Page 73 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he found her favorite artist, Bad Bunny, and let it play. As the beat began, she whispered what sounded like, “I missed you,” but Aroldo wasn’t sure. Harold wanted to ask her to repeat it, but Aroldo nearly smacked him. Of course she misses you, whether she said it or not. Have some confidence, turdbucket.

Alice soon faded and fell into a soft purr of a snore. Aroldo’s leg had fallen asleep, but he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare disturb her. He’d wanted this for far too long to wake from this dream.

He sat through the night, hours stacking up on top of each other, feeling her, feeling their love, pondering the future, considering his next moves. He could enjoy their reunion for a while as is, but he’d soon have to come clean.

If he had any hope of holding on to her, he had to tell her all the things that he’d been keeping back. Now that they had a chance again, they’d have to find a creative way to make it work, because without a visa, he’d soon have to return to Denver.

Perhaps more importantly, he’d run out of money, and his mother had told him she couldn’t give him another dime. She was running low because she’d had to buy a new washer. Naturally, he didn’t blame her for cutting him off. He felt awful for having borrowed so much of her meager savings. But he’d pay every dime back, that was for sure.

Thank God he still had room on a couple of credit cards.

The sun broke through the clouds of the morning. Bianca sat on the balcony, smelling the city after a rain, that scent of it having been cleansed of its transgressions. If only Bianca felt renewed. She felt more lost than ever before. She’d let her dad down so badly, crushed his soul. And she’d messed up with Corrado. She wondered if this whole journey was a sham, an attempt to run away from herself.

Her dad appeared at the door in shorts and a T-shirt. He’d combed his hair. “Good morning, kiddo.”

“I’m sorry.” The words took a hundred pounds off her back.

“No, no, you have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one who brought my mess here. It’s not fair.”

“It has nothing to do with fair, Dad. We’re in this together, aren’t we? That’s what family is. I’ve been so focused on me and figuring things out and I just . . . I forgot what matters. I don’t want you to leave. I didn’t mean what I said.”

He took a long time answering. “I should have read your book, but I started again last night. It’s good.”

“You don’t have to read my book.”

“No, I do. I want to. I was making it about me, but it’s not. I get that. You’re doing what you do, helping others. I love what you have to say.”

“Thanks for that, but seriously, I don’t want you to read it. Do me that favor. I didn’t write it for you. Apparently, I didn’t even write it for me. It was a thing I did because . . . that’s what psychotherapists do when they have a full client load but don’t feel like they’re doing enough. I’m not even that proud of it anymore. It was a stupid idea.”

George stepped through the doorway, the light catching his face. “Don’t say that. What you did is amazing, just getting something out there.”

“At least I got it out of my system.” Had she, though? She could still hear Donna Bologna’s subtle giggle after Bianca had said, “Trust me, I’m not writing another book.”

“Anyway,” George said, “you definitely don’t owe me an apology. I deserve anything you throw at me.”

“What I said, how I give you a hard time. It’s because I’m beating you up for leaving Mom, for working so hard. And I have no right to do that.”

“You kind of do, B.”

“No. I don’t. You’re trying. That’s a whole lot more than a lot of fathers can say. Why don’t we try again, huh? Let’s be honest, it would be so boring without you. Besides, who would help me with my mouse problem?”

“Speaking of—”

“Nope, don’t tell me.”

“Just like your mother. Don’t worry, I didn’t get him. He wouldn’t take the cheese. Fresh droppings, though. He walked right around the cheese. I swear to God, this is Mr. Nutz’s cousin. He knows I want him, knows I’m after him.”

“You’re beyond ridiculous.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like cheddar. I could try peanut but—”

“Not that I’m condoning your hunt, but he’s Italian. Where did you even find cheddar?”

“At the store.”

“I’m guessing Italian mice like Italian cheese.” With that, she slapped a hand to her forehead.

“Make fun all you want, but trust me, you don’t want mice multiplying. The authorities will condemn this place.”