No view, but at least I’ll have espresso on tap.

I grab my purse and jacket and keys. I stuff the phone in my back pocket and open the door. There’s an envelope on the mat. It’s from Signora Strazza. She must really want me to go. I tear into it. Accepting bad news is a superpower. Getting evicted is not as frightening as being under investigation by the FBI.

Signorina Baratta,

You may keep the cat. But I don’t want to see it wandering the hallway.

Signora Strazza

Thank you, Saint Dymphna! I am retiring the “Bobby Bilancia Breathe” mantra and replacing it with “Jess Baratta Stay,” because, as of this official letter, I will! I peel off my jacket, sit at the table, and open my laptop. I log in to the journal section of Thera-Me.

Note: I have spent my life compromising on the big and small things, as if compromise is a goal or a path to happiness. It’s quite the opposite. Pleasing other people is the hardest work of all because there’s no end to it. Why is being honest so hard for me?

Truffle Hunting in Siena

Conor and his husband, Gaetano, along with Farah and I, boarded the train early this morning at Carrara-Avenza for the trip to Siena. The train cars sway, rattling to the beat as the metal wheels click on the tracks. The straw-colored hills of Tuscany, drenched in the golden light of morning, form a patchwork quilt of contour-farmed parcels of land dotted with an occasional stucco farmhouse painted the color of a glazed doughnut.

If you offered me a view from anywhere in this moment, including a perch on the moon, I would still choose to experience Italy from this train. It’s as if we move through the map of history, when Italian provinces were small countries divided by disparate dialects, mountain ranges, silver lakes, and smoky green rivers. I take a video out the train window. I open up Instagram and post it.On our way to the hunt, but first, the train.

I scroll through. Connie has posted my family at dinner for Thanksgiving. Oh wow. They invited Carmel and Marina, Aunt Lil’s sister and niece. I zoom in to see my nieces and nephews, who wear felt pilgrim hats. I get a wave of homesickness; the kids are growing up fast and I’m missing it. I move the image around and land on my mom, who doesn’t have anyone there to remind her to refresh her lipstick. She’s got the suction-cup look going on with her lip liner; only a bright red rim remains.

I am so far from home, and it is still hard to accept that I everhad to leave. It’s Thanksgiving in America (the first without Uncle Louie), and the final weeks for truffle hunting in Tuscany. Connie sees that I’m online and sends a message:Love u.I send the same message back to her.

I believe Conor and Gaetano set the date for the hunt to distract me from the holidays underway back home. I went all in. I bought a pair of navy wool trousers with suspenders for the excursion. I wear a short puffer vest in orange and matching hiking boots. I’ve never worn an article of orange clothing in my life, but we’re spending the day in the woods, and if I happen to get lost, maybe I’ll be easily found before Christmas in this getup.

“Who’s hungry?” Conor is dressed like Abercrombie in brown cords, while Gaetano, like Fitch, wears a black sweater and jeans. (The pair of country squires and two women in wool are taking the truffle hunt seriously, or maybe just the costumes that go with it.) “What have we got?”

“I packed enough food for a spin on the Orient Express.” Gaetano laughs. His black hair is cropped; his brown eyes sparkle. He is around five foot ten and slender; his fine southern Italian features remind me of the Baratta men. “And plenty of wine.” He holds up two bottles.