Page 65 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

In an eastern European accent, she said, “Can we dance?”

His eyes widened. “I can . . . I’m not very . . .” He couldn’t get the words out. Dammit, where was Aroldo when he needed him?

“You’ll be fine. I’m not good either.”

“Okay. Sorry, I’m already sorry.”

Aroldo said into his ear: Harold, go away. I am here now. I will show you how to dance.

A man half Harold, half Aroldo stepped forward. He had to reach up to put his hand on the back of the woman’s shoulder, which was the placement Tommaso had taught them earlier. They drew close, and he felt ashamed. This intimacy with a stranger was crushing him. But then they began to move and though he stumbled about, he couldn’t help but laugh, and laughing wasn’t something he’d experienced much since Alice had left him. Maybe with Moira once or twice.

The tall woman was laughing too. They tried again and again, getting modestly better each time.

“There you go,” she said in her thick accent. “Listen to the music.”

“I guess this isn’t your first time,” he said, hating how uncomfortable he sounded. Dammit, Aroldo, take over! Trying again, he said, “You’re marvelous on your feet, darling. A natural.” There you go.

He cycled through several partners, and all Harold could think about was how badly he needed hand sanitizer. He even danced with a man. Hands larger than his holding him, his hand up on the other man’s shoulder, both of them attempting to move their feet with some sort of rhythm while avoiding looking at each other.

Thank God for Aroldo, who was comfortable in his own skin. He kept pushing Harold, whisper-screaming into his ear: You don’t need hand sanitizer. Who cares if you’re dancing with a man? Lighten up. Loosen those hips. You are Aroldo. Harold is dead, dead, dead . . .

Then he got to Sandy, whose forehead glistened with a sheen of sweat. She looked like she was having the time of her life, half the age of the woman he’d met earlier at the bookstore.

She set a hand on his waist. “Are you picking it up?”

“Not even close.” He wasn’t sure if that was Harold or Aroldo.

“Let’s see what you got.”

She counted out to the music, then they launched into the steps. He’d gotten good enough to get through it at least somewhat.

“Look at you,” she said, a smile that he’d not seen before alighting on her face. “Who would have ever thought you could get those feet moving like that. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

As he’d discovered, Sandy wasn’t one to offer much praise, so when she did deliver it, it hit home. So much so that he felt a determined Aroldo peel out of Harold’s fragile skin. “Let’s try again,” he said.

“Stop thinking,” she said, “stop counting, lose yourself in the music and go.”

Aroldo did exactly that, focused on the rhythm of the music and on how her body followed his. It, of course, wasn’t perfect, but there were moments in this attempt when he felt free.

Hey, it’s Duo. Maybe you’re not such a dipshit.

“Unleash it even more,” she said. “Show me your passion, let it out here on the dance floor. Feel your love for Alice and what you’ll do when she comes back to you. Feel the pain of having lost her. Put every damn bit of it into the music and the dance.”

Aroldo was in complete control now, doing exactly as Sandy suggested, feeling his passion burning inside of him. He didn’t even attempt to follow the steps. He immersed himself in the moment and led her into Aroldo’s dance. A sexual urge pulsed through him when their bodies touched, and he finished by sharply raising her hand in the air and guiding her into a snappy twist that he pulled off with shocking precision.

As the instructor turned off the music, Sandy stepped back. “Where did that come from?”

While Aroldo might have stifled his glee, Harold flashed his teeth. “I have no idea.”

“You made my heart flutter,” she said.

His soul soared.

He didn’t tell her that, though. All he could say was, “Thank you,” but maybe that was enough, because he’d never seen her light up like she did then.

Accepting that his friends would give him a hard time, Aroldo skipped his gaming session and slept till six. Then he dressed in a new robe and sat on the balcony as the sun rose over the red city. He took his time reading the news, and once the caffeine kicked in, he turned on Duolingo and went to work. Though Harold might have an issue with the app, Aroldo loved it. He loved the punishment from Duo if he was weak, if he skipped a day. And he loved the challenge of wrangling this new language, the way the bouncy Italian phrases danced off the tongue.

When he took his morning run, flashes of being forced to play sports in PE back in Denver came to him. He’d never forget that horrifying day when a punk kid named Jamie Everhorn, who had been the first to lose his virginity in their grade, jerked his shorts down during kickball. Making it even worse was that Harold’s mom hadn’t done the laundry, so he’d gone commando. And there, for all to see on that field in Denver, Colorado, was Harold’s pecker on display.