Page 22 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

She called his name again.

Tapping into what little confidence he had left, he finally looked in their direction, finding the two lovers staring at him in bewilderment.

Even from thirty feet away, Harold could see their gelato mustaches. He wished he could have laughed at the absurdity of the situation, despite him being the butt of it, but nothing about it was fucking funny.

In fact, knowing he’d been busted and knowing he’d have to engage with both of them made him slip into tunnel vision, his body disconnected from his mind.

It took all he had to say, “Oh, h-h-hi, guys!” He trudged toward them, lifting his hand to wave, but he could barely feel his arm, as if it weren’t his.

“How are you?” Alice asked, wrapping one arm around him and offering a cheek.

Harold hadn’t figured out the European dual kiss and bumbled it mightily.

With her smell of strawberries and cream lingering in his nose, he said to himself: This is your chance, Harold. Pull it together!

Then out came words. “I’m quite nice, thank you. Out f-f-for a stroll. Well, running a marathon. Training for a . . .” He had to take a breath and only then realized he was speaking in an English accent. He could pass out at any moment.

“Meet Renzo, my . . .” She paused, not finishing her sentence. “Renzo, this is Harold.”

Renzo moved the cup of gelato to his left hand, then offered his right. “Piacere di conoscerti, Aroldo. Good to meet you.”

Had he just called him Aroldo? Also, never had Harold wanted to be fluent more than now. How wonderful might it have been to spit back some witty Italian.

Instead, as Harold accepted Enzo’s shake with a clammy hand, he looked away. Weak eyes seeking an escape from having to engage with the enemy. (In the years that would follow, no moment would haunt him more.)

“How’s . . . how’s it going?” The stutter of his youth was killing him now. Harold wasn’t a religious guy but whispered a prayer in his head anyway. Please God, save me.

He attempted to form a sentence but kept thinking that he’d lost her to this . . . to this Italian God in a lavender shirt that looked like its own flavor of gelato. And the way the dark skin of his handsome face glowed in the sunshine. His appeal was arresting. Never had Harold felt more inferior.

Alice’s mouth was moving, but he couldn’t make the words out. How long had they been standing there?

He wanted to run. Or he wanted to go down on his knees and start crying. This was awful. The panic attack took on a second wave, dizziness tugging him toward collapse.

The next thing he knew, Renzo was guiding him to a seat and offering him a bottle of water from his man bag. “Prendi un po’ d’acqua, ragazzo.” He had a gentle touch and a calming voice with a sort of maternal softness. Wanting to be held, Harold nearly pulled the man into a hug before catching himself.

More mouths moving. Harold took a long sip while Renzo patted his back. He was no stranger to panic attacks, as he’d been having them ever since he was a kid, his first one being when his father had shut him in the trunk of his car as an unfunny joke.

Harold drew in deep breaths, wishing that he could disappear. He’d trade death for this moment.

When he finally came back to reality, deep breath after deep breath, Harold looked around. Passersby had stopped to watch. Water dribbled down his chin. Alice and Renzo flanked him and were both rubbing his back and talking sweetly to him.

“You okay?” Alice asked.

He could finally understand her. “Yeah, I’m . . .” He almost said that he’d been training too hard for the marathon but bit his tongue. He had to get out of there.

“Here, have some more water,” she said, dangling the bottle near his mouth.

“I’m sorry. I have to go.” He pushed up, avoiding further eye contact, then mumbled something about having been ill and backed away, his feet wobbly under him. He nearly tripped on the curb as he started down the sidewalk.

A glance back.

Renzo and Alice watched with sympathetic eyes.

Rounding the corner and getting away was like plugging into an oxygen tank, and he was finally able to breathe normally again, to think normally again. He stumbled through the piazza and then picked up to a run, lefts and rights toward the apartment, one step after another, faster and faster, his chest heaving.

Unable to run any farther, he came to a halt, desperate for air. He now knew exactly what his custom-designed version of hell would be. Desperate to find some privacy, he snuck down a quiet alley and then cupped his hands to his face. With shame and heartache and disappointment oozing over him like toxic sludge, he began to cry.

Why did he have to be him? Why did he have to be born? Why couldn’t he be better? Why had his stupid fucking weak body betrayed him? He cried and cried and cried, letting it all out, not caring if anyone was watching. That was it, his one chance to prove that he was worthy of her, that he could stand up against any man, including Renzo. He’d blown the ever-living shit out of the opportunity. Never would she want to return to such a weak example of a human, a faulty product on the production line that should have been thrown into the trash.