Page 48 of Let’s Give ‘Em Pumpkin to Talk About

ONE

Drinks for Broken Hearts

Daisy

I have every reason to ugly-cry. To hole up in the Superior Double Room of the five-star boutique hotel that my boyfriend— ex -boyfriend—just vacated and sob into one of the goose-down pillows on the king-size bed.

After all, I’ve been dumped on the first night of what was supposed to be a romantic week in Venice with nothing more than an “I’m sorry” text.

Instead of throwing a pity party under the sheets, though, I’m at the hotel bar, trying to squeeze out a single tear and failing miserably.

I check the time on my phone. Half past midnight. No new messages. Sitting at the end of the bar, I take a deep breath, letting the rich aroma of aged spirits and the luxurious atmosphere lull me into contemplative numbness.

I’m better off without Ryan. My lack of a visceral reaction to him unexplainably quitting a relationship we spent two years building makes me realize I didn’t love him like I thought I did.

I look around, taking in the elegant Venetian decor of Hotel Marchesi with its vintage furniture, velvet curtains, and warm lights making the polished wooden surfaces glisten. It’s like being in a European indie drama with beautiful cinematography and a depressing ending.

I’d much rather be in a colorful romantic comedy following a predictable yet satisfying recipe that results in joy and fulfillment for the protagonist and the audience.

I really like the sophisticated European setting, though. There is no glamour in my current routine as an LA chef. I work long shifts in a Santa Monica restaurant and live in a small rental apartment in the Valley. I love cooking, but I’m tired of sweating to keep up with someone else’s demands.

This trip was meant to be a well-deserved break from my stressful day-to-day. I was hoping to enjoy a cozy atmosphere and indulge in great food and drink that would inspire me before opening my own restaurant.

After years of just dreaming, I’m finally working toward my ultimate career goal. I can’t wait to reconnect with my passion for cooking by working on my terms for a business I believe in while reserving enough free time to enjoy all the other things that matter in life.

Love, for instance.

Now, I wonder how I couldn’t see that Ryan Summers was a douchebag, that our relationship had no future. To think I’d convinced myself he would propose when he suggested we come to Venice…

And you know what? That’s fine. I’m glad I won’t be wasting more time on someone who doesn’t care about me.

There’s a tightness in my chest I can’t decipher, though.

I look out the window in time to see a gondola glide along the narrow canal outside the hotel, its hull cutting through the glassy, dark green waters. Maybe I do know what the ache in my heart means. It’s a painful reminder I’m now further from the life I’ve imagined for myself.

The gondolier’s straw hat shades his face as the warm lamplight over the bridge illuminates the couple that paid him big money for a late-night ride. They are smiling like it’s a fantastic experience, and when the man leans toward the woman for a kiss, I look away.

The stable relationship I want, the kind you find in the happily-ever-after of every rom-com—the kind that would keep me safe and comfortable in Los Angeles and give my dad the grandkids he’d wanted before he passed away—is no longer a prospect in the short term.

I’ve accepted that my dad will never walk me down the aisle or meet my future children.

But that doesn’t mean the plans we talked about should change.

I want a family of my own with a good husband who will be my anchor as I go through the trials and tribulations of being a business owner.

Dad will know I found love and happiness. I will make him proud.

I shake the loose bun on top of my head until waves of golden brown hair cascade over my shoulders and down my back. I won’t feel sorry for myself. I’m a strong, independent woman. The inheritance from my father gives me the chance to start the life I want.

When I’m back in the States, I’m buying La Veneziana, the Italian restaurant in Venice Beach, California, that my dad had to sell.

I’ll turn it into all we dreamed it could be.

Then, I’ll focus on finding love and eventually buying a house in the area where I was born and raised, where I want to stay for the rest of my days.

“Can I help you?” the question comes in Italian first, then in English.

I turn to the barman, startled. He is standing on the other side of the counter, smiling at me.

He’s stunning.

I blink to clear my vision as I look at his face. Green eyes. Olive skin. Dark hair and a growing beard. Full lips curved up in a sexy way. It’s like the universe is mocking me. A “tall, dark, and handsome” Italian is not the cliché I need right now, so I look at the menu card instead.

“A negroni, please,” I say without taking my eyes off the menu.

“Anything else?” The bartender’s deep, musical voice massages my ears.

“Something sweet that can take away the sour taste someone left in my mouth, perhaps?” A portion of caramelized almonds, please.

He smiles more broadly, and I grimace. “Sorry, that was supposed to be the answer in my head, not the one that came out of my mouth.”

I’m not flirting with you, okay?

Good. This thought stayed in my head.

“Don’t worry,” he says with amusement in a lovely Italian accent. “I think I have what you need.”

He winks before turning around, and I blush like a teenager. God.

As he is preparing my drink and my sweet surprise, my best friend, Jeremy, walks into the bar.

Alone. Jeremy and his girlfriend, Alice, came with Ryan and me because they also needed a vacation, and we figured that a double-date trip could maximize the fun of our last hurrah before committing seriously to our goals.

Jeremy walks in my direction once he spots me sitting at the bar. He is wearing the same checkered shirt as he was wearing earlier, his curly red hair a mess, and his fair skin even paler than usual.

“You’re up,” I say when he sits next to me.

Jeremy’s silence is so heavy that I look at his face. Something is off. I know my best friend’s expressions too well. He can never hide his feelings from me.

“What’s wrong?” I cover his hand with mine and cup his face to make him look up at me. Jeremy swallows hard, his nostrils flaring, and raises his phone. The screen is unlocked, and he puts it under my eyes.

I’m sorry.

I cover my mouth. OH. MY. GOD.

“Did Alice just send you that?” My jaw hangs open, my eyes darting around the room as if his girlfriend might show up with my boyfriend—and reveal it was all a very unfunny prank.

Jeremy is an ice block. He blinks slowly behind his glasses. “Yes,” he says in a low, cold voice.

He is in shock. He didn’t see it coming.

He doesn’t know the half of it.

I pull my phone out of my purse and show him the identical text message I got. He jumps off the stool so loudly the bartender startles and drops a spoon, which falls on the smooth floor with a clang that echoes through the bar above the violin piece playing in the background.

Jeremy’s verbal reaction comes a second later. “WHAT THE FUCK?”

Only three people are sitting in the lounge area, a bit far from us, but I look around with an apologetic smile, worried about my friend’s rowdy behavior in such a fine hotel.

“Sit down, Jeremy, and lower your voice, please,” I mutter between my teeth, smiling at the bartender, who puts my negroni in front of me, followed by a beautiful snack plate of ripe strawberries, sliced kiwis, and red grapes paired with caramelized almonds, all drizzled with melted chocolate.

“That’s perfect, thank you,” I say with true gratitude. He arranged everything so nicely that my heart leaps. This always happens when I’m faced with good food, especially when it’s treated like art. To a meticulous chef like me, presentation is as important as flavor.

“Does your friend want anything?” he asks with what I wouldn’t classify as a service smile. It looks too genuine for that.

I ignore whatever it is and look at Jeremy.

Friend. Was that the flirty bartender’s way of asking if I’m single?

“What is the strongest drink you have?” Jeremy sits back down heavily, still red-faced with anger, not embarrassment.

“An extra dry martini would fit the bill,” the bartender says.

“I’ll have that,” Jeremy replies with a sigh, then turns to me.

“Clarify things for me, Daisy. You got the same message from Ryan?” Each of his sentences is loaded with emotion.

I nod, keenly aware of how much further I am on the acceptance scale, even though I got my message less than an hour ago and the negroni isn’t even in my system yet.

“Yes, we were both dumped on the same night, for the same reason,” I say with a snort then sip my drink, which burns my throat in an oddly satisfying way. “My boyfriend left me to be with your girlfriend. What are the odds?”

I raise my glass for a sarcastic toast. Following the cue, the bartender puts Jeremy’s martini in front of him so he can toast with me. Our glasses clink.

“Wow,” Jeremy says with a frown, and I can’t tell if it is in reaction to his strong drink or to the situation we’re facing. “They are complete assholes.”

“They are human garbage. We don’t deserve them.

” I place a hand on my best friend’s shoulder.

We’ve been close since we were seven, when we became neighbors and he dropped by all the time to play with me and my brother, Nick.

I’m glad that, twenty years later, Jeremy is still in my life.

Now, at least we can be miserable together.

“I just don’t understand.” He shakes his head in denial. “How? What happened?”