Page 95 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

He wasn’t ready to call it a victory, but he was getting somewhere, wedging back into her heart.

Each play had to be exacting.

Several days ago, not an hour after they’d last seen each other, she’d sent the first text of this thread. A simple message: I barely recognized you today!

Aroldo had put so much thought and care into his reply. He’d even made her sweat and not responded till early the next morning with a brief: same ole me.

She’d shot him back a fast one. You’re up early.

Off for a run.

Get out.

Training for the Venice Marathon in late October. Looking into a digital nomad visa now.

What was beautiful about becoming Aroldo was that he had been running; his body was changing. Was he going to run the marathon? That was yet to be determined.

The texts had continued nonstop, and it had become one of the most enjoyable games of Aroldo’s life. He’d become his own avatar and was now playing for real love, the highest of stakes.

He was pretty sure she was enjoying the exchanges as well, as she was the one who started them up in the morning and was always quickest to respond. He couldn’t help but believe that she wanted him to come rescue her from Renzo.

That’s what he’d decided to do. But he had to do it in a way that would leave burn marks. Yes, he’d finished Bianca’s book, and as on the nose as it was, her messages had landed.

Leave burn marks.

It was a hell of a way to live. And with this next play, Alice would feel the sizzle!

The Say Anything idea hadn’t left him. It was bold, even for Aroldo. And potentially embarrassing. Would he dare stand there with a boom box, playing Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes”? And would she come out onto the balcony, witness the depth of his devotion, and fall back in love with him?

Aroldo poured himself another shot of limoncello and, using a few of Bianca’s tricks from the book, began to visualize himself as Lloyd Dobler, the character John Cusack plays in the movie. If he were to pull this off, he’d have to dress like Cusack, the jeans and The Clash T-shirt, the long beige, eighties trench coat. And he’d have to somehow find an old boom box like the one Cusack held up outside of Skye’s house.

With his eyes closed, Aroldo saw himself standing in the square looking up at the balcony of Renzo’s apartment, reenacting the scene. Inside the apartment, Alice lay in bed, perhaps resistance-cuddling with Aroldo’s enemy, the evil Renzo. Wasn’t that a nice new turn of phrase, resistance-cuddling; this was one of the many fine creations of Aroldo, a man who issued far more poetic ability than Harold.

Upon hearing Peter Gabriel, Alice slips on her nightgown and sneaks out onto the balcony, where she—

Hold on, had it been reenacted before, the Say Anything scene?

With an imploded chest, Aroldo inquired with ChatGPT, and the news jabbed him in the eye. At least thirty to forty times, including on The Simpsons, Family Guy, South Park, and How I Met Your Mother.

“Great job, Harold, you schmuck,” Aroldo said. “Way to be original. Next time, let me handle it.” He nearly cast his phone off the balcony. That fast, he’d been knocked down—better yet, demoted—back to Harold.

A weaker version of himself looked at the limoncello. He didn’t even like lemons. He didn’t even drink alcohol back home.

Then, a song broke through the air.

The opera singer was at it again.

The man stood with his hand on the railing, several balconies up, looking out over the city, belting out a song.

Aroldo let the aria pierce his soul.

When it ended, Aroldo gave the man a standing ovation. He wasn’t the only one. People from other balconies and on the street did the same.

“Bravo,” Aroldo cheered. “Bravo!”

The opera man bowed and retreated inside.

As the man’s vibrato still lingered in his ears, Aroldo suddenly knew how to make his next play all the more powerful. And far more original.