Page 76 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“And was that friend Renzo?”

“I don’t know. I hope not.” He took a deep drag. “He was texting and calling her constantly, all these apologies.”

“Ouch.”

She enjoyed a puff, the first in months. Not since she’d last had sex with the jazz musician, a postcoital delight.

“Did she say anything about your apartment, your clothes. Your whole vibe? The confidence that you’ve built up?”

“I guess. Sorry, yes. She complimented me.”

“How did she leave it? Are you going to see her again?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. Right back to where we started.”

“Yeah, I know. And I’m tired. This whole thing, trying so hard, is exhausting.”

Sandy shook her head. “You’re not giving up, are you?”

“I don’t know.” He stopped. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I’ve been referring to myself, well, the new me, as Aroldo.”

“Aroldo?” She took a big puff.

“As a way to see myself differently. Kind of like what Bianca writes about in her book, faking it till you make it. Have you read it?”

His strange behavior, the funny accent and different phrasing when he spoke, suddenly made sense. “Um, no. Self-help is something you do when you’re in your twenties, maybe thirties. Not in your . . . Well. Forget it. And what does Alice think of Aroldo?”

“I don’t know. She seemed impressed.”

“And yet you’re in the friend zone?”

“Maybe.”

She stubbed her cigarette out on a trash can. Enough of that. “Look, it’s exhausting to be amazing. I know that more than anyone. You can laugh at that one.” Once he did, the fakest laugh ever faked, she continued, “But it’s the only way to break through the noise. There’s a reason she once loved you. Because you’re an extraordinary young man with all kinds of promise. You don’t even realize how much passion you have inside of you, but I see it on the dance floor. I see the real you kicking to get out. Whether you call him Harold or Aroldo or whomever.”

They continued walking. “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you how to play the game?”

“The game?”

“Yeah, you know. Playing hard to get. Making her work for it.”

“I’m aware of such a game.”

“And are you playing it? It doesn’t sound like it to me, letting her fall asleep in your arms, buying her flowers, making her breakfast—”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“She has some work to do. She ran off with another man. Make her earn you back.”

His voice lifted an octave. “I don’t know if she wants me back! And how am I supposed to play hard to get or any other games if I’m not even around her? Here I am, spending all this time playing Aroldo, living this entirely new life to reel her in, and she’s barely thinking about me. Then when we’re finally back together, I fucking blow it.”

She put an arm around him. “You see? This is the passion I’m talking about.”

“Stop laughing at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” she said, fully aware of the joy painting her face. “I appreciate you, Harold. Or Aroldo, whatever your name is. There’s something so beautiful about the naivete of young lovers.”