Neither of us spoke when he returned to the car. He peeled out of the gas station and drove the last miles like a Formula One racer. The breathtaking lake appeared like a sexy seductress, taunting my uncertainty while the encircling mountains laughed. The joke was that my arrival answered his pleas for undying love sprinkled over vignettes of cheesy pasta, glamourous boat rides, and warm embraces under Como’s mulberry trees. No one with a pulse could resist his heartthrob accent, especially me, who considered gelato a food group. I resisted the urge to ask for an explanation, remembering his lackluster kiss. So, we sat as lifeless as the luggage behind us, afraid to talk.  

It wasn’t a good sign.