CHAPTER 10
Edoardo
I stretch and wake fully before dawn. When I squint at the clock, it tells me it’s six in the morning.
It’s Monday morning and I am in Manhattan.
I stretch again, long and slow, like a cat, then shove the covers aside. Time for the run I’ve been promising myself, a long and indulgent run in Central Park before this city fully wakes.
God, it is beautiful. My eyes report it to my brain before my mind can argue.
How could I have forgotten fall in the Northeast?
The colors arrive like a memory unlocked.
The park opens up before me, and with every mile it becomes more breathtaking.
Layers of red and gold leaves blanket the ground.
Runners pass in pairs, in packs, or alone, laughter overlapping with breath and footfalls.
Somewhere behind me, bikers shriek as they fly past. The city hums even here, but softened, almost kind.
This city really is beautiful.
I landed at JFK late last night. The moment my feet touched the ground, it felt like an escape despite the fog of missed sleep and weeks of mental strain.
I checked into the Carlyle, ordered room service for a quick dinner, then forced myself outside for a short walk.
Twenty minutes. Enough to feel the city, not enough to think.
After that, I crawled into bed and slept deeply.
I haven’t felt this light in weeks.
On Friday night, just past midnight, a contact called. Casually, he mentioned that the senior curator of the Whitney, Lisa, seemed to be looking for a new opportunity. New terrain, something that would let her explore the world while satisfying her own ambitions.
That single sentence froze everything else in place. London: canceled. Plans for the gallery this week: suspended. Milan to JFK instead, without hesitation.
My legs are burning and alive with sensation, as I circle Bethesda Terrace one more time. My eyes drift back to the runners around me. This city reminds me of Milan – restless and vibrating with ambition and endless energy. I like it.
Two days here. Then back to London. My contact has already secured me a meeting with Lisa today at two in the afternoon.
I will take an extra day to explore the galleries here, and if I need another conversation to persuade Lisa, I’ll take it.
I’m coming armed with everything I can offer and everything she could want.
I’ll bring her to Europe and into my network of galleries.
In my world, a senior curator from a top-tier museum is everything.
I missed Stefano by half a day. He boarded his flight back to Milan just as I landed. I don’t know how that kid does it. Two hours back and forth between Milan and London and I’m already on edge. He crosses the Atlantic on weekly basis.
I must’ve run twelve miles by now. I slow to a jog, then a walk, and make my way out of the park.
One checklist item done. Now, business.
***
I’m waiting for my coffee at a corner café in Tribeca, the kind of place that feels like it’s already decided it’s good before you’ve even tasted anything. The aroma alone is exquisite. It wraps around me and settles into my chest. I love the smell of coffee. Anything coffee, really.
“Two cortados for Edoardo.”
That’s me. I step forward and feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn.
“I can’t believe you’re in the city and didn’t tell us, Edoardo.” Ethan is grinning.
“Hi. Good morning.” I pull him into a brief embrace. “I landed yesterday. I thought I already missed the crew. Gigi said you were all in San Francisco this week.”
“I’m here this week,” Ethan shrugs, easy. “How long are you staying?”
“Two days. I leave for London tomorrow afternoon.”
“So in and out,” he says, clicking his tongue. “That’s rough.”
“Yep. An important meeting I had to make today.” I tell him, though my mind is already drifting ahead, calculating jet lag, thinking about the flight back to London and everything waiting for me there.
“How’s it going?” he asks. “Stefano talks about your gallery nonstop.”
“It’s coming together,” I say lightly, instinctively downplaying it. “Though, there’s always at least three or four things that are about to go wrong.”
“That’s how it always is,” he says. “Fingers crossed.” He glances at his watch. “I’ve got to head to the office, but what are you up to tonight?”
“Nothing. Just walking the city. I need to decompress.”
“Have dinner with us,” he offers. “Something easy. No pressure.”
“I don’t want to impose. It’s only Monday.”
“No such thing,” he says immediately. “I’ll send you the location. Seven?”
I smile despite myself. “If you insist. Thanks.”
Ethan heads out the door, and I have a sudden realization about the mistake I just made.
What if Caroline is coming?
Fuck. Why didn’t I think about that?
***
My meeting with Lisa goes better than I could have hoped.
We talk for four hours, four uninterrupted and effortless hours.
Not a guarded negotiation or a covert recruitment dance but something closer to two people circling the same questions from different angles: art, institutions, ambition, failure, the cost of staying curious without selling yourself out.
When we finally stand to leave, I don’t hesitate. I extend my offer plainly and tell her to get back to me by five p.m. tomorrow.
By six thirty, I’m dressed in a button-down and jeans, a light jacket slung over my shoulder, heading down to the West Village to meet Ethan.
I shove the idea of Caroline down hard as I step into the restaurant. Only when I get to the table and see that she isn’t there can I lose a long breath that I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
“Hi, this is Deba, my fiancée,” Ethan says, pulling a chair back. “Dee, this is Edoardo, Stefano’s best friend.”
We exchange greetings. Warmth radiates from Deba effortlessly, something open and genuine in the way she smiles, the way she looks directly at you when she speaks. I like her instantly.
“I picked this place because we want to make sure you have some good American dishes,” Ethan says. “Let’s try it out.” He winks.
“Surprise me then,” I smile and say easily, accepting a glass of water from the waiter.
They are excellent hosts. Drinks are chosen, appetizers ordered, even an entrée selected on my behalf. I let myself be taken care of.
The evening unfolds smoothly. Drinks arrive.
Plates follow. Conversation flows. Deba surprises me - she knows a great deal about art, especially surrealism, and she speaks about it with quiet confidence.
We keep talking, circling ideas, finishing each other’s thoughts.
Ethan chimes in now and then, but mostly he watches her.
The way he looks at Deba is soft, reverent almost - like he’s still faintly stunned that she exists. I’ve seen that look before. Stefano with Gigi. People in absolute, full-blown love.
And something settles quietly inside me.
I was right to break up with Isabella. I loved her, yes - but she deserves someone who sees her like that, someone ready to give his life, his full devotion, without hesitation.
Then, Ethan flags down the waiter for another entrée. Fifteen minutes later, the food arrives, right as Ethan pulls out the seat across from me. That’s when I realize my earlier relief came far too early.
Caroline.
“Hi there,” she says simply, after squeezing Ethan and Deba into quick, familiar hugs.
“How’re you doing, Caroline?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
She gives me a small smile in return.
We haven’t run into each other since. Almost two months.
I’ve stayed carefully outside of her orbits, despite Clive perched relentlessly on my back, cawing for an opportunity to meet her.
A beautiful woman with endless admirers, she must have noticed my interest that evening. But she hasn’t said a word.
My thoughts have drifted back to her more times than I care to admit but I clamped them down with ruthless discipline. The damage I did to myself that night, locking her body with mine and letting myself believe something I had no right to believe, was more than enough.
“How was your Monday, Kitty?” Ethan asks.
Kitty? That’s her nickname?
“Monday is always rough,” she shrugs. “And I’ll forgive you this time, Mister Ethan-man,” she adds with a smirk, “but don’t call me that. You know I’m already running low on tenderness and high on violence.”
Deba laughs softly. I tell myself I can deal with this version of Caroline - the one with a drink in hand, teasing and sparring with Ethan, the casual intimacy of people who know exactly how to provoke each other.
“You stayed with Con over the weekend?” Ethan asks, his tone shifting, more careful now.
“Is Connor okay?” The question escapes me before I can stop it.
“Connor’s doing fine,” Deba says gently. “Well, not fine, but a bit better. Connor broke up with Celina.”
Caroline makes a face at her wine glass, then flags the waiter down. “Whiskey, please,” she says. “And sparkling water. Extra cold.”
“It’s still rough,” she admits after a sip. “Biking, sailing, boxing all weekend just to pull him out of the hole he dug for himself. He dug it too deep this time.” She exhales slowly, the sound heavy, weighted.
I’ve seen how tender Caroline is with Gigi before. But seeing how deeply Connor’s pain affects her sends something sharp through my chest.
At my silence, she turns to me, explaining.
“Connor broke up with Celina, only to realize later he was the one who was wrong. She gave up her apartment here and disappeared. Only Gigi knows where she’s at and will try to help facilitate another time for Connor to meet Celina eventually. We don’t know when.”
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” Ethan says. “Should we schedule an intervention?”
“What kind?” Caroline raises an eyebrow, draining her sparkling water. “I’m open to anything.”
“Trying to talk sense into Con. Trying to persuade Celina to at least talk to him, give things some closure,” Ethan says, doubt creeping into his voice. “But I don’t even know what Con did when he broke up with her, so I don’t know where to begin.”
“Only Gigi knows the whole story,” Caroline sighs. “I know bits and pieces. Not helpful.” She pauses. “But out of all of this, I feel for Celina. Sometimes, punching Con feels so right. What an asshole.”
And there it is. The other version of Caroline.
It claws its way back - still armored, sharp-edged, and fearless, but with something warm and vulnerable leaking through the cracks, whether she realizes it or not.
Deba cuts in softly. “Sometimes it’s better to let them figure it out themselves. But we’ll be there for Connor when he needs us.”
“Agreed,” Caroline says.
I sit there, silent and steady on the outside while something inside me refuses to stay quiet.
We finish dinner, but Deba doesn’t want dessert at the restaurant. She wants to take us to Big Gay Ice Cream - she’s craving it, and she insists on showing me the legendary place.
“Big Gay?” Caroline’s voice lifts instantly, excitement spilling out. Her eyes light up like a child in a candy store.
After fifteen minutes of slow walking, an inspired choice because the West Village is impossibly beautiful, Ethan sticks with his favorite, a Dorothy (vanilla ice cream cone with caramel swirls and a cookie-covered texture), while I follow Deba and Caroline’s lead and order a massive American Globs (chocolate covered vanilla ice cream with crunchy mini pretzels).
I lend Caroline my jacket during the walk. She must’ve forgotten hers in the car, and the late-fall chill is creeping in. She looks at me for a second, just a second, then takes it.
One bite of the vanilla soft serve and I understand immediately why both women love it. Dark pretzel bits, salty chocolate shell, crispy chunks of chocolate dip, sweet and salt in perfect balance.
“Okay,” I say, impressed, gesturing vaguely with my spoon. “Dinner and ice cream. I’m officially convinced. New York is amazing. Really. Thank you for showing me around.”
“Come hang with us anytime,” Ethan smirks. “New York has an amazing food scene.”
“Thanks,” I say easily. “Will drop you a note next time.”
Caroline walks ahead with Deba. They’re talking about something I don’t catch the words, but Caroline laughs, open and unguarded, and moments later Deba’s shoulders are shaking with laughter too.
We walk for another twenty minutes or so. Ethan’s place is coming up around the corner. He invites us up, but jet lag is finally winning its slow war with me.
My car pulls up as we say goodbye.
Caroline gets into hers.
And suddenly, desperately, I want to say something. But it’s already too late.