Page 82 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

He told her the whole story, and she laughed harder and harder, as did he, having to wipe tears from his eyes and collect himself every once in a while. He hadn’t been this far away from his depression since Intel had axed him.

After their meal, as the server poured the last of the wine into their glasses, George said, “May I ask more about your son?”

She took a while to acknowledge his question. He saw the pain in her eyes as she said, “It’s his birthday in two days.”

He matched her quiet tone. “Will he call you?”

She shook her head. “I’d love that, but no. He won’t be able to.” She was fidgeting again, fiddling with something under the table.

“I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, it’s okay.”

Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t, but it took her a while to make eye contact again.

Eventually, though, George dug her out of the mood he’d put her in. All he’d had to do was offer some more advice apropos the bookstore. This time, he suggested she set up a line of televisions under that cathedral ceiling in the main room so Americans could post up and drink beer and follow their favorite teams.

Even George knew that one was funny. There was no way in hell she wouldn’t laugh, and dammit if she didn’t bust into happy pieces.

Two hours later, they exited the restaurant and started back to Via Giulia. He wondered if she’d had a memorable time or if he was one of a thousand dates, another guy trying to make her laugh.

“I didn’t ask,” she said. “Did you enjoy your daughter’s book?”

He nodded. “It’s my daughter through and through. Made me so proud. Thanks for pushing me to read it.” He revisited why he’d been so hesitant.

“Don’t beat yourself up anymore, George. You’re here. Keep trying.”

“She’s extra resistant to parenting.”

“They always are.”

“It’s just that she’s all about taking a big break now, giving up on everything she’s built.”

“What’s wrong with taking a break?”

He shook his head. “Where I come from, that’s a recipe for digging your own grave.” He almost added literally but didn’t want to layer on any more darkness. He dreaded his return back home, that place where his lack of purpose waited. Why was it the one woman he’d felt something for since his divorce had to live so damned far away? That was life these days, anything joyful staying far out of reach. What a sad thought that the Zoloft would be the only thing back home keeping him alive.

“Nobody’s digging graves here, George. They’re enjoying life. It’s not a race. Here, it’s about treasuring the simple things.”

George thought about it. “I like the sentiment.”

“I’m a lot of things: a handful, a grump. A porcupine, as I overheard Moira call me the other day. We don’t have enough time for me to list my faults. But I’ve let go of the need to always be doing, to always chase things. That’s what Bologna does to you. There’s nothing better than a well-pulled espresso at a great café. And it’s such a small thing and only lasts a moment, but when you give it all your attention, it makes life worth living. What your daughter’s doing is seeking a renewal. She’s trying to learn how to capture every second as opposed to racing to the end. Don’t discredit it.”

“I get your point.”

She looked away and started to walk. He took her arm, and she turned back to him.

“It was a nice lunch, wasn’t it?” George said.

“Yeah.”

Now or never, George.

He moved in and set his lips to hers, letting his eyes fall closed, feeling like a young man again, like love might have resurrected him.

A light gasp escaped her lips, and he knew she felt the same way, too, both of them finding a missing piece. In a flash, he wondered where this was going, and he dreamed of the coming days with her and already felt the pain of saying goodbye, and maybe he would stay and—

Her hands were on his chest, and she pushed him back, and then her hand flew through the air and swatted him on the cheek, full palm, enough to make him dizzy, a slap that would leave a lasting mark.