Chapter 16
LUCY
Oh, I hate him.
What a manipulative jerk.
What a talented tongue.
What lovely, perfectly-shaped fingers.
What a nice, hard dick.
What a good sense of humor.
I march away from Hidden Italy, determined to silence any appreciation of Enzo, but I don’t go home. I find myself walking toward the Wishing Bridge, where it feels like all of this began.
I pick my way toward the bridge, greeting a couple of people I recognize as I wrap the scarf more tightly around my neck.
It smells incredibly delicious, of course—spicy and manly and just like the side of Enzo’s neck.
He probably wears an expensive cologne. He’s exactly the kind of man who would, and he’d take great pleasure in knowing it drives me crazy.
A pulse of remembered pleasure works through me, and I squeeze my legs together for a second before continuing onward.
He let me in tonight, telling me about his family.
I felt a moment of fierce connection with him then—we were just two caregivers who understood the toll and also the joy.
I nearly told him why I’m taking the programming classes.
But thank God I didn’t, because now I have to wonder if it was all a ruse to get what he wanted.
But he didn’t get what he wanted.
No, I left him with a rock-hard dick. Is he taking care of it now? Is he thinking of me while he does it?
I push down an image of Enzo with his hand wrapped around his dick, his other hand resting on the wall to prop himself up, his muscles rippling, because he wouldn’t be easy on himself.
Okay, fine. I’m attracted to Lorenzo Cafiero. Viciously attracted to him. In the spirit of total honesty, I’ll admit that I’ve been attracted to him from the first moment I saw him.
But sexual attraction means nothing. I’m attracted to dozens of famous actors, and they’ll never know I exist. The important consideration is that I don’t like Enzo, and I will continue to not like him.
He’s domineering and manipulative, and sure, he has a sharp, witty sense of humor, but I can watch a sitcom if I want to laugh.
I’ll just have to find someone else to be attracted to.
Maybe even my sweet neighbor…if he’s the rare Golden Girls-loving young guy.
I keep walking, my mind circling around and around but staying on an Enzo track. Enzo’s lips. The brush of his fingers against mine as he reached for a french fry. The way he cleared that table with a single sweep of his arm in his desperation for me. Enzo on his knees in front of me…
He should have looked ridiculous with that red mustache, but if the marker couldn’t make the photo of him less attractive, what hope did it have of marring the real thing?
Still, I take some pleasure from the thought that I used a real Sharpie, not a dry-erase marker. He’ll still have traces of it on his face tomorrow, at work.
Something brushes against my hand, making me jerk to attention.
I look down and see Skippy, who wags his tail.
I smile at the jingle bell collar someone gifted him and give his head a rub.
I’d love to have a pet, someone to keep me company and make the apartment feel less empty and alone, but my lease agreement insists I’m not allowed to have a cat or dog.
At least there’s Skippy, who has sweetness enough to share with all of us.
I give him a kiss and another nuzzle before moving on.
A few minutes later, I reach the bridge.
It’s cold tonight, and the bridge is empty except for those locks lined up on its spokes.
I’m not sure why I’m here, other than that I need a moment to think. My mind wasn’t working clearly—or at all—in Hidden Italy. It was so focused on Enzo, I couldn’t see anything else.
I sit on the bridge, letting my legs dangle through the spokes and over the edge, and cautiously look down. No one’s getting busy beneath it, thankfully.
Now that I’m here, ready to make a wish, I feel self-conscious, but I press a hand to my chest. I’m not even fully aware of what I’m doing, what I intend, until I say in a small voice, “I’m in over my head, Mom.”
I rub a little more with my fingertips, feeling the cold press of the stone under my stockings. Feeling the grief surging against my rib cage.
“You definitely wouldn’t approve of him, and you’d be right not to. Your advice was always good. Great. I’ve read your letter so many times, and I’m going to find a man just like the one you described to me. I’m not going to get hung up on some jerk.”
That’s why I’m here, I realize. That’s the wish I should be whispering on the bridge tonight.
For a man my mother would approve of.
But I can’t bring myself to say the words. Not when my lips are swollen from him, and I can still feel the rasp of his stubble against my legs.
Enzo Cafiero is not a softhearted, biddable man.
He’s definitely not easygoing.
But I can’t deny that I want more of him.
I’ve been enjoying this push-pull between us, and it’ll be hard to release it.
So I say the only thing I know is true. “I love you, Mom. And I miss you so much.” Tears stream down my face, feeling instantly frozen by the chilly air. “I wish I knew you were okay. That somewhere you were okay.”
At that exact moment, snow begins to fall in soft, powdery flakes.
I look up in shock, my heart expanding so much it feels like my entire chest is tight. Reaching out a hand, I catch a few flakes to assure myself they’re real. Of course they’re real.
I know it’s probably just a coincidence, but pure happiness unleashes inside of me, and I don’t want to reject it. I want to let myself live in this feeling. To accept this as a sign that my mother is somehow listening.
I want to believe in holiday magic.
Raising my head to the flakes, I stick out my tongue and catch them in my mouth. I laugh, even as a few final tears work down my cheeks, and then I leave the bridge to walk home.
And something even more astounding happens…
The flurries stop as abruptly as they started.
I stare back at the bridge with wide eyes, my entire being arrested.
“Mom?” I ask.
Of course there’s no answer, but when I turn back toward the path, I’m a different person.
It feels like my mother just hugged me, in the only way she still can, and told me it’s all going to be okay.
I’m in such a daze that I plow into someone else who’s headed toward the bridge.
I trip and fall back onto my butt, startled.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” a familiar voice says.
Familiar not because I know her, but because I’ve heard recordings of her voice in dozens of movies.
It’s Amanda Willis, her perfect honey-blonde hair framing her face beneath a dark beanie hat.
She reaches out to help me up, and I take her hand, struck dumb.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“I’m…fine,” I say at last, recovering the ability to speak, thank goodness. “And I’m the one who should be sorry. I bumped into you. I was distracted by the bridge.”
I realize what that sounds like and laugh. “This is going to sound even crazier, but I made a wish, and it started snowing. Was it snowing over here?”
Her eyes widen. “No, not that I noticed, but I’ve been kind of lost in thought too.” She glances past me at the bridge. “You look familiar. Do you work at Love at First Sip?”
I nod quickly. “Yes.”
She smiles warmly at me. “Your boss is the one who told me about this place. Eileen’s lovely. She came to see me this morning.”
I know all about that, but I don’t want to freak her out, so I just say, “Oh?”
“That’s kind of why I’m here.” She glances briefly at the bridge and laughs. “I feel like I’m at a literal crossroads. In my career. In my love life. Everything.”
“So what better place to go than a bridge?” I ask with a smile. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. You should be able to make your wish without anyone intruding.”
“Actually,” she says before I can walk away. “Can I ask you something?”
I pause, surprised. “Of course.”
She shakes her head, her nose scrunching up. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this. You’re going to think I’m nuts.”
“I think it just snowed on that bridge because I asked for a sign, so I probably am nuts. I’m the last person who’d judge you.”
She gives me a grateful smile. “How do you know if someone really likes you, or if they only like the idea of you?”
I lift my eyebrows. I’d whistle if I could, but I’ve never had that talent. “That’s a heavy one.”
My mind shifts to Enzo.
Is that what he likes? The idea of me? Lucy, the twenty-eight-year-old virgin?
Am I one more challenge to be conquered?
Amanda looks around, ensuring we’re alone, and then takes a half step closer. “You know who I am, don’t you?”
I nod, because obviously I do. “And I’m Lucy.”
“Nice to meet you, Lucy.”
A sigh escapes her as she lifts her head the winter sky, eyes closed. I’m about to sneak off, leaving her to her Wishing Bridge moment, when she speaks.
“Everyone thinks they know me because they’ve seen my movies.
” She toes the snow with her boot, a humorless laugh escaping in a puff of hot air.
“Or read the many tabloids about me.” She meets my eyes.
“But that’s not really me, you know? And I’ve already been wrong about someone in the past, so I’m not sure I know how to tell if something’s real. ”
I give this point the consideration it deserves, then say, “All you can do is be yourself.” I smile.
“I’ve never had a talent for being anyone else, and plenty of men have no patience for who I really am.
But I’ve always been okay with that, because if we were right for each other, they’d like the real me.
So be defiantly yourself. Maybe you’ll scare some people away.
But the ones who genuinely like you will stick around. ”
She smiles at me. “Defiantly myself, huh? I like that.”
“Can I give you a hug?”
“As long as you don’t ask me to sign your coat with a Sharpie.”
“I think I’d rather be your friend,” I say, and give her a quick hug. “Good luck with your wish. I’m starting to think the bridge really is magical.”