Page 90 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

Moira dropped the book and raced toward the cash register. George quickly followed. The tower of postcards had fallen over, and he caught sight of Sandy’s bare feet as she raced up the stairs.

One leg crossed over the other, Aroldo sat in the same square near Renzo’s apartment, surveilling the entrance. A marble fountain spewed water into the air. The outdoor tables were filled with university students, connecting with friends, studying, killing a minute before class. It was an overcast morning, slightly gray and mystic.

Today was the day. He needed to make his move.

But Harold felt afraid, unsure. Maybe waiting was better. He was also still bothered by Sandy pushing him away, like she’d given up on him. He felt cast away, like the same waste of space he’d always been.

But Aroldo kept telling Harold to zip it. He extracted a cigarette and lit it with his new fancy lighter, then snapped it shut with tremendous confidence. He took a drag, then said as the smoke came out, “I’m in charge now.”

He sipped the last of his espresso and looked at the cover of My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante, another book that Moira had sent him home with. Harold was barely there now, nothing more than a shadow on the pavement. Aroldo cracked the spine and dove in.

He didn’t get far before the door to Renzo’s apartment burst open. Right on time. Renzo, the stealer of strawberry lovers, was on his way to work. Though Alice often followed him out, it was only him today, in suit and tie, racing out the door.

Aroldo decided to seize the moment. He sprang from his seat and caught up to Renzo, trying not to be intimidated by the height of the man. “Renzo,” he said sharply.

His enemy stopped.

Fearless Aroldo got in his face. “Who do you think you are, treating Alice like that?”

Renzo let his lips curl. “Harold?”

He pointed at Renzo’s chest. “I know what you’re doing, taking advantage of her. And I won’t stand for it. Not anymore.”

“Such a little man, aren’t you?” His accent was thick. They were so close, Harold could smell his cologne. The guy gave a staccato laugh. “What are you going to do about it? You’re not even a memory to her anymore.”

Aroldo felt the punch in his gut and said, “That’s what you’ll be soon. A memory.” He wanted to take it back even as he said it. C’mon, Aroldo, don’t let Harold turn you soft!

“Go home to Denver, little Harold. She wants nothing to do with you.”

Aroldo’s fist clenched. “I will ruin you.”

“Ruin me? Please, I’d like to see you ruin me. In the meantime, I need to go to work so I can hurry home and get back to my lady. Ciao, little Harold.” He turned and started away.

Aroldo nearly chased after him, wanting to punch the fucker in the back of the head, but he couldn’t do it. Dammit, he couldn’t do it.

His enemy rounded the corner and escaped while Aroldo shrank back into Harold, the weak imbecile he’d always been. Fuming, he returned to the table and waged war in his mind. Renzo was a terrible man, and he had to be destroyed. And Alice had to be rescued.

Considering biological facts, a physical altercation would not be a good idea. No, he’d best Renzo by stealing back his lover. How could Aroldo do that? The wheels spun. Aroldo was a man to make big statements, gestures worthy of Alice.

Considering her favorite movie was Say Anything, he imagined recreating the famous scene near the end with the Peter Gabriel song.

It was a silly idea, but one that might resonate with her. He might have run it by Sandy, but she’d clearly decided to move on. Which was fine. It was time for Aroldo to leave the nest.

Alice appeared at the entryway an hour later. The sound pulled Harold from Ferrante’s story, which was rather good. He set down the book and bore witness to all the glory that was the woman who’d captured his heart. A sleeveless top, a casual khaki skirt, legs that sped up his heart rate.

Setting his sights on her made him want to defeat Renzo even more.

When she started his way, he sat back and pretended to be people-watching as he sipped his acqua frizzante. He sensed her getting closer, he was sure of it, but he dared not turn yet. This was his moment, and he would not fuck it up.

Then he heard her footsteps, the slight patter of an angel, and he turned in time to find her passing right by him.

“Alice?”

She stopped. “Harold? Is that you?”

He pulled off his designer sunglasses, folding them gracefully and slipping them into the pocket of his shirt. “Indeed,” he said with his international accent. “And you, wow. You look wonderful. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Why are you here?”