Venice Nights Read Online Free PDF Page A

my best friend, Megan Scott. I only had to tap out the first two letters before her information popped up.
    My inbox was filled with email conversations spanning the length of our friendship. From reflective emails sent during freshman year and nervous jitters over my first college party; to crying into the keyboard as she consoled me after my first heartbreak and musings on life after college. Megan had always been the one person I could tell anything. My secret keeper, my loudest cheerleader, my sister even though we didn’t share blood.
    I had only managed to send her a clipped text before Jacob whisked me away to Italy a few weeks ago. So much had happened since I climbed on that jet. There was so much I wanted to say—but I just stared at the screen, not sure where to begin.
    I put the cursor in the body of the email, the blinking an indicator of the moments lost. I could write paragraphs on how the air was different in Venice. How every street called to me, promising adventure and history as brightly colored as the buildings that surrounded me. I could type until my fingers cramped telling her about the amazing museums. The Palazzo Ducale with its over the top architecture, the Galleria dell’ Academia with its paintings. St Mark’s Square...and how I nearly went into cardiac arrest when I was charged thirty euros, around 41 dollars, for a latte and scone. I could even  flesh out the quiet moments when I just paused, in awe that this was my life.
    I drew my hands from the keyboard. Negativity was becoming uncomfortably familiar, settling over me like a wet blanket. It soured the happy memories. I glanced around, shaking my head. I was staying in a multi-million dollar villa in Italy, lounging near the pool; not to mention the fact that there was a guy upstairs who loved me. Instead of basking in that, I was stuck beneath a storm cloud, unable to enjoy the sun shining down on me and the birds whistling in the trees.
    I could not shake the feeling that there had to be a catch.
    There’s your opening. You don’t have to say any more than that. Any more than the truth.
    But I could not make myself plunk out the letters. Not after her flabbergasted response when I told her I was being whisked away to Italy in the first place.
    The phone buzzed on the bedside table, snapping me from sleep. I let out a groan, considering ignoring it since it was probably my mother calling for the umpteenth time, fan-girling over me and Jacob’s trip abroad.
    Business and a little bit of pleasure, I thought mischievously, remembering the note Jacob left after our argument on the plane. I had put my self out there, heart on the line, and he shut me down. But he didn’t leave it that way.
    I opened my eyes, his letter fresh in my mind. Words crisp and clear, even if his mixed signals were confusing.
    Be patient.
    The phone stopped humming. I turned to the wall, drawing a pillow to my chest. I wondered what he was doing at this very moment. I wondered—
    My phone started going off again—and patience was no longer an option. I rolled over, snatching the phone to my ear. “Mom, I don’t know what time it is there, but here—”
    “I’m not your mother.”
    Not Mom—but the deep, northern accent was still familiar. Megan. My partner in crime. My bestie. The girl whom I could count on to help me bury any skeletons in my closet. But presently, she sounded like the only person she wanted to bury was me.
    “Megan.” I pulled into a seated position, folding my feet beneath me. “How’s it going?”
    “How’s it going?” she repeated, her voice rising. I pictured her in her living room of her studio, pacing back and forth as she fiddled with one of her fiery red strands. “You don’t text me that you’re leaving the freaking country with Jacob Whitmore then ignore the ensuing freakout!”
    Freakout was right. She’d left a series of texts, each one composed of question marks spilling down the page.
    “We’ve been busy,” I