Page 142 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“Yeah, I know.” A silence cut through them. Sandy couldn’t handle it and asked, “How long till we see you again?”

George glanced at his daughter, who’d backed away to let them talk. “Whenever she’s ready.”

“You better start working on your Italian again. I get the sense she’s not coming home any time soon.”

“Yeah, me too.”

More silence. Sandy couldn’t deny that this was hard, saying goodbye, shutting the door on could-have-beens. Men like him didn’t come around too often.

She straightened the collar of his shirt, then said, “Make sure to leave things in a good place between you two. Because you never know when you’re saying goodbye for the last time. Know what I mean?”

He lifted a corner of his lips. “I do.”

Their eyes held each other in limbo for a long time, the world spinning around them, the night carrying on.

“Was nice to meet you,” George said, and she could tell he was frustrated. And he had every right to be. She’d screwed it all up and let her wretched past win. What was she to do? It was too late now.

“I’m sorry, George. You’re such a good man. Make sure to look me up when you get back.”

“You know I will. Bye, Sandy.”

She feared he might stick out his hand for a shake, so she leaned in, kissed his cheek, and pulled him in tight, wishing things could be different, wishing he’d been the first man with whom she’d ever fallen in love.

Chapter 33

Leather in the Rain

Sandy went walking. She wandered for a good two hours before finally reaching her apartment.

So much on her mind, so much regret.

Pushing open the door, she kicked off her heels. Nicolo came rushing down the hall and weaved between her legs. “Che notte.” What a night.

She poured herself a glass of wine and sat at the dining room table. Her stray curled up below, his head on her foot. After a while, she dialed Jack’s phone, listened to his greeting, then said, “Guess the cat’s out of the bag now. Does it change anything? I don’t know.”

The hole in her heart swelled.

She fell silent. Only when the phone beeped did she realize she was still leaving a message.

She hung up and dialed again. “Sorry, I was drifting off. So here I am, Jack. I don’t know what to do. You’re gone and not coming back. What do I do without you? I don’t like being alone. I don’t. Like. Being. Alone.”

A sigh escaped her. She ended the call and let her head fall. As she collapsed onto the table, all the loneliness she’d ever known pecked at her, making it worse than ever.

She withdrew the coral from her pocket and ran her thumb over it. Despite a difficult childhood, Jack had always loved Florida and had carried this piece of coral in his pocket during deployments to remind him of what he was fighting for. After his death, the army had shipped her an envelope holding his wallet, his dog tags, and the coral. She’d kept it near ever since.

Though the coral often brought her comfort, tonight it only made things worse. What a terror to be human, to want connection so desperately but to be so vulnerable because of it. It wasn’t that she’d lost Jack eight years ago; she lost him every second of every day, over and over again.

Was it any wonder she didn’t want to endure more loss?

Nicolo stared up at her, and she said, “I know you’re enough. It’s that I . . . Maybe you’re not. I don’t know. Maybe you’re not enough. Sorry, close your ears.”

Leaving the coral on the place mat, she retreated to her bedroom to fade away. After a sleepless hour of stewing in a cauldron of loneliness, she took a shower, then tried to sleep again.

Nothing. Eyes wide open, her mind on fire.

Nicolo kept his distance, clearly insulted by what she’d said earlier.

Not even a book—not even Diana Gabaldon—could take her away from the emptiness inside. Who the hell wanted to read about love that they themselves would never experience? As far as Sandy was concerned, the only banned books should be romance! That’s the dumb shit you think about when you’re exhausted.