Wish You Weren't Here

Chapter 24

Ava

I haven’t had a moral hangover like this since the night my friends and I switched all of the holiday decorations on my street. Just like last night, it was all well and good when the adrenaline was coursing through me in the darkness as I switched the reindeer from Santa’s sled on one lawn with the goats and donkeys from the manger on another front porch, but when the light of day revealed the Christmasy chaos I’d caused, my guilt had me confessing my sins to my slightly bemused mother in the kitchen before she even had a chance to take a sip of coffee.

I have no one to confess my sins to this morning. I consider writing it all out on Mom’s postcard, the closest thing I have to the image of her trying not to laugh at my tears in her bathrobe that morning, but I know that will make it worse. The postcard isn’t for contrition. It’s for celebration.

I could confess to Tammy. Typically, she’s right there beside me, my partner in crime, cheering me on in my bad decisions. But something in me wants to keep whatever happened with James last night to myself. The second it hits stateside and mingles with real life is the moment it becomes something to defend instead of something to enjoy. So Tammy’s out for now.

But I need something to ease the shame spiral. Or something to distract me from the mental wagging finger in my brain and the scorching heat that comes when I close my eyes and remember how he felt. Because knowing this was all Ethan’s idea doesn’t seem to be easing that old spinny, out-of-control feeling in my chest that I work so hard to keep at bay.

Beside the warring guilt and desire, there’s this feeling in my chest that something is stretching out and yawning, rubbing the sleep from its eyes. I can’t pinpoint what it is or why, but I know being around all of that art last night made me feel like someone has pulled at a loose thread inside of me. Couple that with the intense whatever the hell it is between James and me, and I honestly have no idea how long it’ll be before I unravel completely.

So, in the name of distraction, I make my way into town, the preparations for Urbino’s market day in full swing by the time I drag my ass out of my heavenly bed and into the most wholesome outfit I can find. Dress the part and all that. Closed signs hang in Franco’s window and on Vincenzo’s door. The store-lined street leading up to the piazza has become a one-way route of pedestrians and peddlers ready to converge. James promised that there’s nothing like an Italian market day. And this Italian market day holds the promise of James.

I let out a shaky breath and look up to the soft wisps of clouds scattered over the soft blue above. Mom, can you hear me? Tell me what to do … Switch the decorations back? Or live with the chaos?

A stray cat runs across the alley and nearly collides with my calves. What the hell does that mean? I look back down at the ground.

Maybe I should call Ethan. Admit what happened and verify that mind-numbing kisses are on the list of acceptable Italian experiences. Perhaps negotiate a few extra ones just in case. I’d checked my email last night before bed, the darkness of doubt already claiming me in her sharp claws the moment the door shut after James had left me with only a goodnight outside the guest house, but the only thing in my inbox was an e-card from Tammy with a sloth crawling across the screen that said “Time moves so slowly without you …” and one clipped email from my father reminding me that he was in fact still waiting for a reply. As if I didn’t know.

None of the emails were enough of a distraction. I can’t stop replaying last night, the way my body responded to James—as if it had been freed from years of captivity—I can’t help but feel like I want to dive headfirst into the mess, hide inside of it and see what it’s made of, like a kid in a leaf pile inspecting every color of foliage she sees. I’m not ready to be swept up. I don’t know what I’m ready for.

I step inside of Aldo’s café and stand against the back wall, avoiding the line of students and locals ordering their drinks. The man behind the counter moves like the Flash, presenting espressos and pastries on top of the bar that separates him from the throng, all while barking orders at the teenage boy who is obviously his son—same dark shiny hair and gorgeous olive skin, same soft brown eyes and imperious nose.

The smell of roasting coffee beans is enough to keep me present from the shitstorm in my brain, and the beautiful display of flaky pastries with their snowy blanket of powdered sugar spread atop them is enough to make a line of Vergaesque drool slide down my chin. I want all the things. But I’m here to ask about Mom. And this man is incredibly busy. Perhaps I picked the wrong time.

And just as I make up my mind to sneak back out the door, the Italian Flash settles his gaze on me and stops. His serious mouth presses together and he says something to his son beside him without taking his eyes off of me. He slips his apron over his head and balls it up on the counter, then ducks beneath the bar and approaches me slowly, slipping through the crowd of patrons without a glance their way.

“Sei la figlia di Anna,” he says, tilting his head, studying me like an insect pinned in a shadow box.

I nod at my mother’s nickname, though I’ve got no idea what he’s just said.

“I’m Ava,” I murmur.

He puts a callused hand that smells of coffee and chocolate on my cheek. Did this hand touch her cheek like this? The same warmth I felt when meeting Uvaldi and Franco and Vincenzo surges through me and settles in my chest. It’s as if that warmth is her—her arms wrapping around me.

“Uvaldi told me about tua madre,” he whispers.

I look down at my toes, tears ready to spill at the slightest move. And his hand pats my cheek fondly in understanding.

“Mi dispiace, cara. She was a wonderful woman,” he says in my ear, pulling me into a hug. I sink into the embrace like an anchor thrown overboard. Never underestimate an Italian embrace.

“My wife will be so excited to know you are here. She will have much to tell you about your mother,” he says, pushing back with his hands on my arms. “But I must give these people their espresso or they will start una rivoluzione, no?”

“Could you and your family come to dinner tonight?” I ask without thinking. Nina will whack me with a spoon. Or more likely smile and tell me to gather more peppers.

“Certo. Certo,” he nods. “Dove?”

He glances over his shoulder at his son, who looks as if he’s approaching total meltdown, then lifts his brows and widens his eyes at me in apology.

“I’m staying with Nina and Leo Russo—”

“Ha!” He rubs his hands together. “Perfetto. We owe them a visit.” He spins with a wave and is back behind the bar with his apron back in place in one smooth move.

“Tonight, cara,” he yells over the heads of the people, then lifts a plate and a tiny cup up in the air and nods at me as he places them on the far end of the bar for me to retrieve. He’s back to the register with a whoosh, and I step up to the bar to drink my espresso and eat the gorgeous flaky pastry.

I’m basically Indiana Jones, tracking down relics from my mother’s life. A splash of espresso lands on my floral print dress. Maybe not as smooth as Indiana. Maybe more like the Goonies. Oh Mylanta. This pastry is warm. I finish it off in three (two) dainty bites and chug the espresso like a local. Then set my sights on the door, ready to face the market.

Ready to face the man in the market. My stomach does a back handspring.

Okay. So maybe I can hang here for a bit, then head to the market.

I signal to Aldo for one more pastry and he grants me his first real smile as he flies into action.