Chapter 32
52 weeks after the wedding
Naples hangs with a heavy heat, the kind that’s thick and sticks in my throat, making it hard to swallow. Or maybe that’s just nerves. Just like it was my nerves that made me awkwardly nudge the guy beside me on the plane so that I could get up and pee eleven times during the transatlantic flight.
But sixteen hours, one layover, and eleven in-flight trips to the bathroom later, I’m here. In Italy.
Sun pours down my back as I stand outside my hotel, waiting for my Uber. I wipe the tiny beads of sweat gathering at the base of my neck and pray I don’t have pit stains. I bet Meg Ryan didn’t have to worry about pit stains when she met Tom Hanks at the top of the Empire State Building.
I smooth down my lavender dress and check my hair—now back to its natural dirty blond—in the nearest window, hoping the curls I ironed in won’t completely lose their shape in the heat.
Thankfully, my Uber doesn’t take long and I’m able to climb into the air-conditioned back seat before fully melting into the concrete.
“I need to get to a restaurant,” I tell the driver, Leo, a young guy in his early twenties with olive skin and thick tendrils of curly black hair. “It’s called Pizzeria Vergini. Do you know it?”
He taps his finger on the dashboard, brows creased in thought.
“I know the place,” he says at last. “Near Palazzo dello Spagnolo. Good pizza, no?”
I bob my chin excitedly. “ Grazie mille! ”
I have no idea if this is the right place, but this is all the information I have, so I’m just gonna go with it and hope I’m right.
Twenty minutes later, I step out of the air-conditioned car and onto a street near Palazzo dello Spagnolo where the buildings are old and narrow as though time has squished them together.
I follow Leo’s directions down a main road before turning into a romantic square lined with cafés and elegant shops. There’s a fountain at one end and a tall spire at the other. Each of the buildings lining the square is a different hue of pink and orange and red except for a domed basilica casting long shadows across the cobblestone.
As I cross the square, following in the direction of the falling sunlight, a new thread of confidence weaves inside me.
Maybe there’s nothing terribly risky about flying to Italy. Or telling a guy you like him—it’s not slaying dragons or fighting crime—but maybe not all stakes in life are the big, flashy ones. Maybe the risks that change our lives are as simple as saying yes. Being honest. Putting ourselves out there. Unapologetically asking for what we want. Maybe the biggest risk we can take is remaining hopeful in a world that often feels hopeless.
At the edge of the street I spot a small eatery with big block letters over the door spelling out Pizzeria Vergini .
Hope flares in my chest.
This is it. I’m here.
The place isn’t anything fancy, just a few small tables set on the street behind a chipped, orange stucco building. But apparently this is the best pizza in the world (according to Jack).
Hands slightly trembling, I approach the restaurant’s front door and give it a tug, but it’s locked.
Shit.
I tug again, but no luck.
It’s five o’clock. Shouldn’t they be open for dinner? I look up and down the street. There’s another restaurant across the way. Also closed.
Why is everything closed? It’s not a holiday or something, is it?
Nerves coil inside me, and I wonder if despite all my careful planning, I’ve still managed a massive oversight.
I lean against the shady side of the building, hoping for some relief from the sun as I try to figure out my next move.
I should call Jack. Let him know I’m here, waiting for him. Sure, it’s not as romantic, but this is the twenty-first century. We’re no longer living in the world of You’ve Got Mail, and I don’t want to stand here for hours, wondering if he’s going to show or not.
But just as I’m pulling out my phone, ready to call a number I haven’t called in a year, I stop myself.
I’ve come all this way. I’m in a beautiful place, dressed in my best. I can wait a little longer.
I people watch for a while until I get restless, then I pull out my sketchbook and graphite pencil, deciding that if I’m going to sit on a beautiful street in Italy, I might as well sketch it.
I start with the steeple across the street, shading the long shadows, then I add the buildings covered in bougainvillea, and the man walking his dog on the cobblestone, and the tiny cars all parallel parked within an inch of their lives. And slowly, the gaps close between the vision in my head and the scene on the page.
I haven’t sketched for pleasure in a while, not since I’ve been busy with the business, but as my pencil moves across the paper, shading and blending, I remember how good it feels to create something that’s just for me. Not for a customer or Allison, but just for me.
It’s a quarter past eight when the sky begins to morph from bright blue to hazy purple. Behind me the pizzeria is in full swing as patrons clink glasses and chatter in Italian. Apparently, no one in Italy eats dinner before eight.
The scent of garlic and pizza dough waft in the still warm air, reminding me it’s been hours since I last ate, and I can’t help but feel a little sorry for myself, sitting here, all alone, watching people eat dinner while I wait for a man who is increasingly unlikely to show up.
I know it’s my own doing. I’m the one who assumed the risk of showing up without any assurance he’d be here. But it still hurts knowing that he doesn’t feel the same way I do. That the five days we spent together last year didn’t impact him the way they did me.
Tears prick my eyes and I decide that’s my sign to admit defeat. I’ll go back to my hotel or find a little café where I can drink enough wine to make me forget Jack’s name. Then tomorrow, I’ll pick myself up and explore Italy. Just because Jack isn’t here doesn’t mean I can’t still have a good time on my own.
I’m standing to go when I see something shiny on the ground. I lean closer, realizing that it’s a penny. Face up. A lucky penny.
My heart rate ticks up.
I haven’t looked for good luck symbols for a while now, but something magnetic draws me toward it. My hands are just closing around the sun-scorched metal when I hear my name.
“Ada?”
I jerk my head up.
Jack.
He’s walking toward me, tall frame casting long shadows across the cobblestone, the hazy blur of the sunset bringing out golden flecks in his dark hair. It’s like something from a dream, and it takes me a moment to fully process that this is real. He’s real. And he’s here.
His hair is disheveled, his clothes are wrinkled, and there’s a bead of sweat running down his neck. But there’s light in his eyes and the beginnings of a smile on his mouth. The sight of him makes my stomach swoop like I’ve just missed the last step on the stairs.
“Hi,” I say, at the exact same time he says, “You came.”
The familiarity of his voice hums inside me, making me realize how much I’ve ached to hear it again. How much I’ve missed him.
“I was worried I’d be too late,” he confesses. “I would have come sooner, but my flight to Rome got canceled at the last minute, so I got on a flight to Venice instead. Then I had to take the train from there, which ended up taking five hours.”
I think about saying, I didn’t think you’d come . Or I’m so glad you’re here . Or even I missed you . Instead, what comes out is, “You must have terrible luck with travel.”
His face cracks into that slow, easy grin I remember so well. “I’d agree with you, but these things only seem to happen when you’re involved.”
“So you’re saying I’m some kind of bad luck charm?” I tease.
He steps closer and gives me a simmering look that makes me feel like someone’s vacuum-sealed all the air around us. “I’m not sure I believe in luck,” he says. “I think everything happens for a reason.”
“Like fate?”
“Like fate,” he agrees.
I inch closer, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “Who are you and what have you done with Jack Houghton?”
“People change, you know. And clearly you have too.” He looks me up and down, eyes scanning. “You look different. No more purple hair, I see.”
I touch my hair. “I decided it was time for a new look.”
“And you’ve got some new ink.”
I follow his gaze down to my arms, now dotted in artwork. My artwork.
A nervous laugh rises out of me. “You like?”
His eyes catch the pinkish light of the setting sun at just the right angle, making his eyes shimmer as his mouth stretches into a wide smile. “I love it. It suits you.”
“You look different too,” I tell him.
“Don’t tell me I could no longer be Ryan Gosling’s body double?”
I laugh. “Don’t worry, it’s a good different.” I squint, trying to discern what exactly is different about him. He’s still handsome. With the same perfect five-o’clock shadow. And based on the way his shirt stretches across his broad chest and shoulders, he could definitely still be Ryan Gosling’s body double. But there’s something else. A lightness to him. Like whatever weight had once sat on his shoulders is now gone.
“You look happy,” I say at last.
“I am happy.”
He lets out a long sigh. But it’s not sad or resigned. It’s a hopeful sigh. Like he’s taking one big, much-needed exhale.
“A few months ago, after the divorce was finalized, I decided it was finally time to do what I should have done a long time ago,” he says. “I started seeing a therapist.”
My heartbeat stumbles, a newfound levity in my chest. “How’s it been?”
“Hard, but good,” he says with a resolute nod. “The first few sessions were brutal. Like having my insides excavated. But it feels good to work through stuff. To see light at the end of the tunnel.”
“I’m really happy for you,” I tell him.
“Thanks. Me too.”
There’s fragility behind his eyes, but also hope. And before I can stop myself, hot tears are running down my face as I reach for him, wrapping my arms around his neck.
Slowly, he squeezes me back, running a hand up and down the length of my spine.
My body remembers his touch, the feel of his hands, the scent of him—tangy and musky with a hint of something sweet. All of it comes back with aching clarity.
“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t cry.” He wipes a stray tear from my cheek, which only makes me cry harder.
“I’m sorry,” I blubber, as a fresh wave of tears cascades down my cheeks. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I just…” I choke on the words. “I’m so happy to see you. To know you’re doing okay.”
He squeezes me harder, grounding me to him. “I feel the same way,” he says, stroking my hair.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I say, clutching him like I’m afraid he might evaporate from under my grip. “You came.”
“Ada,” he says, voice low like the purr of a car engine. “Of course I came. I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”
I pull back from him, my stomach churning like it’s full of bouncy balls. “But…Why didn’t you reach out?”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “There were so many times I wanted to call you. To text you. Just to see how you were doing, or to tell you when something funny happened. But every time I thought about it, I worried you wouldn’t want to hear from me. That maybe it was too late.”
“Jack, I—”
“No. Please. Let me say this,” he says, holding out a hand to stop me. “A year ago, when we met, I was in a bad place. I was getting divorced. I was miserable and dead set on never being in a serious relationship again. Then I met you and I found myself wanting things I never thought I’d want again. I started wondering what it might be like to wake up with you. To run errands and watch movies and go on dates and plan trips together. But I knew I couldn’t give you what you wanted, or needed,” he adds with a knowing look. “I knew I had to let you go.”
I nod, feeling the familiar memories rise inside me like acid.
“Then a year passed, and I figured you’d moved on. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” His eyes bounce over me, and I can’t help the goose bumps that rise everywhere his gaze lands.
“I told my therapist how I was still harboring feelings for you even after all this time, and she asked me why I hadn’t told you, so I told her I was scared. It turned into this whole conversation about my fear of rejection after my dad and my ex-wife left. God, I think I cried through the whole session,” he admits, rubbing his temple with the heel of his palm. “The point being, I walked out of there knowing I had to tell you how I felt, even if it ended in rejection. I owed it to myself, and to you, to be honest about how I felt. Am still feeling.”
He pauses, swallowing. When he speaks again, his voice comes out low and sturdy, like he’s pulled a newfound confidence from somewhere deep inside. “I still don’t believe in soulmates,” he says. “But I do think we get to choose who we want to spend the rest of our lives with, and that we can grow together without growing apart. I know it won’t be simple or easy, none of the good things in life ever are, but you challenge me and excite me more than anyone I’ve ever known, Ada.
“And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way,” he says quickly. “I don’t expect you to. It’s been a year. We haven’t so much as exchanged a text. But I wanted to be honest with you about how I feel. To tell you that I’ve spent every day of the last year thinking about you, and to see if maybe I still had a chance with you.”
When he finishes, his eyes are wide with anticipation like he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For me to tell him there’s been some misunderstanding, that this is all a mistake.
I step toward him, taking his hands in mine. “Do you really think I’d fly across the world and wait three hours in this heat if you didn’t still have a chance with me?” I ask.
Jack leans toward me, mouth slightly parted, and I get that same excited feeling of anticipation as when the lights go down and the movie is about to start. My breath catches and my stomach contracts. Then he tips his lips to meet mine, answering my question with a kiss.
The kiss is full of idiosyncrasies. Slow and urgent. Desperate and deliberate. And I kiss him back, fingers coiling in his hair, heat pooling in the nooks between our sticky limbs as our bodies say all the words we haven’t yet spoken. I missed you. Don’t let go. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.
The pads of his thumbs trace my jaw, sliding lower until he’s cupping my face. Then he tilts my chin back, deepening the kiss, and my chest lifts, every part of me levitating, humming with a new tune. Him, him, him.
When finally we break away, Jack’s grinning, lips swollen, face flushed with heat. “You’re really here,” he says, voice a little breathless.
“I’m here,” I say back, mouth parted in an uneven smile.
The life I have is a good one. A life of movie nights with Allison and solo trips to Paris and painting murals for beautiful babies who haven’t yet been born. It’s full and complete and happy, but right now, with Jack’s arms around me, both of us slightly out of breath, I know it’s possible to be even happier.
“I feel really lucky right now,” I say into his chest.
“I don’t.”
I look up, confused. “What do you mean?”
His gaze narrows in thought. “When we met a year ago, maybe that was luck or fate or whatever you want to call it, but that’s not the reason we’re standing here right now. We’re standing here because we want to be. Because we’re choosing this. Both of us.”
My breath stutters, pulse ramming against my sternum as his words excavate something deep inside me. He’s choosing me, not just out of convenience or obligation or because it’s easy, but because he wants me, all of me. No expiration date. No breaks. No reservations or hesitations.
They’re words I’ve needed to hear. And maybe Jack needs to hear them too.
I lift my gaze, eyes finding his through the dim half-light of the setting sun. “Yes,” I tell him.
“Yes?” he repeats.
“Yes,” I say again, this time more confident. “I choose you.”
He tucks an errant strand of hair behind my ear, eyes wavering across me. “I choose you too.” Then he pulls me closer, this time tighter, like our confession is an invisible string tying us together. The cadence of his breath is steady and I feel his lungs expand and contract against mine as though each exhale were filling me up.
“I’m trying not to have regrets,” he says. “It’s something I’ve been talking about with my therapist, but I do have one.”
“What’s that?” I ask, playing with the cuff of his shirt.
“That I never got to dance with you at the wedding.” He holds out his hand, eyes flickering with warmth. “Will you dance with me, Ada?”
I balk at him. “You want to dance? Here? Now? In the street?”
“When in Rome, right?” He takes my hand, drawing me into the landscape of his body. We’re both hot and sticky, clinging to one another like wet pieces of paper.
“It’s sort of hard to dance without music,” I tease as we sway back and forth, totally off beat.
His hands find my waist, fingers digging into the fabric of my dress. “I know. But we can try, right?”
I smile. Somehow it feels like he’s talking about more than just dancing.
As we sway to a nonexistent beat, I play with the hem of his sleeve, eyes scanning the length of his arm. It takes me a moment to realize what I’m looking for.
“You didn’t get the compass tattoo,” I say.
He follows my gaze. “No. I didn’t.”
“You changed your mind?”
He shakes his head. “I was hoping you’d be the one to do it.”
My heart swells, growing two sizes too big for my chest. “Really?”
“If you have any availability, that is. I heard you’re quite busy.”
“I’m sure I could pencil you in for a private session,” I say, mouth splitting into a grin.
Jack lifts one eyebrow, giving me an unscrupulous look. “A private session, huh?”
I playfully smack his chest. “I run a very professional business, Mr. Houghton.”
“I hope it’s not all business,” he teases.
My mind begs to skip ahead, to what comes next, to where this moment leads. But I shake the thought free, focusing instead on right now. On the seconds I can still hold on to. The rhythmic tempo of his breathing. The scratch of his facial hair against my cheek. The fact that we’re choosing each other, and no matter what happens next, it will be together.
“Ada?”
I tilt my chin up to face him. “Mm-hmm.”
“Do you have any plans tonight?”
“Funny you should ask. I’m actually meeting another guy at the pizza place down the street in fifteen minutes, so if it’s cool with you, can we wrap this thing up?” I twirl my index finger.
He shakes his head, grinning. “That’s too bad. I was hoping to take you on a date.”
“A date?” I repeat like I’ve never heard the word before. “Now?”
“Yes, Ada. Tonight. A real one,” he adds.
His fingers trail along my waist, dipping in and out of the divots in my lower back.
“What exactly did you have in mind?” I ask.
His mouth lifts into that flirty grin I know so well. “Well, I was hoping you might join me for dinner. I know a great pizza place. Best in the world, in fact.” He gestures to the buzzing pizzeria behind us.
I put a finger to my chin in thought. “Mm, do you think they’ll let me put pineapple on it?”
“No chance.”
“And what comes after this date?” I ask.
He steps toward me, closing the remaining distance between us. “You want to know my intentions?”
“Well, I gotta weigh my options here.”
He laughs then takes my hands in his. “Well, I’m thinking dinner, then maybe a walk around the square, you know, to digest after we consume copious amounts of pizza,” he adds.
“Then?”
“Then we can talk.”
I raise one eyebrow. “ Just talk?”
His eyes shimmer in the warm, yellow light. Then he leans in close enough that the scruff on his jaw snags my cheek. “There might be more than just talking,” he says. “I’ll have you know my intentions aren’t purely wholesome,” he murmurs against my ear.
“Were they ever?”
“No. No, they weren’t.”
My cheeks simmer, mind racing ahead to Jack and me, pressed against one another, clothes on the floor while he shows me exactly what his intentions are.
“I have a hotel room not far from here.” I nod down the street. “I’m not sure if you booked anywhere to stay tonight, but I’d be happy to share my bed with a stranded traveler such as yourself.”
He pulls me closer. “Stranded traveler, huh? And you’re sure you don’t have any ulterior motives?”
My bottom lip disappears between my teeth, the corners of my mouth arching upward. “I might have a few.”
“So…” He gives me a conspiratorial look. “Just to clarify, so no one is mistaken this time, you mean sexual intercourse?”
“I could provide a chart and some diagrams if that would be helpful.”
Jack’s eyes flare as he lifts his thumb to my lips, gently brushing against the peak. “I love hearing you talk dirty,” he whispers.
I laugh and the sound echoes between us, traveling all the way down the street.
His dark eyes, now awash in pink light, sweep over me, hands roaming the length of my back, scraping against the sweaty skin below my neck before traveling up into my hair. He holds me closer, neither of us in a hurry to be anywhere, to do anything, other than be here, in this moment. Just us.
The sun is starting to set, and the sky morphs from pink to lavender. I close my eyes, basking in the final moments of sun before it finally dips beneath the surface.
Soon enough, this moment, this perfect moment , will end. We’ll board flights and head back to real life, where jobs and commutes and the inherent messiness of life await us.
We’ll have things to figure out. We’ll argue and say things we wish we could take back. We’ll hurt one another and make mistakes. There will be good days and bad days. Hard times and easy ones.
But I want that because I want him. Because I know that here, in a series of fleeting seconds, on a street corner in Naples, under the shadow of beautiful buildings in a beautiful place, I’m exactly where I want to be, with exactly the person I want to be with.