Giving In. Alison Tyler

      “I can’t afford the airfare.”

      “When will you have an opportunity like this again?”

      “I can’t even afford a fucking taxi to the airport!” I never thought I’d allow myself to fail in such a spectacular manner. At 34, I was below rock bottom. I’d hit silt. Unless a fairy godmother suddenly arrived in a flutter of translucent wings, I had no way to pay rent. I didn’t even know where my next meal was coming from.

      “El, I have miles.”

      “Miles?” Was that a man? Would Miles help me?

      “Airplane miles. I’ll cash them in. You know I don’t like traveling alone.”

      I glanced around at my surroundings. The small bedroom belonged to a distant cousin—three times removed, by marriage not blood. The watered-down family connection hadn’t cut me any slack. Coldhearted Joyce loved cats more than humans. I knew she would put me out on the street as easily as any other deadbeat tenant if I couldn’t pay her rent money.

      “I don’t have any cash,” I said, drawing a pattern with the quarters on my dresser. I’d changed my last few bills into coins to make the money last longer. “I mean, I can hardly afford…” The tears came then, even though I’m known for never crying. “I can’t afford New York anymore,” I said, “and I can’t afford to go back home.” Not that there was anyone waiting for me. “My next apartment is a cardboard box under the bridge.”

      “I know what’s going on with you, honey,” Sasha said. “Don’t worry.”

      “If you take me to Venice, I won’t be able to pay for anything. Food. Gas. Tickets. Toilet paper.”

      “Uncle Stefan will take care of everything. He always does.”

      “Uncle Stefan?”

      “He’s the one with the place in Venice. Not really an uncle—an old family friend. He’s invited me to bring a guest to come stay. You won’t have to pay for a thing. I know you need to get out of the city. Let’s get.”

      “What will I do with my stuff?”

      I’d been pondering this question for the past few days. I knew I was going to have to move out of Joyce’s place on the first. And unless I got lucky with a generous one-night stand who might let me crash on his sofa and bring along my few pitiful belongings, I’d run out of options. Forget Blanche DuBois and her “kindness of strangers.” I needed the kindness of anyone.

      “Box up your gear, and bring it to my place. You should have moved in with me when you first lost your job. We room well together.”

      Sasha and I had met in the college dorm. But I hadn’t wanted her to know how close to the edge I’d gotten myself. I hadn’t even been honest with myself.

      “I’m booking the flight right now,” she said. “I’ll be over in an hour to help you move.”

      And that was my goodbye to the U.S. and my hello to Italy. Right when I needed saving.

      * * *

      Business class was sublime. Sasha and I floated on champagne all the way to Brussels, with my oldest friend describing the place where we’d be staying. “The villa has been in his family for generations,” she explained. “One of those grand palazzos on a canal.”

      “What does he do?”

      She smiled.

      “Why are you smiling like that?”

      “He doesn’t really do anything. He doesn’t have to.” She sipped her champagne thoughtfully. “Or rather, he does whatever he wants to. With money like that, he can do as pleases.” I didn’t hear another word about Uncle Stefan, even during our layover or the final part of the journey to VCE in Venice. I conjured an image in my head: sixties, like her parents. Heavyset. I gave him a baldpate and a bit of gout.

      Then I let the champagne take over and I fell asleep.

      * * *

      When we arrived in Venice, I felt as if I’d woken from a magical dream only to discover that the dream was real. I’ve had good dreams before—but never one that lasted when I opened my eyes. Sasha appeared as fresh as if she’d just emerged from a douche commercial. Even on no sleep, or after a drinking binge, she always has neatly coiffed Princess Grace blond hair and angel-perfect skin.

      I, on the other hand, looked exactly like someone who had slept in my clothes—which I had. Sasha didn’t say anything about my rumpled turtleneck and messy ringlets. But she pulled a sumptuous indigo velvet shawl from her woven leather messenger bag and wrapped the length around me, pinning the cloth effortlessly with a rhinestone broach. In seconds, I’d captured a little of her style. Sasha is so high-end, she rubs off on the people around her. Without a word, she twisted my black hair into a makeshift bun and used a silver barrette to hold the curls in place.

      A man in a suit stood at our gate. He was bald and heavily muscled with a ginger-colored goatee. Uncle Stefan, I thought, feeling pleased with myself for having so easily imagined the man. Maybe he was younger and less paunchy than I’d guessed, but I had nailed his basic appearance.

      “Lou!” squealed Sasha, confusing me as she embraced the man. “Ellis, this is Lou. He works for Stefan. Lou, this is Ellis.”

      Lou shook my hand, and I wondered if he could see the difference between the two of us. Sasha, effortless with her money. Me, a poor church mouse on scholarship.

      “You’re just as lovely as Sasha described,” he said. His accent was distinctly Irish, and charming. I felt my cheeks go pink at his words. The scarf slid a little and I hitched the burnt-out velvet back onto my shoulders. If he could discern the fact that I was in the empty-pocket club, he didn’t show the knowledge in his expression. He treated us equally, following us to the baggage claim, not appearing at all judgmental about my battered suitcase in comparison to Sasha’s pristine luggage.

      On the way to the villa, Lou and Sasha shared stories, talking about people they knew in common. Sasha had spent many summers in Italy. I stared out the window, wanting to pinch myself. Was this for real? But something in my head nagged at me. Two weeks. I had two weeks in Venice, and then I’d have to return to the nightmare that was my real life. To the Frigidaire box under the bridge.

      Sasha seemed to sense my mood. She put one hand on top of mine and squeezed. “Everything will work out,” she said. “Relax.”

      I saw Lou put one hand on top of Sasha’s thigh and squeeze.

      “Relax,” Sasha said again, softer.

      The word must mean something different in Venice, I thought.

      * * *

      I don’t know what time it was when we arrived. New York time? Italian time? All I knew was that I was