Page 88 of Everything But Mine

I smile and nod. He is a good presenter—charming, captivating. He brings an expanded outline and his timer, and just talks as he looks at his audience.

“Non vedo l’ora.” I can’t wait, I say, without thinking. Then I hear the way it sounds, like I’m interested.

He’s taken it that way, too, his eyes wide. “Il tuo ragazzo sarà qui stasera? Magari tuo marito?” Will your boyfriend be here tonight? Maybe your husband?

I wave his comment off. Some boyfriend I had. “No, no boyfriend. Much less husband.”

Simo hums with a satisfied tone, then leans in and brushes his cheek against mine, first the left and then the right, the way they do in Milan. There’s no time for me to add any correction or nuance to Simo’s assumption that I’m single. And I am—single. Still, it’s a candid friendship. Eric and I are in such a complex situation…

The day continues in a whirl of conflicting needs and directions, trying to account for presenters’ needs, refreshments, and a smooth transition between panels. Everything about Simo slips my mind. I do think of Eric, and I check the time more often than I should, knowing that he’ll be here for the open reception later today—“to make the schmoozing more fun.”

After lunch, I head to Val’s panel. She’s discussing “The Therapist as a Public Figure: health is the spotlight,” using her own very popular social media channel as a case study. I look to the side when something bumps my elbow, finding Simo’s steely eyes on mine, pressing against my left side in the crowded room.

“Sai? Val e bravissima.” You know? Val is very brave. “She’s calling out all those therapists on socials for the fame and money.”

“Everyone starts those accounts to promote health, and then they end up hyping up BS mental health apps.”

“You know what we say ‘tra il dire e il fare c’è di mezzo il mare’” Between saying and doing, there’s the sea.

His words linger between us, echoing that night in Milan when I told him I was returning home, to Eric, though I didn’t speak his name. It was his response to me the last time we had dinner in Milan, “Non sparire!” Don’t be a stranger! And he yelled back “Tra il dire e il fare” before turning around the corner, leaving me to walk my way through the crowded streets of Navigli.

“What are you doing tonight?” His accent is all Milanese smoothness, swaying with the tilt of his head, and one of his curls brushes my forehead.

“Same as you, I’d think. Attending the reception.”

Simo dips his head further down, closer to my ear. “Have a walk with me. After.” His pronunciation slipped at the word after—vowels broader with a foreign softness that doesn’t belong to such a decisive proposal.

I hesitate. He’s looking at me as if no time has passed at all, and time has passed, but the wreckage I was in Milan and how quickly Eric backslid into old habits tugs at my own fear. I shift my weight, stepping just far enough that Simo’s arm no longer brushes mine.

Val’s voice cuts through the room, calling out the double standard of a question that came from the audience, brilliant and in her element. I focus on her through the end of the presentation, pressing my index finger against my lips every time that Simo tried to get the conversation going again.

Once Val’s roundtable is done, I don’t cross paths with her until she slides into the empty seat beside me just as Simo is being introduced for his panel.

His candid, warbling voice gives the opening question an unintended edge: “What happens to a wound when no one believes it’s real?” The pause is strategic. The smile he throws my way is all charm before he continues. “It is our sacred role as therapists to be the first mirror that says: ‘Yes, this pain is real. Yes, healing can happen.’”

Val murmurs, “He’s good.”

I nod. “He’s very knowledgeable.”

Simo’s accent carries the presentation.

Val nods again. “Diego came to my talk. I’ve been tasked, though I want to know myself, with asking why you’re getting cozy with Mr. Hairy Belly Button.” I’m about to respond when she cuts me off. “I don’t need to know why Diego knows so much about your lover’s body hair.” It sounds like a joke, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Former lover,” I mumble.

Val doesn’t quip back. She’s watching Simo at the front of the room. “I asked if you were ready for him,” she says—and she doesn’t mean Simo. “I told you to sit in the question.”

I nod.

Her breath is restrained and clinical. “This thing with Simo might feel harmless, but it’s going to hurt him.” She breathes more slowly now. “What you’re doing isn’t sitting in the question. It’s trying on an answer to see how it fits.”

“Nothing’s going to happen with Simo.” When Val scoffs, I add more defensively, “Still, I’m not with Eric. It could, if I wanted.”

Except I don’t want to be with Simo.

Val just looks at me. “You’re more with Eric now than he was with you that night.” Her response carries the weight of the words she doesn’t say. And look what that did to you both.

Onstage, Simo’s voice softens. “In somatic therapy, the body doesn’t fail; it speaks. And too often, what it’s saying is: ‘I’m not worthy.’ We must make space for any feeling locked with the body to be understood and embraced.”