37 | Italy

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I'm about to tell you the difference between "-," "–," and "—," because I'm a nerd and I find it really fascinating. "-" is a hyphen. Use for hyphenation. "–" is an en dash. Use for ranges, like 2:00–4:00 or Mon–Fri. Also pretty darn close to the symbol for subtraction, which is technically a separate character. "—" is an em dash. Use to indicate interrupted dialogue or in cases when you use dashes to punctuate in place of colons, semicolons, or parentheses, like when people interrupt themselves.

Okay, so there is an Italian boy after all. Maybe "man" is the word I'm looking for, though, and he's only part Italian, like me. He's got luscious curls that I can't help playing with whenever he lets me, and his eyes are captivating. I feel like a prisoner the moment they fall on me. He's different from everyone else. They pander and suck up, but he takes what he wants from me. They want me to like them, but he, as far as I can tell through his limited English, doesn't care what I think, and he'd prefer for me to keep my heart to myself. I've lived long enough to know that he's the opposite of good for me, but it's not like I'm good for anyone either. He's the opposite of Alex, that's what he is. Maybe that's why he's so magnetic right now.

I talked to Alex over Skype at the end of my three months. He asked me to get over him, to find someone else. He really, truly wants me to be happy. He still thinks there's some fairy tale ending in store for me, something better than spending the rest of our lives together. Maybe he even believes that for himself. I don't buy into it, but I hope he finds what he's after. I told him what I thought he needed to hear: that I understood why he's doing this, that I know he wants what's best for me and he loves me, and that wish it could have been different, but I'll try to move on. It's done. That's it.

Moving on, at first, meant keeping busy. When I wasn't filming or asleep, I was practicing, not in front of a mirror with Alex watching from the next room, but with some of the more dedicated cast members. Leo comes most days, no big deal. He actually asks me for advice for acting. When did I become one of the cool kids?

I can't actually live like that, always working, like I'm some kind of robot, or Kevin. It makes me feel more like a stale crouton than a human. I started going to the parties and dinners Baz is always throwing. He loves introducing me to new people, pulling me into his network and almost showing me off. He's a charismatic guy building a small empire of friendship and mutual goodwill. He wants us all to enjoy this, to come back next time he wants us for a film, and to succeed as actors. If we succeed, he succeeds.

Mostly thanks to him, I learn people's names, and I start to get comfortable. I eventually make my way out into the city. It takes a few false starts, a few boring bars full of teenagers and top-40s, before I find my way to the beating heart of the night. I follow the music down an unlit hallway until I can feel it in my soles, and I fish some earplugs out of the pocket in my bag where they always reside alongside a few other necessities. Gotta protect my hearing.

This, it seems, is where all the boys have been hiding. I hand out proxy numbers and I find someone new every few nights. My Italian man is just one of a long string of disposable boys. He's more intense than the others, though, in every way. His name is... Austin? Adam? Aiden? I should probably figure that out. I don't even know enough of his language to ask properly, though, and I definitely don't want to go through the whole Tarzan/Jane thing again to find out because that would be awkward. Does he even remember my name? He mostly calls me ragazzino. It sounds kinda cute, if a little diminutive.

Honestly, I'm tempted to keep him. It won't last; I know that, and the longer I stay, the more it'll hurt when it ends, but I'm pretty sure he'll be fine. He doesn't want my love, not for his own benefit, and certainly not for mine. I can't hurt him. I'm tired of hurting people.

Maybe I should just avoid the whole name problem and drop him. I can call him Number Five, and I can find Six sometime this weekend. The trick to going back to short-term arrangements is remembering that the longer it lasts, the worse it ends. It's really a question, then, of figuring out where the inflection point is, the time to leave that lets me take as much as I can without leaving anything behind, not even a real number.

Number Six is David, the fiery boy who's otherwise involved, but up for a fling before he moves to California. Then there's Terrence from the crew, who doesn't know the meaning of the word "gentle," let alone "kind." Good riddance. Anthony, though, is an actual sweetheart. I let him off my hook before I can really hurt him. A drink, a kiss, and then farewell. He deserves to hold on to his youthful optimism a bit longer. I feel a bit better when I see him later with my green-eyed, curly-haired what's-his-name. At least he's not alone. Meanwhile, I'm on number ten or eleven.

I don't take time alone anymore, and I don't go online. The marketing team runs my public Twitter, and I haven't logged into my fan account in a long time. I don't want to know how Scott's doing.

I'm about to find out, though. I answer the phone only because I know Kirstie will fly to Italy and slap me in the face if I don't.

"Mitchell Coby Michael," she growls.

"Kirstin Taylor," I answer, "how can I help?"

"You kissed Scott." I cringe. I really didn't reckon on having to answer to her for it. Scott didn't want to tell her, I'm sure, but I didn't consider how good she is at prying information out of people. "Explain yourself."

"I kiss a lot of guys."

"Me too, hermana, but this is Scott."

"You always take his side." I sound defensive even to myself. I shouldn't have said "always." She asked me to explain myself, after all. She's giving me a chance. "No, I just... you know what? Screw it." Why explain if she won't believe me? She didn't believe me about Alex. "I had my reasons, but you don't care what they are."

"Don't you dare start playing the victim with me, Mitch, not when you have him wrapped around your little finger. And don't even pretend you didn't know."

"Do you think I wanted to? Do you think I liked hurting him? I wasn't being reckless, Kirstie. I did it on purpose."

"That's messed up. You're messed up. Mitch—" Enough. If she wants to come to Italy to slap me, fine, but I'm hanging up.

I kissed Scott.

I kissed Scott, and he kissed me back.

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