Page 131 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“Nine courses? How are you going to eat all that, Harold. Last time I saw you, you were as skinny as a pole.”

“I know. Sandy just texted, saying that I shouldn’t eat beforehand so I can make room.”

“I want pictures. We’re doing a whole slideshow when you get home. And please tell me you aren’t going anywhere else for a while. It’s gotten lonely here.”

“No, Mom. I’m not going anywhere. Actually, I was thinking about trying to get into CCD—after I pay you back for this trip.” He’d spent the morning checking out the Community College of Denver, looking through the degrees. It wasn’t Harvard, but it sure beat sitting around waiting for a break.

“You know I support you, Harold. I think it’s a nice idea.” He heard her strike a match and light a cigarette.

“I do know that, Mom. You’ve always been there for me.”

“Always will!”

After they’d hung up, Harold texted his group of gamer friends. He’d never met them in person, but for years, he’d been playing role-play games like Project Zomboid, a slow-burn survival sim, and VRChat, where you hang out as avatars in virtual worlds.

Hey, guys, would you mind if I invited my friend Moira to play? She’s one of us.

While he waited for a response, he accepted that in becoming Aroldo he’d taken his role-playing too far. It was best to leave it in the virtual world.

A burst of energy struck him, and he said out loud, “I matter because I choose to matter. Take that, Dad, and Duo, and all you other doubters out there.”

Charging up to a stand, he said again, “I matter because I choose to matter. Just the way I am.”

He couldn’t remember feeling better in his life. With a renewed sense of purpose, he beat on his chest, like an ape in the jungle signaling his dominance, like a once lost man who has finally found his way.

He pounded on his chest harder and harder, shouting, “Harold Gibler matters!”

Sandy hid in her office, about to dial Jack. Moira was on the sales floor, basking in the fucking glow of hosting a successful book club. If Sandy weren’t so proud of her, she’d be upset. Sandy hated being proven wrong.

At least she used to.

She liked being wrong in this case. Moira had been correct: People really are looking for connection. They’d had a banner day yesterday, selling more books than the entire week before. That’s what you get when you turn the bookstore into a Jerry Springer event.

“Jackie,” she whispered into the phone. “What a summer, and it’s not even over yet. Moira somehow pulled off the book club event, the one I told you about, if you ever listen to the messages all the way through. It turned into a Jerry Springer or Oprah thing, long story, but we had a banner day of sales. We’re back to the usual now, though, a bunch of perusers. Had a woman today who brought seven books to the register. I rang her up, ran the card, and then she changed her mind. Returned six of them. I can’t with these people.”

Moira’s voice rose up the stairs. “Sandy, you have to get down here.”

Sandy stormed halfway down the circular steps. “Dear God, I’m in the middle of something.”

“You have to see this!”

Sandy put the phone back to her ear. “I have to go, Jack. Apparently, there’s something I have to see.”

Moira stood at the bottom of the stairs, gleaming in orgiastic splendor.

“What is it?” Sandy asked. “Did Taylor Jenkins Reid have a cover reveal? Emily Henry announce a new one? Harold take you to tongue town last night?”

“Sandy Cooke. I can’t believe you said that.”

“I can’t believe you can’t believe it. Since when do I have a filter? So did Harold take you upstairs last night or what?”

“We had spritzes, that’s it.”

“Uh-huh,” Sandy said, a smile ambushing her. “Maybe tonight’s your lucky night.”

“Okay, noted. Now can I tell you why I called you out from your lair?”

“My lair?”