Page 112 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“Dear God, you’re an enigma.” His curiosity was starting to bother him. “What if I told you my secret, then would you share?”

“I doubt it. Sorry. Can’t we be okay with having our secrets?”

“That’s a good question. Can friends be friends if there are secrets between them?”

“Are we friends?” she asked.

He thought about it. “I think so.”

“And what if we were more than friends?”

“What?”

“I shouldn’t say this, but I’m going to, and who cares? You’re leaving anyway. I was always jealous of Alice.”

“Jealous of Alice?” The idea was beyond preposterous. The tone of his voice said so.

“Yeah, the way you love her, Harold. No one has ever loved me like that. And maybe it was more than that. Maybe because it’s you.”

“What do you mean?” His foggy brain was spinning. Was she making a move?

Her eyebrows squinched together as she seemed to lose herself in thought. Then she removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Returning them to her face, she set her green eyes on him. “I sometimes wonder what it would be like to kiss you.”

“To kiss me?”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing. Yes, Harold. To kiss you. You know, you go on worrying about Alice, and you don’t even see something that’s right in front of you. I’ve had a crush on you since the first day we met, and yes, I wonder what it would be like to kiss you. So fucking sue me.”

Harold reached for an itch at the back of his neck. “Um, I don’t . . . I didn’t—”

“Of course you didn’t. I’m no Alice.”

“That’s not what I’m—”

“Oh, screw it.” She sprang up from her chair and swooped down and grabbed his head and kissed him, holding her lips against his long enough for him to realize what was happening.

He hadn’t seen any of this coming.

“Hold on,” he finally said into her lips.

“What?” she said, stopping.

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I didn’t know what this was.”

She stood tall over him, the stars coming to life over her head. “What this was.”

Not that it wasn’t nice to kiss her, to be wanted. “I’m so sorry, I’m still in love with Alice. I didn’t mean to . . . I think you’re amazing and—”

She backed away like he’d hit her. “Don’t even go there.”

“Look, don’t be offended.” He held up a hand. “You’re so awesome; it’s . . . you know . . .”

“I get it, all right.” She swept up the bottle and stemware. “Let’s go. I need to lock up.”

“Moira, please.”

“Get up, Harold. I need to go home.”

He looked at her, puzzled. How could she think that he had room in his heart for anyone other than Alice?