Page 120 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

She threw her arms around him, squeezing him and meaning it, feeling the years of anger she’d had toward him melt away.

Bianca and George sat next to each other on the couch. Wasn’t that a beautiful metaphor, both of them on the couch, both of them patients of life, flawed humans trying to figure it out. What in hell had she been thinking, trying to preach to her dad, teach him her wisdom? God, she’d proved her lack of it by spewing out her bird’s-eye-view advice, the great Austin therapist bestowing her vast knowledge upon her broken father.

Give me a break.

George might have been struggling lately, but he was a good and wise man who’d lived a full life. Maybe it wasn’t what Bianca would have chosen, but that wasn’t the point. This was a man who’d always given to others. The way he helped from the moment he arrived. How he’d cleaned the courtyard, actively giving the gift to her neighbors, who were mere strangers. The way he’d assisted the woman on the train with her bag. How he went out shopping for a gift for his housekeeper. The way he’d helped out at the bookstore—for free. How he’d dedicated his life, sacrificed it even, to make sure that Bianca and Faith never knew poverty.

If anything, George belonged in the therapist’s chair facing her on the couch. He was the wise one, the selfless one. And she’d not seen it. She’d been too angry that he hadn’t been at her beck and call throughout her childhood. She’d been so up in her own head that she hadn’t made room in her heart for sympathy.

She saw it now, all of it. The absolute beauty of this man. She thought back to his Intel coworkers, the ones she’d met over the years. She’d always resented him when they’d told her how great her father was. They were the ones getting all of his love. But no, everyone in his life was a beneficiary, even those like the woman with the red bag on the train, the neighbors. And Sandy. She had no idea how lucky she was to even be in his orbit.

He crossed a leg over the other and threw his arm up over the back of the couch, facing her. “Don’t worry, kid, I’ve come out of it. Your mom coming to my rescue helped. The Zoloft, it took a few weeks, but things started to ease. You helped. Welcoming me here, making up for lost time, seeing this country with you.”

“I can’t believe I’ve been such an asshole.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“No, seriously.” She peered into his eyes. “I want you to know that your commitment to serve people is extraordinary. I’m not even sure that I became a therapist to help others. I did it for the glory.” She laughed at herself. “If that makes any sense. I did it—and even wrote my book—because I liked the idea of being a healer, of being an authority. I’m not sure I’m even selfless enough to truly want to help people. I mean, I know I’m good at it, that I can see into people. Ugh, forget it. What I’m saying is . . . you’re an inspiration, Dad.”

“An inspiration until lately.”

“Yeah, well, nobody’s perfect. You’re allowed to crash sometimes.”

He nodded and looked toward the kitchen.

“Can I ask about the suicidal ideations? I don’t want to dig up bones, but I want to know. When’s the last time you had them?”

He sighed. “I was pretty close in March. That’s when I called your mom.” Then he added, “You know what saved me? When I was . . . when I was really close. My daughter. You.” He faced her again. “I’d taken some pills, was about to take more . . . and . . . you sure you want to hear this?”

“Yeah.”

“A message from you saved me. Saved my life. You were reaching out to say you were sending an advance reader copy, said that even after all these years, you still wanted your dad to be proud of you.” A tear dropped down his cheek. “I am proud of you, kiddo,” he said, his words broken. “More than you could ever imagine.”

She slipped into his arms, feeling his tears wet her neck. “I know that, Dad. I know.”

“What if you’d never written your book? What if you hadn’t reached out in that moment because you had this great book you wanted to share with me?”

She let go of him. “I would have reached out anyway.”

“Yeah, but . . .” He brushed away his tears.

“You should have told me about what you were really going through.”

“Maybe so, but it’s over now. I have what it takes to get through. And half of it is just knowing the truth, how dangerous a lack of purpose can be.” He patted her knee. “I’m going to find something else to do, but in the meantime, I’m going to learn to be okay without anything going on. Next time I visit, I might not even clean your fridge.”

“Let’s not get carried away.” She looked around. “You’ve put a sparkle into this place, made it feel like home. Made me feel loved. Every time I see that pink toolbox, when I open my cabinet and find the Tupperware organized to perfection, when I go into my closet and see the fresh coat of paint, the way you added extra hooks and made a special place for the vacuum cleaner and broom and . . . Every time I walk through that courtyard, I’ll be reminded of who you really are.”

“An obsessive clean freak?”

“No. Someone who serves others, who puts others first. The best kind of someone, really. My dad, George Briggs. The greatest man I know.”

This time, it was her tears that fell.

While George started packing, Bianca sat there for a long while, rebuilding her love for her father, seeing him in an entirely new light. It was she who’d stomped on their relationship lately, and now, it was time for her to put in the effort. Not only by inviting him back to Italy, but by getting on a damn plane, turbulence or not, and going to see him. After all, she did kind of want to meet this squirrel who was giving him such a hard time.

A while later, she flipped through her phone. Corrado had texted again. I’m holding you a table. If you decide not to come, I’ll replace you with a life-size cutout.

She hammered out: Again, mixed messages much?