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“You’re doing it again,” she says.
“Doing what?”
“You’re forgetting that you’re Shane Fucking O’Leary. These mutts should want to help you—it shouldn’t be a question.”
O’Leary instinctively stands up taller.
“Okay, my girl, I’ll talk to him.”
Gina’s right, of course. The accountant will do whatever O’Leary wants. It’s not that O’Leary thought otherwise. It’s that he’s worried that he’s not going to like what he hears about their son.
7
MONTEPULCIANO, ITALY
Thump thump thump. Ryan knows he’s dreaming. It’s strange how the brain works. You can be on a basketball court about to take the game-winning shot, seconds from your teammates hoisting you onto their shoulders, and it feels so real, yet you know you’re sleeping. And what’s more fascinating is the nimbleness with which your mind changes the story to react to your environment. If it’s hot in your bedroom, you’ll be sweating in your dream. If there’s a sudden noise, your subconscious integrates the sound into the story. Ryan hears the thump of fans in the bleachers stomping their feet. But at the same time, he knows someone is pounding on the door to his room at the B and B.
His eyes pop open. He’s sad for a moment. It’s been so long since he’s thought about basketball, much less had it populate his dreams. He normally fights the urge to think about that time in his life, but it’s probably the note—I know who you are—that was left churning in his mind when he finally fell asleep. He checks his phone: 8:45 a.m.
Thump thump thump.
He climbs out of bed and opens the door a crack. Eddie stands there.
“Did you forget?” Eddie says.
Ryan doesn’t understand.
“We’ve got the wine-tasting thing, then hot-air ballooning,” Eddie says.
“Shit,” Ryan says. A five-hour countryside wine tasting followed by a balloon ride over Tuscany. It sounded good a few days ago when someone in the group suggested it for their last day before they head to Rome.
“Well, come on, we have to be there by nine. Everybody’s waiting in the van.”
Ryan has zero interest. He’s tired. Not in the mood. And maybe he’ll go to the Palazzo at ten o’clock like the note commanded. The Palazzo Comunale is Montepulciano’s town hall, an ancient tower that offers some of the best views of the region. They all climbed it on their first day sightseeing.
“Sorry, you all can go without me,” Ryan says. “I’ll still pay my share of the—”
Eddie is shaking his head decisively. “We can’t. You’re the only one who can drive the van.”
The van they rented—like most rentals in Italy—is a stick shift. And despite a combined IQ of more than 1,100, none of his classmates can handle a manual transmission. Ryan’s dad insisted he learn—If you can drive a stick, you can drive anything—which is true but also frustrating, since the antiquated skill has done nothing but turn Ryan into the group’s taxi driver.
“All right. I’ll be down in five.”
“Hurry,” Eddie says, and then disappears.
Ryan splashes water on his face, puts on his clothes and some deodorant, and rushes out. He boards the van, which is like a small school bus with a single driver’s seat and ten-person passenger section behind. Everyone’s waiting for him. Dena, Diana, and Divya have evidently been awake for hours, Instagram ready with their contoured makeup that looks like they applied it while watching a tutorial from a Kardashian. These women are smart—top of the class at Georgetown Law—but get too caught up in social media, like everybody else, he supposes. Eddie calls them 3D.
Behind them sit Aiden and Jake, the frat boys from last night, looking hungover. To their right are Clayton and Marci, both bookish and who bicker like an old married couple. Eddie is spread out on the long back seat by himself. Finally, Nora is there, looking pretty, if tired.
Did one of them write the note? He appraises each of his classmates searching for tells but sees none. And it wouldn’t make sense. The note instructed him to meet at the Palazzo at ten o’clock—the group will be several glasses of Chianti in by then.
So who sent it? Who knows who he is? And why do they want to meet?
After apologizing for running late, he takes the wheel. He drives faster than he should, the group jostling and sliding as he maneuvers the curves and hills. He doesn’t want to be here. Not just at this tourist excursion, but on this whole trip. He’s feeling that hollowness in his chest again. That sense of impending doom. He tries to reason with himself: So what if they find out who he really is? What’s the worst thing that will happen? They won’t want to be his friend? They’ll think he’s a murderer? They’ll tell everyone at school? The internet will do its thing again?
The GPS, which hasn’t worked well in the region, miraculously gets them to the right place. They’re taken to a winery overlooking the Chianti Hills. They start in a rustic structure, then move to a cellar filled with wooden barrels. Ryan doesn’t listen as the guide tells them the history of the place, the winemaking process, and other tidbits she probably says dozens of times a week. And as designated driver, he doesn’t participate in the tasting.
Soon, they are in the olive groves, then shuttled to a second winery where they taste cured meats and sample olive oil and are served lunch. It should be an experience of a lifetime, magical. But it’s not. Ryan scolds himself at the thought. He’s acting entitled. He needs to shake it off. His friends don’t deserve a Debbie Downer.