Page 83 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

With his heart kicking, he reached for the pain. “I’m sorry. I read things wrong. Please.”

“How dare you,” she hissed.

He peered into her eyes, looking for the person he’d had lunch with.

But she wasn’t there.

Whoever she was, she turned on her high heels and raced off down the street.

As one does when a man doesn’t text back, Bianca decided it would be a good time to check out her latest one-star reviews. Okay, fine, she’d been guilty of not responding to one of his texts before, but that was different. In this case, she’d numbed her prefrontal cortex with wine and limoncello and fired off a selfie. Selfies warranted responses. Demanded them, even. Sending it was the dumbest thing she’d done since deciding to run with the name Peggy Meh.

She was curled up on the couch, computer on her lap, blanket over her legs, ready to inflict punishment upon herself. Because that’s what you do when you’ve lost your flipping mind. Several new reviews had appeared in the last two days. Oh, joy!

Padded. Could have been a list.

Can I give negative star ratings? WTF.

I guess anything can get published these days.

Might be good for young teenagers.

Written for the one percent.

I wouldn’t insult my fireplace by tossing it in.

Dear Lord!!!! Peggy Meh! Give me a Break.

How could people insult a person so? She’d put everything into the book. Maybe she hadn’t executed it as well as she’d hoped. Maybe Peggy Meh was the worst idea to ever be vomited onto the page, but Bianca had tried. She’d pushed through her own self-doubt; she’d written and rewritten it so many times. All so she could be fried in public.

Sure, there were positive reviews. But they hardly mattered when drowning in this swamp of disgust.

How could any part of her consider writing another? Answer: Despite all the public vitriol, she craved returning to the blank page, the writing sessions when her fingers started dancing, when the flow took over. Okay, if she wrote another one, she didn’t have to put it out there. Like Corrado’s friend had done, it could be just for her. She could write it and then burn it, like the Buddha boards you paint on, only to watch the water-based artwork fade away.

The idea soothed her. If only she knew which direction to take.

If Donna Bologna was suggesting that Bianca had missed the mark, then what was the freaking mark? What would be worth writing about? What else did she have to say?

Bianca hesitantly opened a new Word document and stared at it for a while, like an alcoholic hiding in the closet with an open bottle of Smirnoff. She put her fingers on the keys, feeling the bumps of the F and J.

Movement at the door. She slammed shut her laptop. As her father entered, she felt like she’d been busted smoking weed, but then she noticed his distraught face. “What’s wrong? How’d the date go?”

He set down the toolbox, then turned and pointed to a red mark on the side of his face.

“She slapped you?”

“Slapped. I guess you could call it that. I’m glad I still have my teeth.”

It was not lost on Bianca that there was a lot of rejection going on around here.

She stood and pressed a hand to his face. “What’d you do?”

He shrugged. “I kissed her.”

“You kissed her? What did you do, go in with the tongue or something?” She couldn’t hide her enjoyment.

“What do I know? We were having a great time, then I kissed her and she slapped me and said, ‘How dare you,’ and walked away.”

“At least you tried, right?”