I touch my phone screen and the text pops up from my father.
We still on for dinner tomorrow?
I let out an actual groan like a child asked to clean her room, and Jeff looks over at me.
“You need a donut?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
“Two,” I say and the angel-man actually stands, without even rolling his eyes, and heads off to the break room to bring me donuts.
He probably just needs a break from my negativity.
I text my dad back a thumbs-up emoji and lean back in the swivel chair. I haven’t told him that I know about mom, yet. After writing and rewriting a confrontational email to him a dozen times, I figured it’d be best to handle it in person. Or I’d chickened out. And obviously he knows I’ve accepted the job here without ever consulting him. This dinner is going to require some pregaming.
I woman up and text Tammy:Don’t kill me, but can we reschedule happy hour for tomorrow? I swear I’ll get my ass there by four …
The triple dot appears and I’m actually wincing in apprehension.
Are you trying to get drunk before your dinner with dad?
It’s terrifying how well she knows me.
Yeah.
Short and sweet. No need to waste time failing to bullshit a politician’s spawn.
Fine. But your job blows.
I put my phone down beside the inch-thick packet in front of me. My job doesn’t blow. It’s just challenging. This is what I signedup for—the push and grind. The immersive distraction of a career that matters. The thrill of the race.
I just can’t feel the thrill right now because I turned off my emotion switch to self-preserve. Selective numbing. The thrill will come.
And until then, I’ll just have to settle for the donuts.
SESSANTA
James
Market day is busier than usual. Feria brings Italians from every region to Urbino, though most head out to the coast. Nina’s table is nearly empty of cheese, the coolers behind us packed only with slushy melting ice, as we sit in companionable silence watching the swarm.
“Ava is doing well,” she says, pretending to wipe something off the table.
She does this. Not so subtly updating me about her like I need to be reminded that she’s out there existing without me.
“That’s good,” I say. And I mean it. Her happiness is the only thing making this separation acceptable.
“Lei ha detto che il lavoro è troppo—that she’s overworked and tired already.”
I glance over at my aunt, and she lifts her brows and shrugs, like she’s just making small chat and not burying land mines beneath the surface of my brain.
Overworked means nothing. Ava knew exactly what she was signing up for—she wanted that push and burn. It’s how she got through. At least, that’s what she wanted before.
Nina meets my gaze, studying my face like she is searching for her next move on a chessboard.
“Forse, you should call her, no?” she asks, fingers and hands swirling in a why not gesture.
“I told you, Zia. Clean break was her call. Less messy.” I put the last two words in air quotes.
“Ancora? She still believes that life is not meant to be messy?” She shakes her head as if she has somehow failed and then pats my face twice. “Leaving doesn’t always mean not loving,” she says softly.
