Wish You Weren't Here

Chapter 20

Ava

I wake up with a note taped to my face.

Kindly, the taper of the note avoided my eyebrow and I lose only a few ungainly chin hairs in the process of ripping it off. The handwriting is a work of art, a study in calligraphy—it’s the same perfectly crafted cursive from the MacBook note. And when I see his signature swirling beneath the dips and loops of the word “Fondly,” I find my fingers tracing the word like a child learning to write for the first time. Who makes F’s like that?

Fondly. I snort. Since when?

I type it into the address line on his MacBook, ignoring the annoying picture of Ethan and his temptress (unfair I know, she could be a perfectly lovely woman) that I’ve tortured myself with since Tuesday. Fondly. Adverb. 1. With affection or liking. Hmmm. Really? James hasn’t really been tossing the affection and liking around the court. He did help me grade last night, though, but that was more out of guilt or fear of Nina.

Second definition. With foolishly optimistic hope or belief. Oooh. I like that one. What is that fool hoping for optimistically?

My lower back sends a piercing pain up into my shoulder blade and I realize what the note had distracted me from at first. I’ve fallen asleep at my desk. While grading. Papers with James. My eyes go to the empty space where those papers once were, and I turn, half believing that he might still be there on my floor, hair still damp, eyes intent on students’ work. Or me.

But he’s gone. Hence the note that dangles between my fingers. I hold it back under the desk lamp.

Ava,

Please don’t forget that tomorrow is a “field day” for the students. I’ve arranged a tour of the Palazzo Ducale for them, but I’d like it if you did NOT attend. I’ll be out of town at a shoot until Saturday, but I’d like to take you to the palace myself …

I let out a breath that I’d been holding. Do I always hold my breath when reading? Weird. A shoot? What kind of shoot? Is James a Calvin Klein model? Also, has a man ever asked me to go to a palace alone with him? Aladdin did once in a dream I had, but I suppose that doesn’t count.

Before you let that overactive brain off the leash and start telling me you have a boyfriend again, I’d like to show you the art and architecture myself so that you cantranscribe and synopsize my lectures next week so that the students can have them for the final exam. I am not trying to impress you with a palace I do not own. This is not a date …

Asshole. Like I’d say yes if it was a date. Aladdin is hotter than you anyway. I realize I’m speaking out loud when the words drift out the still open door of the guest house and mingle with the crickets’ chirps before fading into the darkness. What time is it anyway? The MacBook tells me it’s one something AM.

I stand from the desk and stretch, the note still held between my fingers, then plop into my new favorite place without bothering to change. All clothes worn after midnight become pajamas.

There’s an illustration beneath the last paragraph. A makeshift map of the Piazza della Repubblica with two stars hovering over buildings that live on opposite sides of the rectangle, labeled Café Aldo and Macelleria Uvaldi.

The stars are two buildings that I know house your mother’s work. Aldo, owner of the café and old friend of Leo, knew her. You could have a coffee there, then head to Uvaldi’s for a quick visit …

Look at this man planning my day for me. I’m definitely gonna start at Uvaldi’s.

Or start at Uvaldi’s. Whatever you want. I know your eyebrows are in your hair right now because you hate being told what to do. And your jaw is locked …

I rub my jaw so it relaxes then lower my brows.

I’ll see you Saturday at sundown at the entrance to the palazzo.

Fondly,

James

With foolishly optimistic hope or belief. James. Maybe I’ll just stand his ass up. Not show. Or show like five minutes late. Because I really want to see the Palace.

P.S. Your comments on the students’ papers are poignant and thought provoking. Next time, you do not need to write an entire page of feedback for each student.

A warm sensation crawls up my neck upon reading his praise. I give my cheek a smack. Pull yourself together. Of course you did a good job. You don’t need a man to tell you that. Especially not a man who barely tolerates you.

I hold the note so close that it would touch my nose if another soft night breeze blew in through the open door. I study the map with my lips pressed together. He even drew the little fountain at the center of the piazza with real water droplets coming out and a woman reading a book on its outer ledge. I squint and see that there’s a title on the book. Oh, Lord Voldemort. This man did not draw a cartoon of a woman reading Harry Potter beside the fountain.

Shit. I tuck the note under the pillow beside me and force myself to focus on anything but the present. I think about my next email to Tammy, how I’m going to focus only on what I’ve discovered here, with the exception of one note-writing, pain-in-the-ass professor. I wouldn’t even know what to write about him.

A pang of guilt followed by a heavy wave of grief hits me at the thought of the postcard tucked snugly between the pages of the novella on my desk. I’m used to these waves and how they come at the most random of times—brought on by a song, a smell, the sound of laughter. They used to crash over me and make me struggle for air, but now I’ve learned to body surf them with only mild injury.

“There’s nothing to write, Ma. Nothing to say.”

The crickets chirp back.

I turn my mind to safer pastures. I think about the impressive tower of glass I’ll be working in come fall, or the first pair of Jimmy Choo Romy 85s I’m gonna buy to click across the marble floors of its lobby. I can almost hear that sound. I think about Ethan groveling on his knees while I wear those pumps, telling him not to get his Chapstick on them. I think about my dad’s pride when I meet him across the table as an equal but opposing force to his successful firm. I do not think about impeccable penmanship or carefully crafted treasure hunt maps delineating my mother’s secret art trove that she hid in a life she never shared. Nope. I do not.

And I certainly do not read the note four more times before drifting back to sleep.