I attempt my shitty Italian with the poor woman behind the counter and am rewarded with a wrinkled nose and upturned hands. Right. Just point. She nods at that and scoops the beautiful slices up with her wooden peel and pops them into the hole in the bricks that are erupting with flames. I was speaking fluent Italian last night with Franco and Vincenzo. How does one lose fluency so fast? Does sobriety block access to language processing?
Before I have time to puzzle out the neuroscience, euros are being removed from my palm and the most gorgeous sight known to man is being pushed across the counter at me. I pocket the change that I don’t bother checking and grab the pizza, hovering over it likethere might be a seagull waiting to accost me from above. Google time.
By the time I swing open the glass door to the café, half of my pizza has disappeared and I’m resigned to the fact that I’ll need to head back up the alley to get like nine more slices. I stop at the counter where a young man with blue hair is studying the screen of his Mac Air like I don’t exist and ask for a half hour of internet. He gives me a card, points to an empty computer that looks like it’s from my dad’s college years, and takes my money—all without looking up. Impressive.
I slide into the swivel chair and down another slice before wiping my hands and getting to work.
The second I’m logged into my Google account, I’m bombarded with unread emails. Most are trash, sales at stores that conned me into giving my email address, a few event notices from Villanova, several emails from Tammy, one from my advisor’s secretary reminding me he’s away, and a few capitalized subject lines from my father.
“Shit,” I whisper.
I purposely avoid my father’s emails, swallowing the guilt right down with the cheese, and open the one from my advisor first, which is just a generic I’ll be out of the office email. I hover over the one from Tammy—subject line F*** HIM. Promising title.
Aves,
I swear I had no idea. I’m embarrassed to share DNA with him. I love you. Please call me.
Always,
T
The relief at her ignorance settles into the empty spaces in my chest. The betrayal from Ethan was bad enough. But if she’d known, that might have ripped out a piece of my soul.
I click on a more recent one from her.
Ava,
You need to call me. We need to talk about the gala …
Love,
T
Why would she want to talk to me about her mother’s charity gala? Maybe she met someone. A little rush of excitement pushes through me and I hammer out a reply.
T,
It’ll all be fine. Ethan and I will work it out when I get home. Phone has gone over a cliff, but I can’t wait to hear about the gala. Pizza here is orgasmic.
Wish you were here,
Aves
Itwillall be fine. I just need to give Ethan that space to remember what we are. I hit send and let my cursor hover over my father’s emails. I take another bite of pizza for strength and then click at random on one from this morning titled JOB OFFERS.
Ava,
I know you don’t have much longer to decide, but I think we should discuss the options again. The moment you get this, you need to call me at my office. 989-634-5242
Be safe,
Dad
My stomach flips at the idea of having to explain to him that I accepted a job offer without running it by him first. He’ll be hurt, no doubt, but I’m a grown-ass woman and I needed to handle it on my own. Coupled with this trip that he never supported, there’s no way in hell I’m making that phone call any time soon.
I decide to ignore the four other emails from Dad and head to Instagram for some light Bennington stalking instead. I log in and click on Tammy’s gorgeous face at the top so that her story fills the monitor. A small pang hits me beneath the ribs when I see her at her mother’s charity gala on the steps of the Franklin Institute. I haven’t missed a gala since we met. But it seems Bennington life goes on without me. Tammy’s wearing the gold dress with the ribbed bodice that she bought at D&G on our girls’ trip to NYC last month, and damn do I mean she’swearingit. Her hair glimmers over her shoulder almost the exact shade of her dress, and she’s so distracting I barely even register Ethan beside her. But then I do, and I can’t unregister him. He’s wearing his tuxedo with the onyx silk lining, the one I helped him pick out at Saks before his graduation ball. He looks as dazzling as ever. Golden hair not a centimeter too long and parted perfectly, blue eyes directly on the photographer, stature of a god.
The next photo takes over the screen, and I see Tammy sitting at one of the tables set up in the Benjamin Franklin room at the Franklin Institute. She’s giving the camera a wink with a glass of champagne pressed to her lips, and just before the photo disappears I see Ethan’s golden head in the background. I quickly click Tammy’s icon again and reload the story, holding the cursor down to pause it when the photo reappears.
