Page 130 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“You know what it is, Dad. For both of us,” Bianca said, storming into his room thirty minutes later, while he was folding his pants. She plopped into the chair by the window and kicked up her feet on the ottoman. “Actually, let’s back up. The turbulence thing.”

“Oh, yes, let’s bring that back up, please.” George set his troubles aside, feeling how much he was going to miss her. Especially the way she could light up a room.

“I’ve never admitted this,” she said, “but I have to use apps when I fly. I track the plane, follow the weather, and measure G-forces. If the turbulence is bad, I close my eyes and wait to die. It’s the freaking worst. People with turbulence anxiety, maybe even people who suffer any kind of motion sickness from riding in cars, boats, planes, they all have something in common. Control issues. I’ve had plenty of clients who suffer from it, and like a lot of things, I diagnose and help them while quietly sweeping my similar issues under the rug.”

George sat on the edge of the bed, enjoying seeing his daughter getting wound up. He’d love to take that thirst for life back to Arizona. Of course, before he left for the airport, he planned to tell her about his run-in with Corrado. But an idea had started to surface. He could pull Corrado aside tonight and ask forgiveness, tell the kid he didn’t mean anything by it. Please don’t tell Bianca. Forget I said those things. It wasn’t the prettiest solution, but maybe this was one of those rare times when you don’t have to totally come clean.

“Point is,” she said, “I have control issues, as do you. What does that mean, you might ask. For me, it means that I don’t want anyone to know that I’m not perfect, so I keep up a facade. I don’t like relationships because they obviously require a huge surrender of control. You have to deal with someone being all up in your space, leaving dishes in the sink, deciding what you watch on television, asking for things, needing things. I stay on top of life because I want to be in control of every piece of it, leaving nothing to chance. Even the act of sitting and doing nothing is so hard exactly because it’s the opposite of being in control.”

George could barely keep up.

“And even my issues with my weight. I have a hard time controlling it, like this writhing beast inside of me that I can’t tame, despite diets and all the other shit, which naturally means I’ve created an unhealthy relationship around my body shape . . .”

That broke George’s heart. “Honey, you’re perfect the way you are.”

“No, I’m not perfect. But that’s okay. No one is. Trying to be perfect is controlling. Chasing an impossible standard is controlling. Trying to be Peggy Megawatt is controlling. Living and dying by a to-do list is controlling.”

“Dammit, I’m going to miss you, B.”

She sighed, having gotten it out. “You know where to find me.”

“Yeah, I know. Trust me, if you can tolerate me, I’ll be back. I need this—your wise words—for my soul. I never thought I’d say it, but I may miss Italy too.”

“What’s that?”

“You heard me.”

“By the way, please don’t eat. Text Sandy and tell her not to eat either. Nine courses tonight. No one better show up full.”

“Nine courses?”

“That’s right.”

Bianca felt like she was running wide open. Okay, many of the things she was thinking about would take work. Accepting her body for what it was. Accepting that she’d written a book that had misled people. Accepting that her life was a mess and might always be a mess. She had no idea what she was going to do going forward. But that was okay.

It was all okay.

What she wanted to do now was write. She grabbed her laptop, assumed her position in the shade of the clothes drying on the clothesline, and cracked open a blank document. She’d been making notes and writing deadly honest Substacks, but this was her first true venture into what might be a new book.

The empty page eyed her, and in a flash, she saw the negative reviews since the release of From Meh to Megawatt and felt all the ways she’d fucked up, how she’d wasted ten years living and working in a trance, and she saw the blank page of her life and how she’d thrown away her practice and given up on her life back in Texas. She had No Idea where she was going or what she was doing from here.

But she didn’t have to know.

She could be here now.

Living in freaking Italy with a blank page inviting her in. Not demanding that she write anything in particular, but waving her over and saying, “Come in. The water’s warm.”

One word, one sentence at a time.

She hovered her fingers over the keys, then took a breath and started to hammer away.

This one’s for me. But you’re welcome to peek over my shoulder if you want, because we’re likely going through the same stuff. And it all starts here, where the blank page beckons.

“Mom, guess what, I’m coming home,” Harold announced. “I found a cheap flight that arrives on Friday night. Can you pick me up?”

“Can I pick you up?” his mom asked sarcastically. It was 6:00 a.m. over there. “I was about to catch a flight to Italy and come drag your little ass back.”

“And guess what? I’ve been invited to the opening of a fancy new restaurant. Nine courses! Can you believe that? Don’t worry; Sandy, the bookstore owner I told you about, is paying.”