Wish You Weren't Here

Chapter 14

Ava

Sun plus hangover equals sweat-covered throbbing temples. Multiply the sum by James’s amused sidelong glances and seventy-four papers awaiting my attention. Calculator error.

What a mess. Even my foolproof steps didn’t work yesterday. I catalogued all of six pieces of art. And one was my mother’s.

Life’s messy, baby girl. Look for the beauty in the mess.

I look up at the brightest blue sky I’ve ever sat beneath. Did you sit here, Mom? Paint on this hill? Life’s only messy when I step away from myself. When I veer off the path and invite in the chaos. When I drink too much and let people in too deep and lose focus.

You mean when you actually live?

“Enough!”

I stand from the blanket James brought me and about a hundred eyes turn my way. Talking out loud to my dead mother is not a good way to get back on track.

“Something to add, Signorina Graham?” James asks with a crooked smile.

“No, sorry to interrupt.”

He nods at me, eyes narrowed, and I turn my attention back into the town.

The view from the West Hill is magical—surreal even—transporting you straight back to the centuries where these walls had a higher purpose than admiration by the onlooker. We are perched just above the west wall, giving us a peek right into the streets that are filled with year-round residents. I feel like a soldier looking down from her post.

I know all the intimate details about someone named Marizio and his lover from Pescara, after this juicy gossip was yelled by a woman dangling out of her third-story window, stringing her wet laundry on a line while talking to a man below walking his dog down the street. I also witnessed a cat fight. Not like the demeaning kind men imagine women having. I mean an actual tornado of feline screeches behind the little pizzeria I’m going to visit ASAP based on the smells reaching me from their open windows and doors. I get why the cat was territorial about that piece of real estate.

James’s voice pulls me back to the hill as he points to the twin turrets of the palazzo. He’s got these kids hanging on his every word, brains open and ready for the next knowledge bomb to drip out. His passion for this subject—and this city—are as palpable as the scent of that pizza that’s making my stomach twist and grumble. The way his hands move as he gestures to whatever landmark he’s describing and the way his long gait stretches as he circulates around the blankets where the students sit cross-legged, staring up at him like sunflowers turned toward the sun. It’s all very annoying.

“Do you have anything to add, Signorina Graham?”

Ugh. He keeps doing this. Why in the world would I have anything to add? Well, if I’d stuck to the plan and learned the city yesterday instead of learning to blow smoke circles while pretending to be Puff the Magic Dragon …

I could point out the pizza place to them. Surely they’d appreciate that. But then there might be a line.

“Nope. I think you covered it all. Does anyone have any questions?” Smooth, Ava. Deflect to the students.

I shield my eyes and look for a raised hand, hoping that they recognize the pleading look in my eyes telling them it’s lunchtime. Please give me the freedom to roll down this hill into the hot mozzarella awaiting me below. But they don’t need the reminder. They are just as hungover as I am.

“Alright, then,” I clap once. “Lunchtime! Hydrate, everyone. And four fewer alcoholic beverages tonight.”

James watches me dismiss his class, his eyebrows pulled together and up over that damn bump on his nose. It was a boop? What the hell is wrong with me? It’s him really. He’s scrambling my brain like the chef at an omelet station. Though having my veins filled with white wine didn’t help the situation. I feel dizzy at the thought.

“See you all in the morning. Luca, keep them in line tonight,” James tells them as they attempt to stand from their positions on the hill. Luca smiles down at us and pops up from his blanket. Kid looks like a dark-haired Ryan Reynolds. The rest of them look geriatric as they groan and head off toward the cafeteria.

James doesn’t bother to say goodbye before following the zombie horde back toward campus. I zero in on his back.

“James, can I get in this way?”

He pauses almost like he’s considering not turning around. Interesting. Seems like I’ve twisted up his panties with this morning’s conversation. Or am I completely overinflating my effect? Maybe he’s just tired of me taking up all of his free time.

“Are you heading back to Franco’s?” he asks; his eyes are trained somewhere over my shoulder.

“Eventually. I need to apologize for drinking all his wine and return his hat. But first. Pizza,” I say, pointing to the little shop that is now bustling with patrons. Shit. They’re gonna eat it all.

“Head to the right and stay along the wall. There’s a sally port about a hundred feet up. If you hit the bastion, you’ve gone too far,” he says, turning back toward campus.

I don’t have a second to ask what weird language he’s speaking because he’s disappeared over the crest of the hill.

“Have a good day,” I yell after him. Definitely twisted panties. And can I really blame him?

I scoop up my bag and shove the towel in it so it covers the stack of essays in the manila envelope I stole from James’s classroom. Last thing I need is pizza grease dripping on the papers to add to this man’s impression of me. Everything I value has gone out the window since I stepped foot in Italy. Professionalism. Punctuality. Dependability.

I’m going to redeem myself—grade the heck out of these papers. After food.

I repeat his directions in my muddled brain, whispering to myself as I go.

“Sally port. Sally port. What the fuck’s a sally port? Aha!”

I make my way through the opening and lift my nose in the air, picking up the scent of tomato sauce and garlic immediately. The streets at this end of the city are even narrower.

Dozens of cars are parked perpendicular to the wall behind me. A vintage clothing store across the street with its door open has Tom Petty’s voice crooning “Free Falling” from inside. Beside the shop, the soft blue shutters of the neighboring business surround a window that claims to house an internet café. I make a mental note of the street name, Via Porticale, and head straight for the pizza shop in view up the alley.

There are emails to be sent. Dreaded emails. One to a best friend who I miss dearly despite the fact that she could be complicit in my current state of heartbreak. One to a father who wants to know every update about my career path. And maybe one pathetic check-in with Ethan?

The thought of waiting for a reply from him makes my skin crawl.

I refocus on the research that needs to be done on one Annette Barrett. Seems she chose not to share all of her study abroad details with her beloved only daughter. Nothing more depressing than having to google your own mother—besides the previously mentioned pathetic check-in email. But again, first, pizza.

I attempt my shitty Italian with the poor woman behind the counter and am rewarded with a wrinkled nose and upturned hands. Right. Just point. She nods at that and scoops the beautiful slices up with her wooden peel and pops them into the hole in the bricks that are erupting with flames. I was speaking fluent Italian last night with Franco and Vincenzo. How does one lose fluency so fast? Does sobriety block access to language processing?

Before I have time to puzzle out the neuroscience, euros are being removed from my palm and the most gorgeous sight known to man is being pushed across the counter at me. I pocket the change that I don’t bother checking and grab the pizza, hovering over it like there might be a seagull waiting to accost me from above. Google time.

By the time I swing open the glass door to the café, half of my pizza has disappeared and I’m resigned to the fact that I’ll need to head back up the alley to get like nine more slices. I stop at the counter where a young man with blue hair is studying the screen of his Mac Air like I don’t exist and ask for a half hour of internet. He gives me a card, points to an empty computer that looks like it’s from my dad’s college years, and takes my money—all without looking up. Impressive.

I slide into the swivel chair and down another slice before wiping my hands and getting to work.

The second I’m logged into my Google account, I’m bombarded with unread emails. Most are trash, sales at stores that conned me into giving my email address, a few event notices from Villanova, several emails from Tammy, one from my advisor’s secretary reminding me he’s away, and a few capitalized subject lines from my father.

“Shit,” I whisper.

I purposely avoid my father’s emails, swallowing the guilt right down with the cheese, and open the one from my advisor first, which is just a generic I’ll be out of the office email. I hover over the one from Tammy—subject line F*** HIM. Promising title.

Aves,

I swear I had no idea. I’m embarrassed to share DNA with him. I love you. Please call me.

Always,

T

The relief at her ignorance settles into the empty spaces in my chest. The betrayal from Ethan was bad enough. But if she’d known, that might have ripped out a piece of my soul.

I click on a more recent one from her.

Ava,

You need to call me. We need to talk about the gala …

Love,

T

Why would she want to talk to me about her mother’s charity gala? Maybe she met someone. A little rush of excitement pushes through me and I hammer out a reply.

T,

It’ll all be fine. Ethan and I will work it out when I get home. Phone has gone over a cliff, but I can’t wait to hear about the gala. Pizza here is orgasmic.

Wish you were here,

Aves

It will all be fine. I just need to give Ethan that space to remember what we are. I hit send and let my cursor hover over my father’s emails. I take another bite of pizza for strength and then click at random on one from this morning titled JOB OFFERS.

Ava,

I know you don’t have much longer to decide, but I think we should discuss the options again. The moment you get this, you need to call me at my office. 989-634-5242

Be safe,

Dad

My stomach flips at the idea of having to explain to him that I accepted a job offer without running it by him first. He’ll be hurt, no doubt, but I’m a grown-ass woman and I needed to handle it on my own. Coupled with this trip that he never supported, there’s no way in hell I’m making that phone call any time soon.

I decide to ignore the four other emails from Dad and head to Instagram for some light Bennington stalking instead. I log in and click on Tammy’s gorgeous face at the top so that her story fills the monitor. A small pang hits me beneath the ribs when I see her at her mother’s charity gala on the steps of the Franklin Institute. I haven’t missed a gala since we met. But it seems Bennington life goes on without me. Tammy’s wearing the gold dress with the ribbed bodice that she bought at DG on our girls’ trip to NYC last month, and damn do I mean she’s wearing it. Her hair glimmers over her shoulder almost the exact shade of her dress, and she’s so distracting I barely even register Ethan beside her. But then I do, and I can’t unregister him. He’s wearing his tuxedo with the onyx silk lining, the one I helped him pick out at Saks before his graduation ball. He looks as dazzling as ever. Golden hair not a centimeter too long and parted perfectly, blue eyes directly on the photographer, stature of a god.

The next photo takes over the screen, and I see Tammy sitting at one of the tables set up in the Benjamin Franklin room at the Franklin Institute. She’s giving the camera a wink with a glass of champagne pressed to her lips, and just before the photo disappears I see Ethan’s golden head in the background. I quickly click Tammy’s icon again and reload the story, holding the cursor down to pause it when the photo reappears.

I narrow my eyes and lean into the screen as if I’m looking at a Magic Eye until my hungover brain can make out exactly what I’m seeing on the dance floor. I put my thumb and pointer finger to the screen and open them, trying to enlarge the picture until I realize I’m not on an iPhone and I’ve just smeared grease all over the monitor. I can’t tear my gaze away from the gorgeous redhead in the emerald green dress with her hands linked behind Ethan’s neck. It’s just a dance. Surely Ethan danced with dozens of women at the gala. Even when he and I attended together I’d had to lend him out like a library book. But something in my pizza-filled stomach twists. I’ve met this woman before—Eleanor or Eliza—something old school like that. She’s a resident at Jefferson—her father is the chief of something—very important. Very influential. Very worthy.

I start clicking like a woman possessed, trying to find more photos, and sure enough there she is again in the background of a photo of Tammy and Olivia. She’s laughing at something Ethan has said, her fingers wrapped around his bicep. The bicep my hand belongs around. And another one of Tammy at the table; Ethan isn’t looking at the camera, he’s twisted in his chair. His full attention on Eli-whatever’s face like she’s giving him the secrets on how to rule the world. I hit the plus button in the corner, zooming in until the image is so pixelated the blurring hurts my eyes. There—I touch the screen again—right beneath the white tablecloth, this woman’s bare knee is pressed right up against his.

What the actual fuck, Ethan? Is this what Tammy wanted to talk about? If you have oats to sow … His voice floods my head. Was this all part of his plan? Oh God. Was he seeing her—before? My heart drops into my pelvic floor, and the last bite of pizza slides from my plate. And when I see the delicious cheese hit the floor, that’s when I get really pissed.