Page 10 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

Returning inside, he grabbed a bag of potato chips and a can of Coke and plopped down on the couch next to his laptop. He responded to a few WhatsApp messages and emails, including one from his mother in Denver asking for pictures and scolding him for not calling her yesterday. Her closing words: I want more pictures. Also, don’t forget to be yourself. Love ya! Your mama.

She could never stop mommying, which was awesome most of the time.

He proceeded to grab a game controller and join his gamer friends back in the States for several hours of their latest obsession. Lately, they’d been playing Project Zomboid. Though he’d never met them in person, these guys were his best friends.

Harold and Alice’s days had fallen into an easy rhythm. He would wrap things up in time to visit Le Briciole di Via Giulia (the Crumbs of Via Giulia) for fresh pastries, oftentimes stopping by the fiorista as well—if the owner was in early. Alice loved the breakfasts Harold prepared for her, and he took great pride in them. By the time she appeared from her daily shower, he’d have the table set with a flower in a ceramic vase, a selection of pastries, freshly squeezed orange juice, and her favorite: hard-boiled eggs. Without fail, he always wrote a quick thought on a sticky note to place on the place mat. Cheesy stuff in Italian: Mia cara; Mia Alice, mio amore; Fiore mio; mia gran bellezza. Upon her entrance in one of his T-shirts, he’d give her a kiss and then rush into the kitchen to make her a cappuccino, a skill he’d acquired back in the old days.

Once she left for class, Harold would crash till well after lunch. Then he’d wander down the street to find a mortadella panini and spend the afternoon being punished by Duolingo, watching television with English subtitles, and catching up with more “work” before she returned home. Truthfully, work always equaled gaming.

She’d suggest they’d go on a walk, and he’d do his best to talk her out of it, only occasionally conceding. How had people become so duped by the random ten-thousand-steps number? There was no science to back it up, yet the users of these wearable devices desperately clung to the goal of reaching this number each day. He’d tell her he’d already walked several miles, dealing with conference calls. “So much of my life is conference calls,” he’d say. “All I do is walk and talk while you’re gone.”

The constant nagging about the walking aside, their routine was perfectly wonderful, and he hoped things would never change. But one day in early May she came home in an atypical mood.

He quickly cleared the history on his browser and closed his laptop. “You don’t look very happy? Tutto bene?”

Her extremely short tan shorts showed off her long legs. She collapsed onto the couch next to him, her shorts inching up even more, revealing the porcelain white of her thighs. “I have to tell you something.”

An ache instantly presented itself in his chest. Before Alice, he’d never been in a true relationship, but he’d noticed a few signs recently: the lack of eye contact, disinterest in sex, less glee when she sat down for his breakfasts.

It took her a moment, but she eventually said, “I’ve met someone.”

The world went black and bitter.

“What do you mean you’ve met someone? We all meet people.”

“No, I met a guy at the café, and things have taken a turn.”

He felt like he was suddenly passing through an asteroid field, being struck in every part. “What kind of turn?”

“I’m in love, Harold. His name’s Renzo; he’s a little older. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. You can stay here and take over the rent. I’m moving in with him.”

“A little older?” Her words echoed in his brain. He looked at the stunning girl that he planned to marry, the beauty radiating from her green eyes even when she was cutting out his heart. He tried to speak but he’d taken too many hits. His spaceship was going down.

“Want me to give you a minute?” she asked. “Harold?”

They sat there a long time. She spoke, though he could barely hear her, mentioning a few details about Renzo as if Harold might cheer them on, then added that she and this imbecile would find a good time to collect her things, that Harold could have the kitchen stuff. Eventually she stood and said goodbye.

“Alice,” he finally said as she reached the door.

“Yeah?” Her hand touched the knob.

“Wh . . . wh . . . what about love?” he asked. “What about our evening spritz?”

“It was fun.”

Fun? he thought, as he watched her disappear.

Chapter 4

A Fling to Remember

In early May, one month after Bianca’s breakdown, she flew to Bologna, Italy, to begin again. She’d called each of her clients, explained her situation, and offered them alternative psychotherapist recommendations. She’d put some things in storage and rented out her apartment. Now she was armed with a purse, a backpack, two suitcases packed to the maximum, and her Italian passport courtesy of her Bolognese grandmother. Bianca’s mother, Faith, didn’t have the most Italian first name, but she came from a long line of Malatestas, a family who’d inhabited Emilia-Romagna for centuries.

Even from the moment the wheels touched down, she felt a surge of life. Through the window of the taxi that took her to her Airbnb, she could see her twenty-two-year-old self wandering these same streets, connecting for the first time with her heritage and shaking off the aggro-American ways she’d picked up from her father and four years of grinding at Pomona College. She’d gotten accepted by the University of Texas to pursue a master’s in clinical psychology but had been granted a deferment for her Bologna adventure. In so many ways, the break had saved Bianca’s life.

Faith had always encouraged a gap year. In fact, years earlier, she’d started a “gap year fund” for Bianca, squirreling away savings from her part-time work at a clothing boutique in Phoenix.

Bianca’s father, George, on the other hand, had stood strongly against the idea, saying that the world wasn’t a safe place and that she’d lose her academic momentum. He was the one who’d burned corporate words like trajectory and momentum into her psyche. Fortunately, he’d lost the battle then, and he’d lost it again this time. He’d desperately protested when Bianca had called him weeks back to inform him she was returning to Italy for an undetermined amount of time. His arguments echoed those of years ago. “B, the world isn’t the same as it was. What if we end up at war? Italy is unstable at best. And what about your work? You might not be able to build up your client list again. Don’t take your life for granted, honey. Play this one safe.” That mindset was exactly why she’d found the courage to return. She didn’t want to reach her deathbed realizing fear and “playing it safe” had dictated her life.