I’ve had this postcard in my possession for six years, five months, and twenty-two days. When she handed it to me, she said, “You’ll know when to write on it when you have someone you want to share it with,” and I rolled my eyes like I always did when she made those vague, romantic comments. But, as usual, she was right.
She wanted me to have what she had in Urbino—to be inspired by the place that she claimed “transformed” her and learn who I was and what I was capable of. And when that became impossible the first time around, she made me promise to find a way there. I thought this trip was just another task to fulfill. It was an obligation. Another box on my checklist.
I didn’t know that I’d be part of a family again.
I didn’t know that I’d find a guide that could measure up to her.
You gave me Urbino—a place I will escape to every night—every moment I need a break from reality. You gave me back pieces of myself that I thought died with her.
And I’ll spend my life feeling grateful to you.
Love always,
Ava
The music starts around me, and I study Ava’s pencil sketch of me at the bottom right corner of the card. Every time I look at the drawing I feel a small swell of triumph inside me—to know that somehow Urbino brought her back to art, even if it is just in a tiny sketch, brings me more joy than I have a right to feel. I slip the postcard back in the inside pocket of my jacket and lift the camera to my eye, focusing on the couple dancing. The warm buzz I usually feel behind the lens eludes me as I imagine Ava in my arms on her last night here, the way the chatter of my family and friends floated around us as we spun slowly in the grass.
You could go after her.
She made her choice. She wanted to leave. Just like my mother chose her career.
We can’t control how others feel. Or don’t feel.
The groom dips his bride and her laughter rings out over the music. Friends and family look on behind them with blissful smiles. There’s a layer of warmth and joy surrounding the couple, and I try to focus on capturing that, never once forgetting that I’m looking in on something beautiful from the outside.
CINQUANTANOVE
Ava
I’ve got about eight million pages of case law to get through tonight and Tammy is demanding drinks at Del Frisco’s at seven. I’ve blown her off (with plenty of apologetic groveling) at least five times since I started last week, but I think bowing out tonight might be the detonation button. And no one wants to see Tammy detonate.
On the upside, having this much work has kept my mind busy enough that the ache I feel for James and Urbino only registers when I come up for air. Which I’m doing now, staring at the last text from Tammy and counting the exclamation points behind, “Don’t be fucking late!!!!!”
Five.
I hover over the reply line, trying to find the courage to let her know my boss has asked me to stay and share notes at the seven thirty impromptu meeting she called. She’s ordering dinner for usfrom Stella, as if that makes up for the total loss of life the staff is collectively experiencing again.
“Tammy again?” Jeff asks from beside me, his eyes still on the words he’s been highlighting.
“She’s gonna kill me. Or worse,” I tell him.
There’s nothing like a 120-hour work week to help you make new friends. Jeff and I hit it off immediately when he told me he’d attended the same International Law Summit in Urbino that I was meant to attend this summer. Though having that shared experience just makes that ache a little more difficult to ignore when he’s around.
“She’d better get used to it,” he murmurs.
I sigh and swipe away from her text, chickening out and finding the text chain Nina started with me. The text had been the first sitting in my inbox the moment I’d powered on my new phone.
“La tua cena fa fredda,” it read.
I’d translated all on my own that she was telling me my dinner was cold and then cried for an hour, imagining them all sitting around that table, laughter and head-smacks being thrown around in equal measure.
We text each other every day, Nina and I. A mistake, I’m sure, based on the fact that I should be cutting the umbilical cord and moving on and letting go. But her messages are like stepping into a warm Epsom bath. They soothe the ache.
Her name on my phone is the next best thing to seeing James’s appear. Even though we decided that wasn’t a good idea, I can’t help but feel the fluttering rush of hope in my chest every time a text comes through.
My phone buzzes again on the table beside the pages ofDeGiulio v. Stoddardthat I’ve reread at least fifty times todaywithout really getting what I needed. I’m distracted. Unfocused. And if I’m being honest, I have this nagging feeling of dissatisfaction in the back of my mind.
I’m sure it’s just the transition.
