“She’s actually on allergy meds right now and also got dumped three hours ago,” Olivia said, now putting the water glass directly into Michelle’s hands. “I promise she’s lovely otherwise. Listen, I don’t mean to be judgy, but why on earth would you want to come back somewhere like here? When itseems like all of us are trying to get back to somewhere like there?”
“Mr. Mayor,” Michelle began, leaning toward him. She ran her fingers down the lapel of his jacket. “I need to pee.”
“OK, OK, excuse us,” Olivia said, wrapping her arm around Michelle as they stood. “She’s allegedly potty trained, but I’m taking no chances. Will you be here when we get back?”
“You know, probably not,” he said, feeling relief. He’d been looking for an exit for the last hour, possibly for the last two days and maybe even before that. There was no sense in procrastinating. He was done.
“I get it.” She smiled. “It was lovely to meet you, Andrea. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
He watched Olivia guide Michelle toward the restrooms, then stood, assured Jason he would see him the next morning for their meeting, and said good night. As the elevator slid back down the fifty floors to the ground, he thought about what Jason said about not needing attachments, making money for people like Charlie Hammersley, apartments with rooftop terraces, cocktails made of smoke, and how all of it seemed to be similarly lacking in substance. Andrea walked through the marble lobby, out onto West Fifty-Ninth Street, and was greeted with a wall of trees at the border of Central Park. He crossed the street to the park side and took a left, walking toward Columbus Circle and his hotel. It was a gorgeous September night with a slight crispness to the air. The city was still humming close to midnight, and he remembered how sometimes it felt like New York matched the restless energy in his own head.
But that’s the job.It wasn’t about substance. It wasn’t community service. It wasn’t repairing bridges or finding ways to fund education or even fixing electrical outlets and stinking like fried dough on occasion. Was it possible that he’d only come here to confirm what he already knew—that neither London nor New York was the place for him? He didn’t need a different location; he just needed to finally commit to the one he was in. These streets only held more of that same feeling he remembered—of being a disconnected soul in a sea of people. He was never, ever more alone than when he was in New York. And then there was the thought hovering that he hadn’t wanted to admit. It was another reason why he’d come here to see if this could be the right life: Baia Santa was not the same without Lora, and she’d left her mark on everything she touched. The rest of the documents were getting scanned, his house was livable, iced coffee was the top seller at Giada’s café, and the star rating on every business in town had risen—no doubt due to the trail of sparkling reviews she’d left all over the internet. Not only that,hewas not the same without Lora. In two months, she’d rearranged the pieces of him, and it seemed like he was wasting his time looking for some kind of relief from it in New York.
He walked through Columbus Circle and up toward Broadway, wondering what Lora would think of him. She’d probably tell him that he didn’t need anything but himself, that he could still live his best life in spite of it all. She’d look at him with those gray-blue eyes and quote something about fear and resilience and personal volition. So, he’d come here, and tried to see things differently, and failed. But now he realized that he’d gotten it backward. It wasn’t about what hemight be missing in New York; it was about taking a hard look at where he felt good and finally accepting it. For himself.Mamma mia, che scemo—he was an idiot. In fact, he should tell her what an idiot he was. Now. He glanced down at his watch. It was almost seven in the morning in Zurich. She’d probably be up, already thinking deep thoughts about saving the disconnected world. He was so tired. Should he?
Andrea:
I came all the way to New York because I heard your voice in my head telling me that maybe I’m hiding but I’m not
He shoved his phone back in his pocket and kept walking.
Lora and Vilmari sat at the bar at a Cuban restaurant on Eighth Avenue in New York City having a very Italian conversation. Lora had been trying to explain a ricotta-and-lemon pasta dish she had made with Vivi’s encouragement. A salsa band had just started playing, and since most of the tables in the restaurant had been pushed into a corner, she and Vilmari moved over to the tall stools.
“It was like macaroni and cheese had a glow-up,” Lora shouted over the music. “It was only four ingredients and I basically just had to mix them together.”
“I can’t believe you made dinner—for other people. I remember when you thought cooking was letting water steep in the Cup Noodles.”
“After I heated the water up in the microwave like abarbarian, I know. Using a teakettle was already too much work. But I am happy to say that I think it’s a skill I underestimated.”
“Well, now that you’re Italian…” Vilmari trailed off, grinning. “Are you going to yell at me for putting pineapple on pizza?”
“You can put mofongo on pizza, for all I care,” she said, laughing.
Vilmari had forced Lora to come out and be social. In the less than two days that she’d been in New York, she’d done nothing but sleep, giving in to a potent combination of jet lag and longing. She only got up to go get coffee, but then found herself on the subway and finally in Eataly, wandering through the marketplace like she was visiting old friends. She recognized the brands of pasta, coffee, olive oil, and anchovies. She read the labels, silently pronouncing words in her head like “taralli,” “asciutta,” “cremoso,” and “integrale.” She still hadn’t responded to Giada beyond a couple of heart emojis and was feeling guilty for not telling anyone in Italy that she had taken one hell of a left turn in Zurich. And while Lora was happy for Vilmari and Nico, something odd and uncomfortable sat on her chest when Vilmari said that she was planning to go back to Baia Santa for Christmas. She thought about Vilmari walking down certain streets and seeing certain people and realized that the odd feeling might have been envy. And it might have been because somehow it felt like Baia Santa washertown, which was ridiculous; it was no more her town than any other place on earth—at least that’s what she told herself.
She also told herself that she didn’t miss the hell out ofone very handsome Italian public servant with a bad stomach. Though they had never been in New York together, she saw him everywhere, and even she knew that what she was seeing was mostly a mix of her own imagination and regret. When she walked by an optometrist who had similar frames to his in the window; when she saw a jar of Nutella in the bodega; and this morning, when she saw a man with a button-up shirt and a floppy chunk of dark brown hair that fell across his forehead. When she started to get heart zoomies just seeing slices of pizza, she figured she was in trouble. And she knew she was going to have to do something about it. Soon. Her first order of business was to run it by Vilmari tonight. She straightened the long silver chain around her neck that held Ivo’s ring. It was too big to wear on one of her fingers without possibly getting charged for assault with a deadly weapon if she had to shake someone’s hand. Instead, she’d hung it from a chain and allowed it to thump gentle reprimands into her sternum. It had become a talisman, a compass, and something to hold on to when she needed it. Right now, she needed it.
“I’m going to meet Nico’s parents this time, did I tell you? I’m nervous! I’ve never been nervous around parents,” Vilmari said, taking a sip of the dregs of her Cuba libre. “I’ve heard some interesting things about Italian mothers, and I don’t want her to think I’m some uncouth American.” She looked down at the V-neck of her top and tugged it up slightly. “I probably need to go shopping, right?”
“I would suggest keeping your boobs on the inside of your shirt to start, yes,” said Lora as the band started up again. “But don’t think too much, honestly. I don’t think theywill care about what you look like if they’re sure you love their son.”
“Aww, Lor, I like this version of you. You’re so soft and squishy now that you’re adrift,” Vilmari yelled over the congas. She clamped her hand over her mouth. “Shit, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No worries. It’s true, I am adrift. Would you rather talk about my lease running out very soon?” Lora yelled back. “I can pull out the Pokémon deck of all the things I am concerned about, and we can see if I have any energy cards left. Actually, I wanted to ask you what you thought of something.”
“What?” Vilmari asked as she slipped off her stool and began a shimmy step to the beat.
“I want to tell you something!” Lora yelled. The band picked up the pace with a faster song that had the horn section blaring. How they fit a ten-piece band into a room that was less than thirty feet long, she would never know.
“Go!”
“I miss Andrea!”
“You have sleep apnea?” Vilmari screamed, her feet still moving.
“No!” Lora shook her head. She leaned closer and tried again. “I miss the mayor!”
“He’s here?! John Mayer?!” Vilmari’s head swiveled around.
