Page 43 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

Harold picked at his fingernails under the table but kept trying to stop himself, hearing his father’s voice. “Stop picking at your goddamn fingernails, Harry.”

“I don’t like being called Harry.”

“And I don’t like washing windows for a living. Tough shit!”

What Sandy had said had hurt, but maybe she was right. No, not maybe. She was right. He wasn’t exactly living up to the person Alice had met in the coffee shop. Not anymore. He certainly wasn’t leaving burn marks, per the book discussion earlier. No craters left by the Harold asteroid. He’d let himself get lazy, morphing back into someone less exciting.

“She really is lucky, you know.” Moira’s voice brought him back. “Alice, I mean. To be loved like that.”

“I guess so.” He scrambled for something else to say. “Have you ever been in love?”

Moira audibly exhaled. “I thought so, once, but things went sideways. I was apparently the only one living the fairy tale. Don’t mind Sandy, by the way. She’s like a bear cub wrapped up in cobra skin. Once you get to know her, she’s appealing in a strange way. You’ll never wonder what’s on her mind. No filter with that one.”

A genuine grin bent his lips. “I can see that. How long have you been working for her?”

“A year now.”

“And before that? I’m assuming you were born in England. What brought you here?”

“Bristol, yeah. Arrived in Bologna two years ago, started with Sandy last year.” Almost like she was reciting her history from a memorized script, she explained that she’d gotten tired of England and wanted a change. Came to Bologna because she’d visited with her parents once.

“And you snuck in before Brexit, I guess.”

“Barely. I’m an EU resident now.”

She was one of the good ones, Harold decided. A kind soul. “Thanks for inviting me. To the book thing and this. I don’t know anyone, and it’s been pretty lonely without Alice.”

“And you’ve proved my point about expats. We’re a strange bunch a long way from our homes, but we don’t like being lonely.”

They’d barely put a dent into the charcuterie board, and he went about deciding what to have next. He’d had five mortadella slices and three salamis, so he took two more salami to even it out.

“Do you want my advice?” Moira asked.

“Sure.”

“Move on. If she realizes how lucky she is, she’ll come back. But I believe, especially after reading Bianca’s book, that we have to take control. That whole warrior mindset thing. We can’t be victims. We have to look at our problems as challenges. You’re faced with a decision right now. Get beaten up with heartache or see it as an opportunity to plug yourself in and go full megawatt. In other words, level up.”

His head swiveled like a pinball lever. “Level up? You play video games?”

“Um, naturally.”

“I just . . . really? I thought you were a bookworm.”

“They go hand in hand, don’t they? I love stories, what they teach us, how they pull us in. What’s your console of choice, your desert-island game?”

“No, don’t do that to me.” He scrolled through some of the games he played most, hating the idea of being forced to choose. “No way I’m putting myself through such trauma. I’m taking all the Witchers, Fallouts, the Mass Effects, probably Fortnite for old school’s sake.”

“You’re only allowed one.”

Harold slapped the table, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. “Then I’m not going.”

“The world is ending, pure chaos, nuclear winter, zombies eating humans, and you’re not going?”

“Let the zombies come and get me. It’s not happening. I don’t want to play just one game. What a nightmare.” He was half serious. He also realized that, for once, he wasn’t thinking about Alice, so that was nice. He realized Moira was laughing at him.

“Are you enjoying torturing me?”

“I think this is adorable.”