[NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Please note this isn't the final proofread version, so there may be little errors! The full published e-book and print version of 24 Hours in Italy will be in bookstores on July 18th, and you can preorder your copy at the link in my profile!]

M

Four months after Mira and Jake's twenty-four hours in Paris

On the other side of the Atlantic, far removed from the cobblestoned charm of Paris and the beginnings of a romance with Jake Lewis that had started that summer, Mira Attwal leaned over the stove in the kitchen of her childhood home, inhaling the scent of cardamom pods intermingled with black tea leaves and cane sugar. She used one hand to hold back her long black hair, keeping it from dropping into the piping hot liquid.

Being back in Upstate New York and living at home wasn't where Mira had expected to be at age thirty-five, but she also hadn't expected life's recent (and major) curveball.

The distinctive aroma now rose from the saucepan one wisp of steam at a time, bringing her back to her South Asian roots. As the water came to a boil she stirred in the milk. Within seconds the concoction turned beige—another perfect pot of cha.

More than a decade ago, the term chai had been the beverage buzzword in Western culture, and the apparent misspelling had confounded Mira. She later realized that chai was the Hindi term, a mostly unfamiliar language to her, since she'd only heard her parents speak English or Punjabi growing up. And different kinds of Punjabi. There was annoyed Punjabi—when Mira's attempts at making roti turned out sticky and misshapen, vexed Punjabi—when Mira revealed she had no interest in becoming a doctor, and finally, scary Punjabi—when, several months ago, Mira broke off her engagement with her perfect-on-paper Indian fiancé, Dev.

But one consistent fact across this range of Punjabi? The word for tea in her home was always cha.

As Mira watched the cha begin to simmer, her mind tugged at memories of growing up dumb and numb to Indian culture. She'd picked up the pace in recent years, but was leagues behind the South Asian teens of today's TikTok, with their proud knowledge of Sikh gurus and Hindu deities (whereas she'd spent her formative years building a shrine to Madonna).

"Are you burning it?"

The annoyed English with a Punjabi accent was soon followed by the shuffled steps of her approach.

Mother.

Mira's mom was short in stature but a looming figure nonetheless; a queen among minions with standards as high as the Chrysler Building. Which was why, most of the time, Mira felt herself falling short—especially after the broken engagement, when her parents had iced her out completely.

Until recently, when everything had changed.

Now it was a comfort to be in this kitchen, which despite its recent renovation still felt like the home she remembered, from the same vinyl placemats that were easier to clean than the nicer cloth alternatives, to the faded floral curtains her mother had refused to part with.

Mira's mother leaned over the stove in full inspection mode. Her graying hair was as sleek as ever, tightly wound into a perfect bun that made her almond-shaped eyes and sharp nose—both of which Mira had inherited—the central focus. "It's done," she simply said.

"I'll take it outside to Dad."

"It's getting cold now. Tell him to come inside."

Mira stole a glance out the kitchen window. Outside, the last orange leaves struggled to hang on to the otherwise naked branches of the oak tree. "He has his coat," Mira insisted. "And the doctor said he needs fresh air."

Without a word, her mother hurried out of the kitchen.

Mira stood still. There would be further instruction. There always was.

Her mother returned moments later with a folded shawl, the one with hundreds of embroidered flowers. The shawl. Mira recalled her mother explaining how she'd handmade it herself in a small Indian village at the age of sixteen—a standard craft for local girls with no path to higher education. All Mira had done by age sixteen was overpluck her eyebrows.

She thrust the shawl into Mira's hands. "Here. Wear this so you don't get cold."

Mira held it with the sort of reverence that would normally be reserved for the original cone bra from Madonna's Blonde Ambition tour. "I can't. It'll get dirty." For nearly fifty years, her mother had kept the shawl in mint condition. A week ago, Mira had gotten a bit of ink on her new white sweater, ruining it forever.

"If you're careful it will not get dirty." She pushed it farther into Mira's arms. "It's yours now."

Mira hadn't grown up in a household of hugs or verbal declarations of I love you. If there was any affection at all, it came in the form of home-cooked meals, brief appraising nods, and apparently, shawls.

She blinked away tears. "Thank you."

***

Out in the yard against an overcast sky, Mira and her father sat next to each other on cushioned wicker armchairs, the tray of tea on the side table between them. Her father showed no obvious signs of his recent stroke, but to Mira he seemed smaller somehow, so different from the looming authoritative figure that had characterized her youth.

He lifted the cup with a shaky left hand then quickly set it down again. It was a reflex, being left-handed and all. His schoolteachers and parents had tried to squash the wayward lefty trait, but they'd failed, and Mira had wound up inheriting it too.

"Try your other hand," she suggested.

The doctors were optimistic about her father's prospects for recovery, provided he didn't miss any physical therapy appointments, and also kept up with the many neurological and mobility exercises.

"When are you going back to the office?" he asked.

She took a sip and set down the cup. "There's no rush. I can do the same work from home, and the apartment is still fully booked on Airbnb."

He turned toward her slowly, the movement marked with strain. "We can manage. And Ranjit will be visiting again soon."

She snorted. "When? Christmas?"

"You know how soon Christmas comes. Pumpkins, turkey, then boom—Christmas."

She couldn't help but laugh. "That's more than two months away, Dad."

Mira's younger brother, Ranjit, was the crown jewel of the Attwal family—a graduate with an Oxford MBA who now worked in finance in London. To his credit, he'd gotten on the first flight back to New York when he'd heard about their father's stroke, staying for ten days and helping out alongside Mira. In the weeks since he'd left, Mira and her mother had been the tag team in charge of managing her father's rehab.

Mira didn't mind this new responsibility, and she had no intention of letting up until things were back to normal. As for the rift with her parents, it was never mentioned, standard practice for a family who didn't believe in things like talking it out, hugging it out, or even prolonged eye contact. It was almost as if the memory of her canceled wedding had completely faded away, and while it certainly wasn't healthy, Mira wasn't going to question any of it. Not when things were finally stable between them.

Sadly, improved family relations were coming at the cost of something else.

Jake.

As Mira held the cup in both hands, she realized she'd only spoken to Jake two times in the last week and a half. She needed to fix that.

"People work, work, work and then they forget to enjoy," her father said, unprovoked words that threw Mira for a loop.

"But people have to work. How else do you buy the house and the car and the next thing and the next thing?"

Having to work was what kept Mira employed as the head of branding at the flavored sparkling water company Bloom—not that it made her happy. Each milestone was a rush of achievement that faded fast, sales report figures and year-over-year percentages blurring into a haze of meaningless numbers.

"People existed before companies and salaries and cars," he said.

Mira gave him a long look. "I guess that's true." She wondered if his philosophical musings were neurological effects of the stroke, and made a mental note to mention this to the specialist at their next visit.

"Make sure you smile and laugh too," he added, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Or maybe you already know that. Maybe that's why you changed your mind."

Time stood still as Mira absorbed his words, the first acknowledgment of her broken engagement that wasn't fueled by anger.

He managed to take another sip of his tea. "Do you have time to work on that puzzle?"

It was a Saturday afternoon during her temporary leave from Manhattan life; she had all the time in the world.

***

It took three more days for Mira to find time to call Jake. Recent early morning wake ups had made it hard to stay up for late-night chats—the time they usually chose since he lived on the West Coast. On one of the mornings, she'd taken her parents for a drive to see the beautiful fall foliage, with a visit to a small-town coffee shop after. She could've skipped it and stayed up late talking to Jake instead, but quality time with her parents was rare and precious; she didn't want to miss it.

But now it was time for Jake.

Tuesday night. The setting: her old bedroom, packed with books and a collage of Madonna photos torn from magazines and pinned to a bulletin board hanging over a two-drawer desk.

Mira stood with her ear to the door. The faint sound of snoring confirmed that her parents were sleeping.

Perfect.

It wasn't like she didn't take calls while they were in the house; she chatted with her college bestie Sophie often, and had even been in touch with Eloise—the chatty Frenchwoman she'd met in Paris who Mira assumed would have forgotten her by now. Apparently not. Still, the baritone of a man's voice flowing out of her phone made her nervous—residual trauma from not being allowed to date as a teen, no doubt.

Mira tiptoed into bed and settled in. She sat up straight, her back rigid against the flimsy wood headboard; why was she so nervous? She smoothed out her hair, suddenly self-conscious in her old college T-shirt. But it was too late to change outfits now.

With a deep breath, she placed the FaceTime call.

Jake answered on the second ring, lounging in an outdoor armchair on the balcony of his LA apartment. It was seven Pacific time and night had fallen, sounds of West Hollywood traffic in the distance. He brought the camera close enough to show her his pale-blue eyes and the layers of sandy bedhead hair that she loved. "Hey Mira," he said, two simple words that filled her with warmth.

Ever since that magical day in Paris, when she and Jake—the co-worker she barely knew—missed their flight and spent twenty-four hours together, it had been standard practice for Mira to feel consumed by him. Their "day date" in Central Park after returning from Paris had only intensified those feelings, and when he'd flown to LA hours after—to get ready for his move to the West Coast office—she'd been counting the minutes until his return. As soon as he'd landed back in New York the following week, he'd gone straight from JFK to her Hell's Kitchen apartment, and from there they'd spent almost every moment in bed.

Now, as Jake stepped into his apartment, bringing her to his bedroom where they wouldn't hear the traffic or any other distractions, she found herself squeezing the edge of her mattress, her mind wrapped up in memories of those humid summer nights in Manhattan before he moved to LA—the grip of his hands on her hips, the feel of his sweat-soaked skin against hers.

As more recollections played in her head, Mira did her best to focus on the on-screen connection. Like always, Jake asked detailed questions about her dad's condition and how things were going at home. He really cared. And, like always, Mira felt guilty for spending all their time babbling on and not asking more about his life in LA. Even when she tried, Jake would quickly turn it around, wanting to know more about how she was coping. But that was Jake, because on top of being funny and sexy and full of charm, not to mention being the star salesman at work, he was incredibly thoughtful too.

Knowing this about him should've swelled her heart with joy, but it only made her uncomfortable. She found herself scrutinizing what for too long had been an online-only connection.

"What's the matter?" Jake said, searching her eyes. Or the screen. "You got quiet."

She smiled. "I was deciding what to ask you."

She finally got in some questions about Jake's life in California, and after they shared a laugh about his first failed attempt to surf, the steady chatting faded into silence.

She studied his face on the screen, longing for his touch.

"You're doing it again," he said. "Something's on your mind."

She bit her lip. "We don't talk often, Jake. So when we do,"—she gestured to the screen—"we should be taking advantage of the camera more. And having like . . . sexy time chats."

He laughed gently. "Mira, what's going on in your life right now isn't exactly conducive to sexy time chats. And that's okay."

She wanted to believe him, but the last time she'd seen him was a month and a half ago, on a perfect weekend in Malibu to celebrate his thirty-seventh birthday. That rented waterfront beach house, the sunset, feeling the weight of his body, tasting the salt of the ocean on his skin . . .

A week later her dad had a stroke.

"Let's have a sexy chat now," she said, desperate for anything to make their connection more real. "But you can't ask about my parents; I need to block that out so I can do this."

"Mira—"

"I'll put on some music," she went on, ignoring the look of hesitation on his face. "And I need to change out of this T-shirt; can you give me five minutes?"

"Stop, Mira."

She slumped her shoulders. "What's wrong? You don't want to?"

"You know I do. But I also know you. You're not capable of blocking things out. And you don't have to."

He was right. She couldn't compartmentalize different men when it came to dating (the way the hot bartender, Alexandre, she'd met in Paris could so easily compartmentalize women), and she couldn't compartmentalize the drama in her life. Except for the part where she was hiding the existence of Jake from her parents. That was a special skill she'd learned as a child, and one she needed since it was too soon to tell her parents about a new guy, when they were only just starting to forget about the last one.

Not that any of that was fair to Jake.

She felt her body stiffening. "Things won't be normal in my life for a while."

"I get that."

"It could take months, half a year, I don't know."

She watched for a change in his expression and spotted it, a brief dark flicker in his eyes. "But he'll get better as time goes on," he said, managing a smile. "Try to be positive."

Time. It would take a lot of it. She swallowed hard, imagining how all that time would damage her relationship with Jake. She felt a sudden ache in her heart, one too urgent to ignore.

"It's hard to be positive when neither of us signed up for this," she said. "The only difference is, you have a choice."

The ensuing silence was crushing, the fear in his eyes plain to see. "What are you saying?"

Her heart pounded in her chest. "Jake, there's a big, exciting world out there, a world you could be enjoying right now." She blinked back tears. "Maybe a whole other life too."

Jake's pained expression was almost too much to bear. He cleared his throat. "I have a big presentation first thing tomorrow. Do you mind if we pick this up later in the week? By then we should have more time to . . . talk."

"Sure."

They said their good nights and ended the call. But she already knew.

It's over.

***

A year and a half after Mira and Jake's twenty-four hours in Paris

New Year's Eve

The thumping bass reverberated through the warehouse on the Brooklyn side of the river. It was a lights-flashing, body-crashing, New Year's Eve bash packed with revelers all decked out in their cheapest glittery party-store accoutrements.

Mira watched from a distance, struggling to remember a time when loud music and strobe lighting had been a source of fun rather than the catalyst for a headache. As she rubbed her throbbing elder millennial forehead, her cardboard gold and silver HAPPY NEW YEAR headband drooped forward and fell over her eyes. She lowered her head and let it fall to the floor.

Ten minutes until midnight.

Mira sipped bubbly from a blue-tinted plastic flute, allowing herself to reflect on all that had happened and all that was ahead for the coming year, which was sure to be unlike any other.

This night marked a year since the final gasp of the saga known as Mira and Jake. After that horrible FaceTime call when Mira had all but ended things, "Jake the boyfriend" faded into "Jake the friend who's concerned about your dad." Unsurprisingly, there hadn't been a follow-up call, reducing their only contact to infrequent bursts of texts.

It was strange to have broken up without actually having done so. It was also safe to avoid it behind the shield of friendly messages.

And then a year ago, on last New Years' Eve, from the old-fashioned couch in her family home with the Times Square ball drop playing on TV, Mira sent one of those New Year's Eve texts, the kind extremely popular with fresh start–seeking souls the world over:

I hope this next year is amazing for you, Jake. And I hope you find the great love you deserve. Anyone would be the luckiest xo

A bit dramatic, sure, but it had made her feel like a phoenix rising from the old-fashioned couch. And it would've made a self-actualized goddess like Oprah proud. She was certain of it.

Now, a year later, she could still remember the exact moment when her mind switched from feeling like a well-trained disciple of Oprah to a total loser. It happened when she saw his reply:

Thanks, Mira. Happy new year to you too.

She wasn't sure why she'd expected something different—or anything at all—but the standard canned response that could've been written by AI had been a gut punch—a moment followed by ringing in the new year in tears.

Fuck you, Oprah.

It wasn't the last she ever heard of him, though. Throughout the winter and the spring he would occasionally check in, until finally in midsummer she stopped hearing from him at all. Not long after, another gut punch: he'd gone Instagram official with someone else.

She sipped her drink more urgently now, hoping the liquid would dissolve the image of the pretty blond now dancing circles in her mind. As the seconds passed, Mira studied the wave of bodies surrounding her; a collective mass keeping rhythm to the beat. It was almost hypnotic, and it helped shift her focus to positive things.

Her dad was now back in fighting form.

She had a deeper understanding of her parents (and vice versa).

And finally, a life-changing chance was a few months away.

That last one made Mira chuckle. A life-changing chance, and all because of her. Because of that ridiculous, blackout-drunk, wild idea, conceived by Eloise at 5 a.m. under a bridge in Paris a year and a half before.

When Mira had started hearing from Eloise after they met in Paris, she'd assumed it was temporary, a halo effect of their fun night in Paris. She'd never been more wrong.

Through the crowd of people, someone yanked Mira's arm. Eloise. She pulled Mira toward the staircase.

"Let's get fresh air on the rooftop!" she gasped, glimmers of gold metallic eyeshadow brightening her wide eyes. She wore her hair in the same way she had in Paris: stick straight and ending below her angled chin.

Despite her lanky frame, Eloise was surprisingly strong, and was now forcibly dragging Mira up the stairs. "I've never seen someone so excited for fresh air," Mira muttered.

"It's not that." Eloise glanced back. "I want to see the fireworks!"

Outside, the scene was mercifully less frenetic, the music easier on the ears. And then of course there was the glittering skyline across the East River. Maybe fresh air wasn't a bad idea after all.

"Are you sure you don't mind if I crash tonight?" Mira said, sending a quick text to Eloise's boyfriend to make the sure the plan was still a go.

"It's your apartment, remember?"

"Not since October."

Mira had officially handed over the keys to Eloise a couple of months earlier, the kickoff to a one-year sublet during which Eloise would work at her employer's New York office, a niche but growing tourism company. Mira had no qualms about having Eloise as a tenant, because after two of her visits to New York and a lot of hanging out, she was someone Mira had grown to care about and trust—especially during some of those nights in the city, when after one too many drinks, Mira would inevitably bring up Jake and fall into a melancholy spiral. Eloise had become a pro at pulling her out of it.

"You did this wrong," Eloise said.

"Excuse me?"

"You should be taking my keys right now and we should be switching homes for a year, like in that film The Holiday."

Mira scoffed. "They switch homes for two weeks in that movie."

"You know what I mean."

"I don't. And anyway, I needed more time to save money before taking the plunge."

"I told you already, you will not pay rent at my family's villa."

"I still don't get how that works when you're paying rent to me."

"I'm not, my company is."

"Even with no rent, I can't leave New York without extra savings." She cleared her throat. "In case I end up wanting to buy my own villa, like Diane Lane's character in Under the Tuscan Sun."

Eloise held back a laugh. "Prudent."

Mira could hardly believe this was happening, but her last day of work was two months away, and by March it would be official: she'd be living in Italy for eight months to experience anything and everything, in her very own version of Shonda Rhimes's Year of Yes. Even if she wouldn't be spending the entire year in Italy, she had every intention of expanding her horizons for the full twelve months, starting with taking night classes to learn some basic Italian. During the day she'd continue with full-time hours at Bloom, wrapping up the high-priority projects and training her replacement. Or temporary replacement, anyway. Mira's boss had given her the option of coming back. But would she want to go back to the corporate life? She would answer that question (plus some other existential quandaries) in the coming year, while she immersed herself in new things, developed new hobbies, rediscovered old ones—like writing—and then returned in November, with the goal of spending the remainder of the year catching up with loved ones and ultimately deciding on a life path.

This grand plan was everything Mira had been yearning to do since that day in Paris, when she'd confessed to Jake that she needed to figure out her life. Only her dad had gotten sick, forcing her to put everything on pause. She wasn't bitter about it, but was aware that she was a year and a half late.

Better late than ever.

Mira raised her plastic flute of champagne. "To fresh starts and Tuscan villa fixer-uppers," she exclaimed.

Eloise grinned. "I'll drink to that." She took a measured sip before examining what remained in her glass. "Do you have enough left for the countdown?"

"A few drops. Just enough to make all my wishes come true."

"Please leave that sarcasm in the old year," Eloise said. "Because the new year is going to be amazing."

Eloise had no idea how amazing it would truly be, but now that her boyfriend Dembe was bounding up the stairs toward her, she was about one minute away from finding out.

"Was looking for you," he said, in his perfectly smooth English accent.

Dembe and Eloise were every bit the lovey-dovey couple they'd been since that night in Paris when Mira had met them, and while she wasn't in touch with Dembe as often as she was with Eloise, they'd quickly bonded over having immigrant parents—hers from India, his from Nigeria—and their shared love of food.

The one-minute countdown to the new year began. Or on this night, the countdown to Dembe's big move. He pulled Eloise to a quiet corner of the rooftop, but rather than finding it romantic, she glanced back at Mira with a look of worry. "We cannot leave her alone at midnight!"

Mira gave Eloise a reassuring wave. "All good. No signs of singleton depression."

"Are you sure? New Year's Eve is the most depressing night of the year for single people."

Mira shot her a glare. "You said cheers to me like it was the greatest night on earth!"

"I am a little drunk."

Mira couldn't help but laugh. My favorite French hot mess. "You guys go. I'm going to call my dad." She smiled. "He's doing well enough to stay awake until midnight this year."

"Are you sure?"

Mira nodded and pulled out her phone, but calling her dad was the last thing on her mind. Instead, she opened her camera app, snuck over to Eloise and Dembe, and, as he got down on one knee, found the right angle to record it all.

Eloise's joyful yelp came a second before the fireworks crackled to life. It reminded Mira of their first conversation on the Seine River boat cruise. The dewy-eyed woman so in love with love.

Happy new year, Eloise.