Page 56 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“Not as many as you think. Do you see how healthy people are here? How happy?”

“I see the lines, the red tape. The bureaucracy.”

“Are we doing this again, George?”

Ugh, there was nothing worse than when she called him by his name.

He raised a hand like a white flag. “As someone who’s been around the block, I’m simply sharing some of what I’ve learned. Sure, enjoy this year, but then come home and get to work. Sitting around is what kills people.”

She closed her laptop with a snap. “That’s so your generation. And so American. I want to become a sponge for knowledge. I want to get my Italian back. I want to study art and history and read. To stop doing and start being.” The decibel level of her voice rose by the word. “Sometimes, I want to do absolutely nothing but face my demons and get to know myself. I want to repair that damage I did to myself by working my ass off since the moment I started college. It may not make sense to you, but what I’m doing right now is everything to me.”

If only she knew what she was saying. In a way, it was good that he’d been raised poor because he knew what happened when you stopped working. Nevertheless, the window of opportunity here had closed. He’d have to try again later.

He stood, held his hands in prayer position, and spoke calmly. “This is me loving on you, honey. And worrying about you.”

“I’m the best I’ve ever been, getting back to the real me.”

The real me? George thought. She wanted a time machine and to be eighteen again. That’s not the way the world worked. Before he uttered anything else to anger her, though, he said, “I’m going out for a walk. Sorry for butting in.”

She said a lot by not saying anything at all.

On the other side of the door, he pressed his eyes closed. Why did he think that would go well? He’d have to call his buddy, the career coach, and tell him Bianca wasn’t interested.

Out in the fresh air, he looked left and right down Via Giulia. Maybe he’d go grab some lunch, take a long walk. As he’d done every five minutes, considering the pickpockets, he patted his pants to make sure he had his keys and wallet.

Keys, check, but he’d left his wallet back inside.

He climbed the stairs again and walked through the door. As he was about to say, “I forgot my . . .” he heard Bianca ranting into the phone. He realized she was talking about him. He didn’t want to listen, but he couldn’t help it.

“. . . trying to help him, Mom, but I don’t think he can be helped. Not even Italy can save him. He hates everything but work. Work, work, work. And the to-do lists. He has to-do lists for his to-do lists, and now that he’s retired, he’s grabbing into thin air for chores. He cleaned the freaking community courtyard yesterday. Like swept and—

“. . . I know it’s nice, and I know this is his way of showing me—

“. . . What I want to say is that I’m here because I don’t want to turn out like him. He screwed up his marriage to you, was barely there for me, and now that he has nothing to do, he’s trying to swoop in and fix everything. Honestly, he’s making it worse.”

The air left George’s lungs. Forgetting about retrieving his wallet, he slipped out, hoping she wouldn’t hear the door click.

Back on the street, he started wandering. The only reason he’d come here, putting up with the plane travel and all the headaches of this fucking city, was to help her. To show her that he did love her. Sorry that he had worked all his life. His dad had barely worked a day, and George had sworn to break the cycle, to never let his family starve.

Any light that he’d found since March dissipated. What was the point in even taking the Zoloft? To keep masking the truth that his life had run its course and there wasn’t much point anymore?

“Hi, George.”

He looked up to see Sandy brushing past him.

Sandy wanted to keep going, but George was trudging along like there was something wrong, like he might drop. When he looked at her, his eyes were red, on the edge of crying.

“You okay?” she asked, truly concerned.

He faked a smile. Or perhaps tried and failed. “Do you have kids?”

Feeling that one in her chest, she gave a nod. “A son.”

He rolled his tongue against his lips, his eyes searching the sidewalk, his head shaking. “I’ve never been good at this parent thing. Can’t figure it out.” He ran a hand through his impossibly perfect hair. “I’m driving Bianca crazy.”

She stepped toward him. “Isn’t that what all parents do?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”