“How about you?” I ask. “Why are you here alone?”
Liam pauses, his gaze dropping to his gelato before he looks back up at me. “I’m here alone because I didn’t think my wife would care to join me after our divorce.”
My eyebrows pop up. “You were married?”
“For two years. Pathetic, really.” He’s trying to laugh it off, but I can tell just how affected he is.
“It’s not pathetic.”
I can’t help but suddenly see Liam through a different, softer lens. Guarded as he is, there was a time when he trusted a woman enough to fall in love with her—to propose to her—to marry her.
“We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to,” I say after a bit. “This is all really personal stuff.”
“No, oddly enough, I don’t mind. This is one of the first times I’m willingly talking about my divorce and it feels...interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“I guess verbalizing your feelings is beneficial, after all. It appears I owe my mum an apology.”
I laugh quietly, thankful that the mood has been somewhat lightened.
“And before we finish up with today’s conversation, I have one last thing to ask you.”
“Go for it,” I say.
We stop walking just outside our courtyard.
“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” he asks.
I’m taken off guard by his question and end up squeezing my Styrofoam cup a little tighter. Even though I’ve spent almost every morning with Liam for the past few weeks, we’ve never ventured into dinner territory and I’m surprisingly nervous of disrupting our normal routine. But still, I don’t see any reason to say no.
“Sure,” I answer. “What time?”
His face remains indecipherable but relaxed. “How about eight o’clock?”
“Eight it is.”
With our plans secure, we enter the courtyard with easy smiles, but the air between us feels different. It’s not as carefree and there’s the slightest hint of tension and I’m not sure if I like it. I shake it off as best I can as I go into my building and Liam crosses the courtyard to go into his.
I take a nice long shower once I’m inside and check my email as I sit at the dining room table. I’m happily swimming in an oversize T-shirt with a towel wrapped around my dripping hair. I get to Maggie’s email last and find it unusually short, just one line asking me to call her. I look at my phone but don’t pick it up. I’m not ready to connect back with reality. Not yet.
Opting to email her tomorrow, I instead decide that I’m going to finish my novel right now—or at least write something. Anything. I end up sitting at the table for a solid hour and imagine smashing my laptop into the floor every five minutes. I’m a day away from my deadline. A day away from jeopardizing so much of what defines me. My career. My reputation. I have to prove to the publisher and myself that my best work isn’t behind me, but with every passing second, that outcome seems less and less likely.
I need to write. I need to finish. I type out a sentence and delete it. I force out a paragraph and delete it. I rub my hands over my face and leave them there, leaning my elbows against the desk. My mind is clouded with thoughts of fighting my way to safety but all I’m doing is digging my own grave. Soon I’ll be down so deep that the sun will disappear, replaced instead with layers of dirt and cold, wet air.
I shake my head and try again, typing and typing until I’ve filled an entire page. My fingers fall away from the keyboard until I bring them back to the mouse a few seconds later to highlight everything I just wrote.
Delete.
20
A little after eight, Liam and I are seated at a cozy restaurant that’s within walking distance of the Trevi Fountain, but not close enough to be a tourist trap. Being this close in proximity to my favorite place in the world, I’m itching to travel the distance and stare at it for no less than three hours.
“Perhaps after dinner we’ll go see your fountain,” Liam suggests over his menu.
I smile and nod, knowing he must have chosen this restaurant due to its location.
A handsome Italian waiter with slicked-back hair soon comes over to greet us and finds us ready to order. We’re somewhat plain and picky eaters and both order rigatoni Bolognese. The waiter hates us. He does, however, brighten up when Liam orders an expensive bottle of white wine. Once the wine is poured, Liam sends the waiter away with a regal nod of his head and raises his glass, prompting me to do the same.
