Chapter 26 #2
“You’re what? Liv, he’s the mayor! A hot mayor! I saw your movie on Netflix already! Spoiler alert,” Michelle called, cupping her hand around her mouth and yelling toward the next table. “He gets the girl in the end, and they raise goats in Tuscany in a field of sunflowers.”
“Michelle, drink some water, will you please?”
“I don’t raise goats,” he said. “But I think I’ve seen that movie too.”
“Why are you here? If you don’t mind me asking.” Olivia straightened her pencil skirt and crossed her legs.
“I’m thinking about coming back to the finance world. Jason is trying to help me decide,” he said, glancing over at Jason and Malika, who had formed a little conversation bubble, effectively ignoring the entire room.
“That’s funny because I can’t stop thinking about how I can retire there,” said Olivia, pushing a glass of sparkling water closer to Michelle. “I’m dead serious. I’ve never felt so relaxed while we were there, and I pop Klonopin like it’s a breath mint.”
“We had the best time. The food! The wine! Those little tiny napkins at the cafés that don’t actually absorb anything! It’s magic!” Michelle gestured enthusiastically, nearly knocking the water over.
“It’s a beautiful place,” he said. “Slightly different when you live there, but there’s a definite charm.”
“I’m sure. It seems like the whole world is obsessed with that country. There’s art around every corner and the lifestyle is just…” Olivia trailed off.
“La dolce vita!” yelled Michelle. Olivia shot her a death glare, but Michelle leaned closer to her to whisper, “Don’t be upsetti, eat more spaghetti.”
“She’s actually on allergy meds right now and also got dumped three hours ago,” Olivia said, now putting the water glass directly into Michelle’s hands.
“I promise she’s lovely otherwise. Listen, I don’t mean to be judgy, but why on earth would you want to come back somewhere like here?
When it seems like all of us are trying to get back to somewhere like there? ”
“Mr. Mayor,” Michelle began, leaning toward him. She ran her fingers down the lapel of his jacket. “I need to pee.”
“OK, OK, excuse us,” Olivia said, wrapping her arm around Michelle as they stood. “She’s allegedly potty trained, but I’m taking no chances. Will you be here when we get back?”
“You know, probably not,” he said, feeling relief. He’d been looking for an exit for the last hour, possibly for the last two days and maybe even before that. There was no sense in procrastinating. He was done.
“I get it.” She smiled. “It was lovely to meet you, Andrea. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
He watched Olivia guide Michelle toward the restrooms, then stood, assured Jason he would see him the next morning for their meeting, and said good night.
As the elevator slid back down the fifty floors to the ground, he thought about what Jason said about not needing attachments, making money for people like Charlie Hammersley, apartments with rooftop terraces, cocktails made of smoke, and how all of it seemed to be similarly lacking in substance.
Andrea walked through the marble lobby, out onto West Fifty-Ninth Street, and was greeted with a wall of trees at the border of Central Park.
He crossed the street to the park side and took a left, walking toward Columbus Circle and his hotel.
It was a gorgeous September night with a slight crispness to the air.
The city was still humming close to midnight, and he remembered how sometimes it felt like New York matched the restless energy in his own head.
But that’s the job. It wasn’t about substance.
It wasn’t community service. It wasn’t repairing bridges or finding ways to fund education or even fixing electrical outlets and stinking like fried dough on occasion.
Was it possible that he’d only come here to confirm what he already knew—that neither London nor New York was the place for him?
He didn’t need a different location; he just needed to finally commit to the one he was in.
These streets only held more of that same feeling he remembered—of being a disconnected soul in a sea of people.
He was never, ever more alone than when he was in New York.
And then there was the thought hovering that he hadn’t wanted to admit.
It was another reason why he’d come here to see if this could be the right life: Baia Santa was not the same without Lora, and she’d left her mark on everything she touched.
The rest of the documents were getting scanned, his house was livable, iced coffee was the top seller at Giada’s café, and the star rating on every business in town had risen—no doubt due to the trail of sparkling reviews she’d left all over the internet.
Not only that, he was not the same without Lora.
In two months, she’d rearranged the pieces of him, and it seemed like he was wasting his time looking for some kind of relief from it in New York.
He walked through Columbus Circle and up toward Broadway, wondering what Lora would think of him.
She’d probably tell him that he didn’t need anything but himself, that he could still live his best life in spite of it all.
She’d look at him with those gray-blue eyes and quote something about fear and resilience and personal volition.
So, he’d come here, and tried to see things differently, and failed.
But now he realized that he’d gotten it backward.
It wasn’t about what he might be missing in New York; it was about taking a hard look at where he felt good and finally accepting it.
For himself. Mamma mia, che scemo—he was an idiot.
In fact, he should tell her what an idiot he was.
Now. He glanced down at his watch. It was almost seven in the morning in Zurich.
She’d probably be up, already thinking deep thoughts about saving the disconnected world. He was so tired. Should he?
Andrea:
I came all the way to New York because I heard your voice in my head telling me that maybe I’m hiding but I’m not
He shoved his phone back in his pocket and kept walking.
Lora and Vilmari sat at the bar at a Cuban restaurant on Eighth Avenue in New York City having a very Italian conversation.
Lora had been trying to explain a ricotta-and-lemon pasta dish she had made with Vivi’s encouragement.
A salsa band had just started playing, and since most of the tables in the restaurant had been pushed into a corner, she and Vilmari moved over to the tall stools.
“It was like macaroni and cheese had a glow-up,” Lora shouted over the music. “It was only four ingredients and I basically just had to mix them together.”
“I can’t believe you made dinner—for other people. I remember when you thought cooking was letting water steep in the Cup Noodles.”
“After I heated the water up in the microwave like a barbarian, I know. Using a teakettle was already too much work. But I am happy to say that I think it’s a skill I underestimated.”
“Well, now that you’re Italian…” Vilmari trailed off, grinning. “Are you going to yell at me for putting pineapple on pizza?”
“You can put mofongo on pizza, for all I care,” she said, laughing.
Vilmari had forced Lora to come out and be social.
In the less than two days that she’d been in New York, she’d done nothing but sleep, giving in to a potent combination of jet lag and longing.
She only got up to go get coffee, but then found herself on the subway and finally in Eataly, wandering through the marketplace like she was visiting old friends.
She recognized the brands of pasta, coffee, olive oil, and anchovies.
She read the labels, silently pronouncing words in her head like “taralli,” “asciutta,” “cremoso,” and “integrale.” She still hadn’t responded to Giada beyond a couple of heart emojis and was feeling guilty for not telling anyone in Italy that she had taken one hell of a left turn in Zurich.
And while Lora was happy for Vilmari and Nico, something odd and uncomfortable sat on her chest when Vilmari said that she was planning to go back to Baia Santa for Christmas.
She thought about Vilmari walking down certain streets and seeing certain people and realized that the odd feeling might have been envy.
And it might have been because somehow it felt like Baia Santa was her town, which was ridiculous; it was no more her town than any other place on earth—at least that’s what she told herself.