Page 3 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

Standing at a safe distance on the other side of the postcard stand, Moira said, “You might fire me for saying so, but I disagree, with all of it. There are a ton of expats in this city. We might all be running from something, but we crave connection too. People might find that here if you let them. Though you may not know it, even you might be craving connection.”

Sandy put her hands on her waist. “Moira, I’d fire you but then I’d have to get used to putting up with someone else’s shit. So you’re stuck with me and this godforsaken place till you smarten up and realize you’d be better off scooping gelato. The good news is you don’t have to overthink all these things. There will be no supercharging my bookstore. Come in, sell your six books a day, turn off the lights, and lock the door. That’s the perfect life. Got me?”

The mouse shook her little mousy head.

Self-loathing Sandy started feeling bad for her. There was nothing more miserable than feeling pity for someone. Especially when you’re the cause of their misery. She almost—almost—asked whether Moira wanted to go get a glass of wine, but she’d managed to avoid fraternizing with her employees for ten years. She sure as hell wouldn’t start today. The girl would have to pull up her big-girl panties and get over it.

It’s a good thing you could hide your internet history, because even after he was gone, George Briggs didn’t want people to know how meticulous he’d been in researching the best way to extinguish his life. The last thing he wanted was to survive a failed attempt. He couldn’t shake the picture he’d seen of a man who’d blown his jaw off, only to have to face the world after waking up in the hospital. The guy couldn’t even kill himself properly.

George would not make that mistake.

What had shocked him was how easy it would be to buy a gun in Arizona. No waiting period, no permit. A background check that would only take a few minutes. According to ChatGPT, a Glock 19 would be the wisest choice, as it was both dependable and easy to operate. He’d driven by the gun stores right off the Black Canyon Freeway several times but hadn’t found the courage (if that was the right word?) to go through with it.

A gun felt so damned violent. Well, of course it did, especially for a guy who’d grown up in a gunless household in South Phoenix. Hold on, household was a strong word. An exaggeration. He’d grown up in a single-wide trailer in poverty. His mother had died when he was nine, leaving his father, Mason, to go it alone. If they gave grades for overcoming grief, let’s just say Mason would not have made honor roll. He likely would have had to repeat a grade.

George kept thinking of Bianca, his only child. She lived in Austin, so it wasn’t that she would discover the body. It’s that the image would haunt her. The gore from a gunshot seemed far more terrible than something like . . .

. . . what he’d settled on now.

It was a Tuesday in March, and George sat in the living room of his apartment in Midtown Phoenix, the place he’d lived since the divorce. He held a bottle containing twenty-five pills of Percocet, which the internet had confirmed were well beyond a lethal dose. A much less dramatic way to go. All he had to do was knock them back like Tylenol, a few at a time, washing them down with the glass of ice water that he’d set on a coaster because even though he wouldn’t live to see it, he still couldn’t imagine leaving a ring on the coffee table. Maybe Bianca would want the table for her place in Texas.

Twisting off the cap, he poured the first few in his hand, white pills that would take him away from this living nightmare. Most of his things were in boxes all over the apartment, packed exceptionally well and labeled appropriately. In a burst of naive inspiration shortly after his dismissal from Intel, he’d decided he’d try to embrace his forced retirement by cashing in his stock and buying a house in Red Hawk, a gated golf community in Scottsdale. The movers were coming in three days.

It was a move that he couldn’t face, though.

A lot of people didn’t understand the pain of retirement. In fact, most people couldn’t stop dreaming of the day they retired. But for the unlucky few, work was what kept them going. Without it, they had no purpose, and without a purpose, there was no point.

He jiggled the pills in his hand, like candy, then tossed them into his mouth. As badly as he wanted to go, the fear of making it happen riddled his insides. But the depression was so deep. Hopeless. Though George knew being jobless was the problem, he was in such a dark place that this awareness didn’t cast even a glimmer of light on finding a remedy.

Well, there was a remedy. And it was right before him.

Thoughts of what had brought him here filled his head.

“Thanks for making the time, George,” the kid had said in late January, waving him into a corner office.

Clueless, even after decades at Intel, George had thought he was being called in to be offered a raise. It was strange that this new kid who’d somehow become his boss was the one giving him a pay bump; he’d accepted that he’d hit his ceiling there.

Once George had taken a seat and the kid had started talking, he’d understood why he’d been called in. “You know we’re having to tighten things right now,” the kid had said. “Lots of competition. As you know, we’re having to make some strategic shifts.”

Strategic shifts. Soon as you heard that, you were done.

The most painful part was that George hadn’t been allowed to return to his desk. Almost thirty years with the company, and he was suddenly an outsider. They’d had his belongings delivered to him a day later. He hadn’t even been able to say goodbye to his colleagues because security walked him out of the building and watched him drive off the property.

He’d given his fucking life to that company. He’d skipped meaningful moments with his wife and daughter because he’d believed in Intel’s mission. Riding the microprocessor wave through the boom of the eighties, nineties, and early aughts had been a thrill—albeit a demanding one—and he’d let himself get too consumed. Honestly, he’d sacrificed his marriage and perhaps being a good father for that company.

Almost for naught.

George gathered the second handful of pills in his hand but paused, setting his eyes on his goodbye message. He’d already shredded fifteen typed letters and hand-scribbled notes in the last three days. The first had been so formal, the date up top, then “To whom it may concern,” the location of his will, a broad apology, and on and on. Followed by his signature in ink.

Subsequent drafts grew more informal from there.

He’d written a few directly to Bianca and his ex-wife, Faith, telling them he was sorry, that he wished he could go back in time. Hoped they’d understand. As a psychotherapist, Bianca would likely get it. Some people were beyond hope.

He’d finally settled on a simple handwritten letter because who was he kidding? He didn’t need to explain himself. Though Intel had been polite about it, giving him the chance to take his retirement, everyone, including Bianca and Faith and his friends, knew that he’d been put out to pasture.

All he’d said in the final copy was that he was sorry for the mess.

Sorry for the mess.