Page 55 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“He’s three doors down, the only clothing store on the block. But he doesn’t speak English. How’s your Italian?”

“Simmering but not quite boiling.” How clever, Aroldo.

“Right,” Sandy said. “I’ll call and let him know you’re coming. And for God’s sake, let me set up a hair appointment too.”

“That would be lovely, bella!” Had he just called her beautiful? Why yes, yes he had. Take that, Duo.

She seemed as surprised as he did, and all he could do was toss a shrug. Aroldo was about to reclaim what was rightfully his.

Chapter 14

Let’s Try This Again

On the first of June, almost two weeks into George’s visit, he found himself hiding in his room, wondering how he’d made the decision to stay so long in this strange land. Italy wasn’t his bag; a room at a Motel 6 in Scottsdale had more appeal.

Furthermore, why drive more nails into the coffin of his relationship with his daughter? He might as well quit while he was behind. Every day, they found a way to crash into each other. Sometimes, it was subtle, but he could feel the tension between them grow.

God, she was trying hard, so hard. He could hear it in every breath she took, every moment she paused to find the right thing to say, every time she bit back a response when he bumbled a conversation.

The last bright flickers in his life were his time with her, even if she was going mad being around him, so he was putting up with Italy a little longer. He hoped that she could see that he was trying, because his trying took a lot right now. Getting out of bed took a lot right now. Turning up his lips took all of him.

Ever-present in his mind was how close he’d come to taking his life in March. The Zoloft was still helping—and certainly the tasks keeping him busy here—but he was in the same boat he’d been in since being escorted out of Intel. Soon as he got back, he’d have nothing. What would happen then? How easily he could slip back to that darkness that had consumed him. Not that he wasn’t wallowing in the dark now, but those days in March had been far worse. What he most remembered was how hopeless he’d felt. Not having any experience with depression in the past, not even a taste of it, what he’d learned was that there was no talking your way out of it, no plugging the hole by taking trumpet lessons or jumping into a baking class. When you’re on the edge of suicide, there is no light.

Come to think of it, an extended stay at a Motel 6 might have been the end of him.

Detaching his readers, he sat back in the chair. There was still more that he needed to say to Bianca. She was making mistakes, and it was impossible to stand on the sidelines without at least attempting to save her. He might not be a great father, but he’d never stop loving her, never stop wanting the most for her.

He eventually crept down the hall to the living room, finding Bianca immersed in her work, perhaps another newsletter or some journaling.

Holding her fingers over the keys, she said in a tone rich with annoyance, “Just working, Dad.” She said “Dad” like it was a bad word. It hurt worse than a blade shoved through his rib cage.

He didn’t want her to see that, though. Trying to appear fearless and forgiving, he sat down. “We don’t have to do lunch.”

She went back to typing something.

“I know you’re slammed,” he said at the end of a long silence.

She stopped again, fingers hovering. “Sorry, just focused.”

He could see she was fighting to stay calm. He did the same, saying in the most loving way he could, “I know I’m out of quarters, but I . . . May I offer something? I have to get everything out before I go.”

She took a long time to respond, eventually offering a curt nod.

Feeling like he was dipping his toes into piranha-filled water, he said, “Look, I’m searching for a flight back. I know I’m a lot. But can I do a little parenting in the meantime?”

He paused, wishing she’d beg him to stay, but of course she didn’t. She didn’t say a word, so he continued. “I took the liberty of reaching out to a guy I used to work with, great guy actually. Grew up the son of a logger in Canada, got into Pepperdine, and eventually made something of himself. A higher-up in HR at Intel, then started his own headhunting firm. He helps people find their path. You pay some money, which I’d be happy to do, then he coaches you through figuring out next steps.”

Her fingers still hovered over the keys. “That’s nice of you, but I don’t need any help right now.”

“Oh, c’mon. You have to work.”

She retracted her hands. “How many times do we have to do this? You’ve been working sixty hours a week since you were a teenager, and for good reason. You climbed out of a tough childhood. But I don’t find the same satisfaction you do in working. The people here, they don’t let their work define them.”

“And that’s why Europe is a shit show. That’s why we’ve blown by them.”

“Blown by them? In what way? Because of our economy?”

“Because of everything. Jobs, opportunities, tech. Yes, economy. We’re the center of the world. Do you know how many people here would kill to be American, to have the lives that we have?” He’d said it before, but she still wasn’t getting it.