Page 88 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

When Jack discovered the ROTC, there was nothing she could do to dissuade him. He’d found himself as a soldier. A soldier, a lover of his country, both a boy and a man who had always been so convinced of right and wrong, no gray area. Looking back, she wished she would have fought even harder to keep him from enlisting.

She dialed his number.

“It’s Jack, leave me a message . . . unless you’re a telemarketer. Then you can go—beep.” He’d never changed his message. She must have listened to it a thousand times.

She sang “Happy Birthday” into the phone, then: “Here I am with Nicolo, thinking about you. I do it so much, especially on the big days like today. I was thinking about the bookstore, how it was your idea. Naming it too. That was such a fun visit. I remember feeling like I’d finally escaped all the hell back home, and it was all because of you supporting me. Wouldn’t things be different if you’d stayed here, worked with me? I might not even be running the thing into the ground. For the record, though, I did successfully usher the store through the pandemic, so there’s that.”

Sandy sat up. “The dream’s dying now, though, Jack. And I don’t even know why. I’m not happy. Well, of course, I’m not happy. All these people want something from me. Can’t they see I want to live my life in peace? I’ve been beat up enough. Lisbon’s still on my mind. I have enough money to get settled over there. I’m sure I can get out of the lease. I thought about going back home, too, but the US is falling apart. So much division. Honestly, I feel more Italian now.”

When she reached the max limit on his voicemail, which she’d become good at sensing, she said, “Anyway, I’ll call again later. Just know that you’re always my everything. I love you, Jackie.”

Sandy ended the call, then dropped her head and wept.

At work, Sandy avoided everyone, including Moira. It took everything to say good morning to customers. Moira was good at reading her and knew to stay out of Sandy’s way and do her job in silence.

When customers entered, Sandy would all but hide behind the counter. Most of the time, she would call out for Moira and then head up the stairs to her office. She was especially fearful of George opening the door. She’d considered that she might owe him an apology, but there was no part of her that was ready to seek him out.

She’d not even thought about Harold in a couple of days when he walked in seeking advice. She eyed him up and down, his new clothes, perhaps a shred more confidence.

“I can’t help you today, honey. I’m overwhelmed.”

“Are we on for dancing tonight?”

She shook her head, avoiding eye contact. “No, I’ve had some things come up.” It was almost unwarranted how she’d come to care for this kid, but she had nothing to give right now.

“I get it, no big deal. Next time.”

Sandy’s self-hatred flared up as he’d exited the store. “What am I supposed to do?” she muttered to herself. “Save everybody?”

She couldn’t even save herself.

Sandy was lost in thought when she realized Moira was waving a hand at her.

“What are you doing? Jesus. Get your hand out of my face.”

Moira stepped back. “Sorry, I was trying to get your attention.”

“You have it.”

“I was thinking that maybe we could expand the romance section? I’ve had several customers come in lately and comment on its . . . limited offering.”

Sandy’s jaw tightened. “That’s the point. It’s supposed to be small.”

“I know, but . . .”

“You know what, Moira, I was thinking we do the opposite.” Sandy looked toward the minuscule romance section. “Do me a favor and collect every romance book and move them to the discount table.”

“Wait, what? I wasn’t trying to cause a—”

“I’ve wanted to do this for a while now.”

“That’ll frustrate people.”

“Perfect. My job on earth is to frustrate people. In a world where joy is dead, I’m able to dig up the last surviving bits of it by frustrating people. Come on, let’s go.”

With Moira watching, Sandy started tossing romance books into a box. She was well aware of how absurd she looked, how absurd the whole thing was, but she had exactly zero fucks to give about it.

“Let’s go, Moira. We don’t have all day. I want every last vestige of romance out of here. And I know you agree with me deep down. You won’t tell me about what happened in your past, but I know love has something to do with it. I know, because a victim recognizes a victim.”