Page 92 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

It was midmorning, three days after Bianca had run out on Corrado for a second time, and she was just returning from one of Carol’s exhausting Vinyasa Flow classes. During an extended pigeon pose, while Carol had read a passage from The Untethered Soul, an idea—a wild and crazy idea—had settled into her, and she was about to present it to her father.

Things had really come to a head in her . . . well . . . in her head. She hated being wishy-washy with Corrado. But she was still pretty damn sure that a relationship with him was a bad idea. Then her father. George; George. George. She hadn’t done much for him, and he was about to return home. Bologna hadn’t done much for him, either, except dump heartache on top of his depression. The two of them were having fun—albeit a mild fun—but he’d been there so long it felt like they were simply cohabitating now. Not like what it should be: a father visiting his daughter in one of the greatest places on earth. It didn’t help that all he wanted to do was execute tasks.

Then there was Bianca and her own . . . whatever it was, an aggro-reset? A supercharged leap abroad? She’d brought her megawatted baggage all the way from Austin, and it was time to take a big freaking step back and truly recapture life’s alchemy.

Marching into her apartment, she found George standing at the counter in the kitchen fidgeting with something. No doubt the next task on the list!

He turned and held up a new mousetrap. “Hey, kiddo. I found that other hardware store. Thought I’d try something different.”

She resisted the urge to smack her forehead, and instead, leaned into the possibility that her birdbrained idea might just be the perfect solution to throw them both off their hamster wheels.

“I have an idea,” she said, only now realizing that there was no way in the world he’d go for it.

“Yeah? Talk to me.” He tore open the package and clicked his glasses together to read the instructions.

“Forget going home for now. Let’s go on a trip.”

Pure focus and determination, he barely stopped reading to say, “I am on a trip.”

“No, I mean, let’s pack a bag and go see more of Italy. A father-daughter thing.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“No, I mean now.”

He set down the trap and pulled apart his readers. “Now? As in right this second?”

“Or maybe in an hour, after a shower. I want you to see Italy the way I did when I first visited. No agenda; a backpack and a taxi to the train station. We’ll decide from there.”

He laughed as though she’d told a bad joke.

“Not joking.”

“Maybe in a couple of days. I’d like to get Sir Parm out of the house before his babies start showing—”

“Dad, I’m not asking. I need this. I need to go see Italy, hit the road. And I think it’ll be good for you too.” This was also how she would face the issues she was having with her father. Head-on. They either came back whole or broken, one way or the other.

He rejected the idea a few more times, but Bianca did what her mother always did when he rejected a good idea. Ignored him.

An hour later, she set her backpack and bag down by the door, then went to find her father. He was standing at his bed, scratching his head, and looking down at his bag.

“I don’t even know what to bring. Where are we going?”

“Not sure yet. You don’t need a jacket or sweater, though. Bring a bathing suit. A nice pair of pants.”

“How many days?”

“I have no idea. That’s the point.”

“Oh, c’mon, I need some kind of reference.”

It slightly pleased her that he was going mad with the idea of a trip sans itinerary. No, she adored the way he was squirming. It was already so clear how good this would be for him.

“Well,” she said, “I have to be back for the next book club. That’s in about two weeks.”

“Two weeks?”

“I don’t know.” She held up her hands and repeated herself. “I don’t know. We can wash our underwear in the sink or the sea. Maybe find a laundromat.”