Page 7 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

A good minute went by, then Lacy finally asked, “Do you really think I’m overweight?”

Bianca let her head fall back. “Let me get this straight. We’re talking about the paramount issues that plague womankind right now, our desperate clawing to find meaning, and the one thing that stuck out to you is that you might be overweight?”

“I try hard, protein-focused, calorie counting, and I—”

“No, you’re not overweight. You’re a stick.”

“Then why’d you—”

“I don’t know. Because maybe I was expressing some of my own frustrations. You wanna know something else? These glasses, they aren’t even prescription. Transparent glass. I wear them because it makes me look less like a ditz.” Bianca chucked them across the room.

Lacy watched them hit the wall, then timidly looked back at her world-class therapist. “I don’t know whether this is part of your normal spiel or if I need to get up and give you a hug. Do you need a hug?”

Bianca softened. Tears were trying to break out. She fought them away but eventually caved.

“Wait, are those real tears?” Lacy asked. “God, you’re good. Are you faking?” In a shocking turn of events, Lacy crossed the room, knelt, and took Bianca’s hand. “Oh, you poor thing. Here I am, going off about my issues.”

Bianca quickly swept away the tears. “No, that’s . . . I’m here for you.”

Lacy ignored her. “You’re overworked. You’ve helped half of us in Austin, but who’s taking care of you?”

“You know what.” Bianca pulled her hand away, wanting it all to stop, and she instantly walled off her emotions. “Let’s end this session for now. I won’t charge you, obviously. You’re right; I need to step back for a minute.”

Lacy frowned. “Do you want to talk about it? Go get that drink?”

Bianca chuckled. Her client, the one on the couch a moment ago, was now trying to help her. After a thank-you and a barrage of apologies, she ushered Lacy out of the office before things got any worse. When the door shut and her client was safely on her way back to her less-than-perfect life—where she’d probably phone whomever had recommended Bianca to her and ask, “What in the ever-living Fuck was that?”—Bianca walked down the hall to her young receptionist and said, “I need you to cancel everything today. Please.”

“You okay? You don’t look—”

“Never been better, thank you. You know what, once you’re done, take yourself out to lunch on me. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Chapter 3

Strawberry Love

Often, here in Bologna, when Harold Gibler looked across the table at Alice, her freckles scattered across her cheeks like glitter, her sparkling statement of hair the same red as an Aperol spritz, his mind would slip back to his life in Denver before she’d strutted into the coffee shop with her headphones on, shaking it like she was listening to the Black Pumas. He couldn’t believe it had only been a couple of months since he’d first had the pleasure of witnessing her take over a room simply by appearing.

It was dangerous territory, going back to that day, that bad place where guilt waited. In his twenty-three years on earth, he’d never pretended to be someone he wasn’t before, and though effective, it had become increasingly difficult to keep up the ruse.

Stay here in the present, he would tell himself. The relationship might eventually go down in a burst of flames, but he was not ready to let what they had slip from his grasp.

Despite having created a souped-up version of himself, Harold still wasn’t exactly sure why Alice was so into him, but she was, and therefore miracles do happen. She’d made him believe in himself for the first time in his life.

He was a scrawny geek who’d been picked on and bullied throughout his youth. How many times had he begged his mother to move to a different state, even a nearby town, anywhere in a different school district? Harold didn’t tell anyone what growing up was like—how his father had left one day and hadn’t come back, how his mother had to figure out a way to make a living, often working three jobs at a time, which meant Harold had come home from school every day to an empty house. Perhaps his struggles were unexceptional, but that didn’t dull the hurt he still carried with him.

Nevertheless, Alice saw something in him no one else could. She appreciated his intellect, his quick wit (as subjective as such a trait might be), his deep trivia knowledge, and his ability to do complicated math in his head. If only he’d had Italian lessons growing up, he’d likely be getting along fine here in Bologna, as he never forgot a thing. She’d be extra dazzled. Due to his linguistic deficit, though, he’d become a prisoner to Duolingo, the language learning app that stalked him with notifications on all his devices. Even his new watch!

A spritz at the wine bar was their routine after she’d finished her classes and studying for the day. They’d join the army of tourists and locals alike who filled every table in the city to linger over late-afternoon spritzes and bowls of free aperitivi like potato chips, peanuts, and olives. She’d come up to the apartment, drop her backpack, and then they’d storm out into the city, two lovers ready to rise as the sun fell.

This place was one of their favorite haunts, an ancient wine bar called Sorso Sospetto that was two blocks down on the same street as her (their?) apartment on Via Giulia. The eight outdoor tables were almost always occupied—no matter the season or weather. Cigarette smoke and perfume wafted through the air, mixing with the aroma of warm chocolate from the pasticceria across the street. Chatter in multiple languages buzzed through the air. The late-afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cobblestones. Around the corner, someone—likely a busker—played a violin, the slow and easy bowing matching the hum of city life and creating a perfect soundtrack to their love.

“Question,” he said, all smiles and fully relaxed, never wanting to go back to the person he used to be. “Would you call your hair an Afro? I would assume it’s either politically and/or factually incorrect.” He didn’t stammer with her, which was beyond unbelievable. He’d been stammering all his life.

“What do you call it, this . . . this sort of Bob Ross thing?” He gestured toward her hair. Maybe she even liked the way he talked, how his words ran over each other sometimes.

“Who’s Bob Ross?”

Harold grabbed a fistful of his own hair in a dramatic display of surprise. “Who is Bob Ross? Happy little trees? Did you not watch PBS growing up?” He and his mother certainly had while eating their microwave dinners on TV trays. Those were sweet memories.