And I don’t know what to feel about it!
I turn toward my room, trying not to stare obsessively at my dark phone screen and willing it to light up with his reply.
Which is how I see a piece of paper I hadn’t noticed on the ground, lying in a haphazard way that makes me think it fell from some precarious, wedged-in spot on my door. I lean down to grab it, unfolding and scanning the contents as I step back into my room, then stop in my tracks. I’m unable to focus on any of the words long enough to read the thing in full, jumping frantically to different phrases that stick out in an endearingly messy handwriting that I recognize as West’s. Groupings of words that barely make sense to me, likemade a tough decisionandgive you spaceandgoing home.
As I piece more together, it only makes less sense. This absolute imbecile thinks that he’s…what, gracefully bowing out of my life, now that I’ve found my dad and need to focus onthat relationship, figure out what I really want and need next? Apparently so, at least temporarily. But even temporary space is drastic when it involves flying back across an ocean.
This feels like confirmation of some of my fears that I’ve thrown too much at him this summer, asked too much of him, and made his anxiety worse somehow, with all this forcing him out of his comfort zone. But his belief that he’s some kind of extra burden while I have more important stuff going on, or anything other than the partner I both need and want holding my hand while I figure the rest out—it’s beyond comprehension to me.
Is this just a letter full of excuses? Anything to try to cover his ass, to give him a pass to drop out of my life again with no real discussion? If he thinks I’ll let that happen, he really doesn’t know me like I thought he did.
I hurry to throw on a clean T-shirt and shorts, barely getting my feet into the first shoes I see, which happen to be my rubber shower flip-flops, before I’m hop-stepping down the hallway to the first floor. I’m so focused on my target, Dr. Danny’s door at the end of the hall, that I jump back in surprise when a different door swings open right as I’m walking past.
I look over to see who’s just scared the shit out of me, almost choking on air when I find it’s Luca Goedhart. My new-to-me father dearest, emerging from my mom’s room.
“Oh” is his very smooth reaction as he freezes, door falling shut behind him. I squeeze my eyes closed, not wanting to even begin to engage with this right now. And because I’m fresh off that whole “I’ll support however you want to handleit” conversation with my mom, I simply don’t engage, offering a wave and a clipped “Morning!” as I duck my head and march on. When I reach Dr. Danny’s door, I don’t look back to see if Dr. Walk of Shame is still there, or if he’s expired from the awkwardness of it all.
And I thought I had daddy issues before.
Dr. Danny, at least, does not scandalize me by opening the door in last night’s clothes or with any unexpected guests. He’s just in plaid pajama pants, a book tucked under his arm because, as he tells me right away, he was on the terrazzo reading. The only thing middle-aged-dad types should be doing at this hour, really.
Still, I don’t respond to the information, as—with no disrespect—I simply don’t care right now. “Do you know where West is?”
I try not to let my worry slip into my voice but I’m not sure I succeed, because I have a very bad feeling I do know where West is. And it requires a passport and boarding pass to get there.
Dr. Danny grimaces. “Oh, Cammie,” he says, and the sympathy in his voice makes any hope I have left die. “I thought he was going to tell you…”
I pull the letter out of my back pocket where I tucked it, and hold it up.
“Yeah, he did. Well, he wrote to me, because apparently he learned nothing in the last couple days about the dangers of conveying important information in handwritten letter form.”
Dr. Danny doesn’t bring a palm up to smack his forehead athis son’s antics, but his face says he wants to. “Well, no, that’s not how I expected him to go about it. But he left very recently, so he isn’t on a plane yet, not that I endorse any dramatic, movie-montage, running-through-the-airport situations, and not that you can even get that far in airports nowadays without a ticket somewhere, and in the same terminal as the object of your affections, and—”
I don’t hear the end of that rambling explanation, because in time-honored Villa Russo tradition, I have already started running.
Chapter Twenty-Four
West
It’s almost a feat, howlittle of the Italian language I know after all my time here. Not a feat I’m proud of, by any stretch—I wish I had more of a knack for picking up languages of the human, not electronic, variety. It would’ve come in handy on many different occasions.
But especially times like now, in the back of a taxi with a driver who seems very kind, but with whom I am tragically bad at communicating. I tried to explain, through slowly spoken English—as if the speed makes a difference—and lots of hand gestures, that the first cab I ordered to take me to the airport was a no-show. I’d waited twenty minutes before deciding I should call another, uncertain how these things work. Then it took another twenty minutes of getting redirected, being put on hold, rinse and repeat, until I was finally able to speak to another real-life person who understood enough of my languageto help the monolingual American get a much-needed ride to the airport.
Luigi might as well be an angel, as relieved as I was to see him pull up. But if this angel could flap his wings a little faster, I would appreciate it.
“Plane,” I say, stretching my arms out by my sides like I’m flying, “taking off”—I make the motion of soaring down a runway and lifting into the air with my hand as the plane—“very soon.” I finish by tapping an invisible watch on my wrist.
“Sì, sì,” Luigi says with an emphatic nod that doesn’t convince me he gets the urgency, especially with how slowly we are still rolling down the gravel drive. We’re not even off Villa Russo property yet.
“Grazie,” I say, and even my untrained ears know my Italian accent is terrible. Add it to the growing list of my incompetencies.
It’s not like I’m especially eager to go back to the US. I’m far from certain that doing so is the right decision, but once I booked the ticket, I was locked in. I’ve never missed a flight in my life, and as an already nervous traveler with, frankly, a lot of shit going on right now, I’m not inclined to test my fragile mental state by showing up late to the airport.
I let my head rest against the leather seat, trying to trick my sweaty body into believing that the breeze through the open windows is cool, rather than more hot air to go with my hot air. Soon, I’ll be back in the USA, land of overly air-conditioned everything, to the point that sometimes we wear layers indoors when it’s ninety-five degrees out.
What a beautiful disaster of a society. But it’s the one I call home, and I tell myself I am unreservedly happy to be headed there.
It will be good to see Pops, to spend a solid three to five business days in my bedroom, where I have all my familiar comforts and favorite snacks and the sleep setup I’ve optimized like it’s my job. I try to tell myself that all these things can make up for what I’m leaving behind.
