Page 65 of I Think Olive You
“Hi,” I murmur back, lost in my feelings for her.
This time her phone and mine blow up at the same time. Hitting the end call buttons simultaneously, we scoff at the coincidence. Maybe the universe is trying to give me a sign, though I doubt karma is kind to people like me. The powers that be want to drag this out to fully enjoy watching me squirm.
My phone rings again, hers following soon after, and this time we pay attention. This time I press the green button and lift the screen to my ear. She does the same.
“Bro, what the fuck? You disappear for the summer without a word, ignore my texts, and now your face is all over my feed. Is it true?”
I pull back to double check the name—Brandon. I’m sucked back to that sweltering night in New York before I left to come here. The drinking, the desperate feeling clawing up my chest. My hands gripping the guard rails on the balcony and wishing they were just a little shorter so I could?—
“What are you talking about?”
“Hold on, I’m sending you the link now.”
This can’t be good. Whatever this is cannot be good.
Giuliana is listening intently to whoever is speaking on her phone call, rapid Italian filling the silence as I wait for Brandon’s message. And realize I have about fifteen others. Not counting app notifications I’ve had turned off for weeks. A link pops up into the chat.
Matrimony Matt.
Palmer heir’s secret proposal in Italy.
Oh no.
Oh no.
No. No. No
Fuck.
“Listen, I need to go.”
“But! You didn’t answer me, is it—” Hanging up before he can finish speaking, I click the link to motherfucking Buzzfeed. My stomach drops, settling low with the lead balloon of dread accompanying the words on the screen.
Mind spinning, I scroll through the pictures, not even bothering to read the text. My mostly harmless Instagram pictures are splashed across the beginning of the “article.” But then, nights of inebriation and fucking around, drunken red irises from the flash’s glare. The photo of me wrapped around the Senator’s daughter resurfaces again.
And under that, toward the bottom, is a gallery of pain.
Me on one knee with olive trees framing our bodies, and Giuliana staring at me in shock and awe. Her hand outstretched. My face lit up with a joy I’ve never seen in the mirror or in those intoxicated photographs. Our bodies in motion as I spin her around and then that moment with my hand cupping her cheek, where I thought I might lean down to kiss her. My heart in my eyes.
I’m going to be sick.
Looking up from my phone to face her, her cheeks are ashen as she scrolls through her own phone.
“Matt Palmer?” she asks and the panic rises in my body. I can’t speak. Can’t answer. Can’t focus on anything but the frantic need to run. “Matt Palmer, not Matteo de Palma?”
There’s something dark in her tone and she rises from her desk.
I want to say something—offer to explain—but there’s no good way out of this.
Taking a step toward me, Giuliana reads off the screen. “The heir to illustrious Palmer Enterprises, last seen at a party for his birthday with his tongue halfway down political princess Cassidy Bridges’s throat, has apparently given up his wicked ways.”
Another step and I feel like a rabbit caught in a snare, Giuliana the hunter.
“Matt Palmer, everyone’s favorite playboy, has lost his heart after a hot and heavy Italian summer. The lucky lady is known only as ‘Giuliana.’ Will this be another stint on the long list of Palmer’s antics or is this the real deal?”
A final step and she’s right in front of me, staring up at me with fire in her eyes. It doesn’t matter anymore that I’d hoped to leave on good terms, with only some aches but good memories of our time together.
“Sources present at the proposal describe the couple being very much in love. Buzzfeed has reached out to Palmer for comment but has received none.”