Page 29 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“The kid you liked way back when?” he asked.

“Yeah, we had coffee, no big deal. He’s a chef now, opening a fancy restaurant in the Hotel Minerva.”

George hadn’t meant to say kid. In the country an hour, and he’d already screwed things up. Not that she’d gotten hung up by it.

“And I connected with Carol; you remember her. I’ve started her yoga classes and hang out with her crew some. Mostly expats.” She told him how they’d sit for hours, doing nothing but chatting, this big group of them. Nothing but chatting? George tried not to judge.

“Here I am,” she said, swinging open the apartment door.

She needed his enthusiasm now more than ever, so putting true effort in, he forced his spirits to lift as she gave him the tour. “Oh, how wonderful,” he said when she showed him the kitchen, which was disjointed and dusty. “Lovely!” he exclaimed when she pushed open the door to her large bedroom, an all-white affair, her laptop on the desk by the window; and “I love it!” he chirped in an even higher-pitched voice when she showed him the guest room.

Light spilled in from the two windows that looked out over Via Giulia below. Several thick pillows lay across the top of the queen bed. A bouquet of flowers sprang from a vase next to a gift basket overflowing with what looked like chocolate and some other snacks, hand lotion, and a couple of fancy bottled waters.

“You’re too good to me,” he said, a lifetime of guilt going after him like a snake in a sleeping bag.

She faced him, took his hands, and said, “I’m glad you’re here. Let’s figure out a way to shake these retirement blues.”

Though it was a lot—the intimacy—George held eye contact. “You know me. Gotta find a new way to direct my energy.”

She squeezed his hands. “Let’s see what Italy does to that.”

A yawn escaped his lips, and he turned away. All at once, the heaviness of the travel came at him.

“You must be exhausted,” Bianca said. “The best thing to fight jet lag is to stay up. Can you make it to seven tonight?”

He ran a hand through his hair, doing math with his foggy head. It was around 9:00 a.m. now. “Phew, I don’t know. I might close my eyes for a while. An hour or so.”

“You’ll regret it.”

He inclined his shoulders. “I’m not in my thirties anymore. Give me an hour and a shower, and I’ll be great.” He shook his head and gave her a peck on the cheek, thanked her again.

Once she’d closed the door to his room, he climbed onto the bed, noting the cheap pillows and the firmness of the mattress and the unbearable fact that his feet hung off the edge. He might as well sleep on the floor. It was a good thing he’d booked a one-way trip. No idea how long he’d last. Still, being here with Bianca sure beat sitting alone in some sort of extended-stay situation while they cleaned up his HVAC system. But he had to make sure he didn’t bring any of his darkness into her life.

A few minutes after closing his eyes, he popped up and unzipped his bag. He moved everything to its rightful place, socks and underwear in one drawer, T-shirts and shorts in another. He hung his pants and shirts, then took his toiletry kit to the bathroom and arranged everything neatly, the shaving cream and razor on the right side, toothbrush, floss, and paste on the left, the Neosporin and gauze for his arm on the small shelf above the toilet. He kept his bottle of Zoloft hidden, not wanting Bianca to know that he was on an antidepressant.

Then he stared at the bidet, just stared at it, wondering what in the world you’d do with such a thing. This wasn’t the first time he’d wondered it, as he recalled his question from last time he visited, but he couldn’t remember Bianca’s explanation.

He stretched out on the bed again, clicked together his magnetic readers, and thumbed through his phone. It was the middle of the night back in Arizona, not much happening. Mr. Nutz had probably weaseled his way into the house and was drawing a hot bath and using George’s robe. The bastard.

Another yawn came fast and fierce, stretching his whole face. Setting his phone down, he slipped under the covers and shut his eyes again, his neck at a ninety-degree angle. The pillow was thicker than a car seat cushion and even stiffer than the mattress. One night here, and he’d need a lifetime of chiropractic care.

He tossed the pillow aside. Took him another twenty minutes of tossing and turning, churning up thoughts and fears, worrying that he could at any minute slip back into that awful place he’d been in March, till finally he drifted off . . .

An hour later, George limped down the three stories to Via Giulia, every muscle in his body suffering from fatigue. He told himself to buck up. Bianca pulled open the building door, making way for a heap of sunshine splashing through. George slipped on his sunglasses and came onto the street. His cushiony new shoes were the best thing going, as she’d already warned him that they’d be walking everywhere. He could use the exercise; maybe it would get him out of his head.

They stopped for coffee and a tasty pinza Bolognese, which was a doughnut with jam in the middle, then kept going. George hid his yawns. All he wanted was to be easy, so that she wouldn’t regret hosting him. No, he wanted to be more than easy; he wanted to be fun. If only fun were easy.

After walking through the University District, they left the city walls, crossed over a big road called Viale Giovanni Gozzadini, and entered Giardini Margherita, which she claimed was her favorite park in the city. Fountains in a large pond shot water into the air in wide arcs. The sun spilled through the trees, painting yellow lines in the green grass. There were worse places to be.

They took a seat on one of the benches that wrapped around the oak trees. George all but collapsed, and as he wiped the sweat from his brow, he said, “I don’t know much about steps, but I’m sure we did our ten thousand.”

“It’s a good thing we got some exercise, because I’m taking you to my favorite pizza place for lunch. We have a while, though. Italians don’t eat lunch till two or so.”

“Two? That’s dinnertime.” He’d forgotten this tidbit about life here.

“We’ll be there right when they open.” She checked her phone, then sat back. “So . . . I know you’re tired and never want to talk about things, and I should probably wait till I get a glass of wine in you, but how are you? I’d like to help.”

Her abrupt question punched him in the gut. There was nothing worse on this earth than making your kids feel like they have to help you. It should always be the other way around. He’d better head this off right now. “Don’t worry; I’m already coming out of it.”