Chapter One

from my unreleased novel “Melodies of the Moon”

Chapter One.

Now.

Everyone assumes that if you’re thirty and single, you’re bitter. The “lonely woman” trope is tiresome. The patriarchy managed to make spinster a viral sensation centuries before the internet. Other names include old wives, leftover women, and cat ladies. In New England, they called us thornbacks. In Italy, the word was zitella.

“Zitella,” I roll it around on my tongue. It sounds like zia, the word for aunt, which is funny because I always tell my sister Carina I’ll be the fun, well-traveled aunt to her future children someday. It also sounds like zitto, which I learned at a young age when raucous Italian boys shouted, “Stai zitto!” Shut up.

There is a word for this in every language. The French call it vieille fille. The Spanish say solterona, the Germans alte Jungfer, the Dutch oude vrijster, the Danish gammel jomfru, and the Czechs and Poles stara panna.

Unsurprisingly, the same cannot be said for men, who are simply bachelors, enjoying the perks of independence and singledom, something unheard of for a woman, apparently. I wouldn’t say that I have been living it up and hooking up with every man who passes me by — that would require them noticing me or being interested — but I haven’t been sitting around and waiting for Prince Charming to knock on my door.

I have spent every second of my life studying, learning, and hustling to have a career. Perhaps that makes me the modern version of this tiresome trope.

But to assume that just because I’m thirty and have never had a real relationship, then there must be something wrong with me, and that, of course, I’m bitter is tiresome.

That’s not to say that my insecurity doesn’t roar its beastly head every once in a while. My inner voice likes to return with her jagged blade and remind me that there’s something wrong with me, that I’m not good enough, not pretty enough, not smart enough… but I have learned how to tame her into submission and bury her in a dark place deep inside me.

I am genuinely happy for my friends when they meet someone, start dating, get engaged, get married, and now, begin having children. I love their husbands and I love their children. I pretend I’m the fabulous rich aunt who travels the world and regales them with stories of my adventures.

Of course, they’re too young now, but someday.

These days, the beast creeps stealthily, an old frenemy returning to remind me of her presence. She scratches with a pointed nail and says, “I’ve missed you. You know your married friends don’t. They can’t talk to you about relationships, about children, or about motherhood. You’ll probably never find a man… never be a mother. Time is up for you.”

I crush the beast’s hand in mine and shove her away. I am not a patriarchal trope. There is no clock ticking toward my expiration date.

The beast smiles, and I narrow my eyes at her. I am a director at a major record label in Nashville. I don’t need a man or a baby. I need my career. I push away the fear that lingers in the air.

I can take care of myself. I am successful. I have a career. I don’t need to rely on anyone, because I rely on myself.

I’m definitely not bitter.

“Cute necklace,” Mel’s sharp voice interrupts my thoughts and slices through the loud music. The tattooed bartenders swing the low hanging lights above the bar, and as the unofficial conductors of the party, they throw napkins into the air and twirl glass bottles to each other as the thrumming crowd pulses in drunken revelry. Each pass of the swinging light fixture refracts light from the round crystal that hangs just below my collarbone.

We’re squished together, leaning over the old wooden counter of our favorite Nashville haunt

“Thanks,” I murmur, wrapping my fingers around the gem, which warms at my touch.

We’ve been regulars at this bar since it opened, so it should be easy to flag someone down for a drink. In the early days, the bartenders lingered at our table and gave us free shots and food. I recognize all of them and smile, masking my frustration as they look past me.

Mel leans forward slightly. The dark haired, bearded one beelines for us — for Mel. He leans over the bar and pulls her into a hug. His eyes never shift in my direction.

They banter and she puts in our drink order like it’s a sweet nothing whispered in his ear. He returns shortly with four vodka waters, named Demonbreun Fucks on the menu, and three shots. I wait, unsure if the third shot is for me, until he nudges it in my direction.

“Thanks,” I murmur, feeling simultaneously on fire and invisible.

He smiles at me. “No problem. I’m John. It’s nice to meet ya!” His gaze doesn’t linger on me, and I can tell he truly does believe we have never met.

I take the shot from the wooden ledge and down the burning alcohol. Its asinine taste is easier to swallow than the reminder that I am forgettable.

Mel hands her gold card to John, but he puts his hands up. “It’s on the house,” he insists. I take my drink and Olivia’s from the wooden ledge and walk back to the small table where she and Teagan are waiting. Their faces glow in the candlelight.

I zone out as Mel makes a toast. Something about seizing our youth. My mind drifts.

“Talia, are you okay?” Olivia’s piercing blue eyes slice through the candlelight, sharp and observant. She has many talents, but one of her best — and most frustrating — is her ability to read me well. I’m great at building walls, something she chastises me for. She wants me to put myself out there more, to be open to things. I am open, I tell her. People just aren’t interested.

My lips curl into a fraudulent smile, and I hope she doesn’t see through it. “Yes, lost in thought.”

A smile lights up her porcelain face, framed by her dark wavy tresses. “I want you to meet someone tonight.” Excitement rings through her voice, more hopeful than I ever am about the prospect of meeting a man in Nashville.

“I want to meet someone tonight,” Mel cuts in.

“Um, rude. Me too.” Teagan’s hazel eyes flare in the dim candlelight. I stare at the flickering tea light and thank God I have them, my stronghold of women who also aren’t engaged or married. The small group of us is still gripping our internal compasses in search of where it leads.

It’s hard to say which of them is the most outgoing. I’m the introvert of the group, forced to bear butterfly wings through college party years and now, a career in radio promotion.

Olivia, the most beautiful of all of my friends, is like a rare spider. Dark, mysterious, magnificent, she lures men in with her high cheekbones, her piercing blue eyes and her sparkling personality. By the time men realize they’re in her web, they are so content, there’s no place they’d rather be.

Teagan is the most approachable. She’s one of the guys. Sporty, sexy and cool with a hot body. Her long, dirty blonde hair looks intentionally unbrushed, as if she’s just come back from surfing.

And then there is Mel, the all-American dream: tall, tan and blonde, built like a volleyball player with eyes like the ocean. She is so direct, so confident, so sure that she is going to get what she wants.

Olivia scans the room for potential suitors, but I turn to Mel. “When are you leaving for your trip?”

Mel shares my affinity for Italy, one of the things that bonded us so early on in our friendship. She is going to work remotely in Florence for the summer.

Her eyes light up like crystals. “The day after tomorrow! I can’t believe it.” Then they narrow at me forcefully. “You need to visit me.”

“Incoming,” Olivia says under her breath just loud enough for us to hear. Three tall men approach our table. Their faces are cloaked in shadows, but they’re attractive. The leader of their group doesn’t take his eyes off Olivia, who smiles devilishly. It’s the face she makes when she hatches a plan.

I don’t catch his opening line, but Olivia’s voice is clear.

“This is Mel,” she says, and Mel flashes her blue eyes at the strangers. “This is Teagan,” and effortlessly cool Teagan gives them a “sup.” “And this is my best friend Talia.” Olivia turns to me and winks.

“Hey!” I smile.

They nod and smile and introduce themselves. The other two men quickly engross in banter with Mel and Teagan, who are admittedly fun to watch in action. They play off each other while shamelessly flirting.

The first man, the brave one who led their approach, is talking to Olivia, who politely but clearly tells him that she has a boyfriend and that he should talk to me. She doesn’t say it in one of those pitiful ways, like I’m the runt friend she’s begging someone to pay attention to.

The guy smiles at me, but it’s strained, and he turns back to Olivia, as if I’m nothing more than a passing gust of wind, something to be noted and immediately forgotten. “We should be friends. You seem cool.” Olivia laughs it off, and so quickly only I can see, she turns to me and mouths “sorry.”

I shrug and excuse myself, though the only one who seems to notice is Olivia. I push through the crowd as I beeline for the bathrooms in the back of the bar.

I lock the door behind me and sigh in relief, letting my mask crumble. I take a good long look at myself in the mirror. I look faded and frayed. A dull film coats my once-vibrant brown eyes.

There is a weariness in my face. I feel so burnt out, so stuck.

What’s next for me?

I have the career I once dreamed of, a job enviable by most, and yet, songs and airplay charts don’t mean as much to me these days. Like my reflection, everything feels duller.

I hold my own gaze and feel the wish deep in my soul, the humming that has been dormant since I left Parma ten years ago.

I want to go back to Italy.

It’s the fantasy that plays in my head on hard days. When the stress is too much, I envision Italy and what it would be like to run away.

I see the mountains in my mind.

The clusters of stone houses appear next.

The little movie in my mind pieces itself together.

I am jealous that Mel is going to Italy this week, of course. But it’s more than that.

I close my eyes.

I feel like the ashes left behind after a fire has burned out, all plume and smoke. I need something to change.

I open my eyes and hold my stare in the reflection. My long hair is blonde these days, but I still look Italian.

I fake a smile. You are magnetic. You are beautiful. You are fun. Men want to talk to you. I cringe at the self imposed affirmations and head back into the crowd.

A tap on my shoulder surprises me. I turn. A tall man in a baseball cap looks down at me. Did I manifest this?

“Hey,” he says awkwardly, a smile spreading across his face.

“Um, hey,” I reply. Men never approach me, never hit on me. This is a surreal experience. My mind races.

“Do you… uh, how do I say this?”

Am I making someone nervous?

“Are you, uh, friends with that girl over there?” He points to our table.

“Which girl?” I ask.

“The tall blonde,” he says sheepishly. “I would love an introduction.”

I sigh. “No,” I lie, brushing him off and stalking back to our table.

I have always been surrounded by beautiful friends, even in high school, and somewhere along the way I became the official gatekeeper, invisible to men with the exception of making introductions to my friends.

My friends deserve all the attention in the world. They are beautiful — and smart, funny, kind, generous, and everything else I’m grateful to see in them.

“What’s wrong?” Olivia’s eyes scan my face as if reading my mind. I want to get out of here, to call it quits this evening.

My smile doesn’t reach my eyes. “I think I might call it a night. I’m not the most fun to be around, and I don’t want to ruin your night.”

“I’ll come back with you.” Olivia and I still share an apartment, a big top floor two bedroom place in the Gulch with a rent we somehow managed to lock in five years ago.

“You don’t have to,” I say, but her offer means a lot.

She insists, saying that selfishly she wants to pack a bag and head to her boyfriend’s house.

When we’re in our Uber, she apologizes. “I’m sorry about that guy. I was trying to wing woman you.”

“I know.” I stare out the window at the clusters of people outside the bar.

“He was a loser. He had never heard of Gruyère cheese… can you believe that?” She snorts. “You need someone cultured.”

I nod indifferently.

“We need a change of scenery,” she offers. “That bar is all the same type of guy.”

“Mhm.” I mumble in agreement, but I know that no matter where we go in this city, this is how it always plays out, whether I’m weathered like tonight or dolled up and happy like other nights.

In college, I wondered if perhaps there was a sign on my forehead that only men could read that told them to stay away from me. Summers in Italy convinced me that maybe the sign on my forehead was written in Italian, a beautiful welcome that American men simply couldn’t read, and therefore it repelled them.

When Olivia leaves, I turn out all the lights in the apartment and curl up in my bed. I wonder pathetically what it’s like to have someone to come home to.