A Beginner’s Guide to Forever

Chapter One Welcome to Your New Life

Chapter One

Welcome to Your New Life

Florence, Italy

I need a glass of wine—or three .

Alone on the rooftop of my hotel, I gaze out over the beautiful and historic city of Florence. Taking in the red tiled rooftops, the breathtaking Gothic cathedral in the distance, and the setting sun that casts everything in a pinkish glow, I try to count my blessings.

Count them? I can’t even name one .

Why I thought fleeing to one of the most romantic cities in the world fresh off a bad breakup was a good idea is beyond me.

I know I have a lot to live for, a lot to be hopeful about in the future, but right now, in this moment, with my heart shattered into a million pieces, I’m finding it hard to remember what any of those things are.

At age thirty-seven I’ve just ended my second engagement, and while I have a job I love and a great group of friends, my dreams of becoming a wife and a mother are further away than ever.

I always thought of myself as someone strong, courageous, and unbreakable .

.. now I’m not sure I’m any of those things.

I gaze down at the happy couples strolling through the piazza four stories below.

An elderly couple—she with white hair and he with a bald head—hold hands, moving slowly, as if savoring their time together.

That should have been me and Sean someday.

A single tear slips down my cheek as I watch them, wondering if that’s something I’ll ever have.

I close my eyes to say a silent prayer—offering God all my fears and anxieties seems like a safe place to put them.

Please help me, God. I can’t do this without you. I’m sorry I’m so impatient, but I don’t want to be alone forever. I want to find my person. I want ...

The door pushes open, interrupting my silent prayer, and I glance toward the sound. A guy steps out. He’s tall—a little over six feet, with broad shoulders.

He holds his phone to his ear. “I don’t care. You lied—straight to my face.”

He listens intently to the person on the other end of the call, pacing. He still hasn’t spotted me, but I guess I’m not surprised—when I heard the door open, I tucked myself into a large chair that’s shaped like an egg on the far side of the patio.

“Of course I don’t trust him—he’s a walking disaster.

” His fists clench at his sides, and he looks like he wants to hit something.

He turns and paces back in the other direction.

“Did it ever occur to you ...” He pauses, seeming to think better of it, and takes a breath. “Never mind. Have a nice life, Sophia.”

He ends the call, tips his head back, and stares straight up at the night sky. Anger and frustration roll off him in waves. He shouts a curse word in defeat.

His hands are shaking when he shoves the phone into his pocket. Then he closes his eyes and pulls deep lungfuls of air into his chest.

For a second he just stands there, and I don’t know if I should announce my presence or grab a bucket of popcorn.

It’s not that his breakdown is entertaining per se, but it is distracting me from my own drama, which means it’s a very welcome diversion.

He stalks across the patio, grabs a potted plant, and hurls it against the stucco wall with so much force it explodes, sending shards of pottery and clumps of dirt flying in every direction.

I flinch at the sound, holding my breath, and wait to see what he might do next.

I don’t feel fear, which would probably be a normal human emotion when you’re alone with a strange man who’s seemingly prone to violence. Instead, I feel slightly envious.

Maybe if I thought to take my anger out by smashing potted plants or shouting profanity at the night sky, I wouldn’t be sitting here crying, throwing myself a pity party.

Then again, destroying hotel property means I wouldn’t get my security deposit back, and I’m very much a rule follower. Always have been.

Since I feel a little weird about watching what he probably assumes is a private nervous breakdown, I figure I should announce myself.

“The pool’s closed,” I hear myself say, wiping the tears from my cheek with the back of one hand.

He turns, slowly, realizing for the first time he’s not alone.

When he sees me, his gaze drags over me before meeting my eyes with a look of apprehension.

“Sorry ... I didn’t know anyone else was out here.

” The sound of his voice surprises me. It’s very .

.. male . Deep and rugged. And based on his accent, he’s American.

He gives me a lopsided, almost nervous smile, and I decide he’s very attractive. Full lips. Perfect teeth. “I’m guessing you heard all that?”

I nod and offer a sheepish smile. I don’t know why I feel the sudden urge to reassure this stranger I’m not judging his temper tantrum.

He tucks one hand into his pocket, still watching me. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I lie automatically. I don’t have to ask him if everything is okay; it’s obvious things are very much not okay.

His brows knit together, eyes narrowing. “Who made you cry?”

I laugh, a weird, humorless sound—stunned more than anything that he’s calling me out on my lie about being okay. I guess personal boundaries are not a strong suit of his.

“My ex,” I surprise myself by admitting.

He inhales slowly, nods once like that makes perfect sense to him. And I suddenly don’t feel very original—guy problems are not all that unique.

“You want me to kick his ass?”

I laugh again, this time in surprise. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, shrugging. Then he wanders over to the edge of the balcony, curls his long fingers around the railing, and surveys the piazza below. “Sometimes do you ever just wish you could disappear?”

It’s a cryptic remark, and I’m not sure what to make of it. Then I realize that’s the entire reason I booked this solo trip to Italy. I wanted to get away from everyone and everything that reminded me of Sean, of my failure.

“Sometimes, yes.” My words are almost a whisper. I’m not even sure if he heard me.

We’re both quiet—he standing at the balcony, looking down into the courtyard, and I tucked into the chair, watching him, watching the breeze ruffle his hair.

He turns around after several minutes. “Why’d you break up?” he asks, as if social norms don’t exist between us and just because it’s nightfall and deserted, you can ask a perfect stranger for their innermost secrets.

“Because I didn’t love him like I should have.” And I wanted something he could never give me.

His gaze cuts to mine. “You were the one who ended things?”

“Yes,” I say, finding my voice. “I had to.” I wish I’d ended it sooner.

I want the kind of love people write books about.

And not those implausible rom-coms. I’m talking one-hundred-thousand-word masterpieces that are so intricate and complex that they’re first rejected by a dozen publishers.

That’s the kind of love I want. Unwavering.

Undying. A true love, the forever kind. Which is why I know I did the right thing ending things with Sean, but that didn’t make it any less painful. We shared an apartment, a dog ...

“I’m Hart, by the way. You are ...?”

“Alessia.”

“Alessi- ah .” He draws out the syllables in his mouth, lingering on the final vowel.

“It’s Italian.”

He appraises me quietly, before finally asking “Are you Italian?”

I nod. “Yes, on my mother’s side. We still have relatives here.”

“Do you speak Italian?” he asks.

“Sì, un po’.”

Yes, a little.

“Anche io,” he says.

So do I.

“Do you want to get a glass of wine at the bar downstairs?”

I take him in while I weigh his question. His dark, rumpled hair and strong jaw. He’s young. Legal drinking age. Though I would bet not much older. Definitely not my type, but what could one drink hurt? We’re clearly both having a time of it today.

I want to say yes, if only to force my brain to turn off. “Sure.”

Hart holds the door open for me, and we head down four flights of stairs, our footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

Finding an open barstool is not difficult because the small bar in the lobby is almost deserted. I order a glass of cabernet, and he does the same.

I have a little more time to study him as I sip my wine, and I come to the conclusion that while young, he looks like he comes from money.

From his finely tailored clothes to his gold watch to the perfect scent of his crisp cologne.

It’s something I’ve learned to recognize since it can be helpful in my line of work to gauge potential donors.

I can feel his eyes on me also, the familiar buzz of attraction stirring between us, but I’m sure it’s one sided. I’m probably old enough to be his mother. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that I’m much too old for him.

“So, why are you here in Florence?” I ask, brushing off the sensation.

“A mix of work and pleasure,” he says, evading the question. “What about you?”

“For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to get away from everything for a while. Here—in this terribly romantic city. I’m clever like that.”

His mouth lifts in a half smirk at my poor attempt at humor. “Are you sure you’re okay?” His tone is sincere, genuine.

I inhale deeply and sigh. “I have to be, right?”

“Offer’s still good ... all I need is a name.”

I chuckle and shake my head. “That’s okay. I’ll get there.”

“And you’re sure coming back to my room wouldn’t help?” he asks with a lopsided grin.

It’s such a shock that I don’t know how else to react, so I laugh. “Wow. That’s quite the invitation. But, uh, no. No, thanks. I’m sure that would not help.” I’m flattered by his attention; I’m just not flattered enough to do something stupid.

He leans back in his seat, his attention still on me. “What’s your biggest fear?”

“ Really? ” I blurt. “No small talk or anything? You just want to jump right in with that gem of a question?”

He lifts one shoulder, smiles. “I want to know.”

I debate it for a minute. Surely, I shouldn’t tell him the truth. It’s too ugly. Too raw. But his genuine smile has a way of disarming me. I haven’t felt so immediately comfortable with someone in a long time—maybe ever.

He reaches over and drapes one arm along the back of my chair. He’s relaxed, comfortable. And he’s looking at me like he wants to know all my secrets. “Tell me.”

“You first.” I bring my wineglass to my lips and take a sip, watching him.

His hazel eyes fill with some faraway look. “Being irrelevant. Replaceable. Like I don’t matter.”

“Is that what that phone call was about?” The words fly out of my mouth before I have time to stop them.

His eyebrows crease in frustration, but he answers in a soft tone. “Kind of. Not really. I found out my cousin and my ex were hooking up while she and I were together.”

Yikes. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s just the way it goes sometimes.” He swirls the wine in his glass.

“I feel like you’re winning at whose breakup was worse.” Like this is some game we’re playing.

He quirks a brow at me and then smirks. “Your turn.”

Part of me hoped he was going to be a gentleman and let me off the hook. No such luck.

“Do you know who Richard Bach is?”

He shakes his head. “Is that your ex?”

“ No. ” I chuckle. “Richard Bach is an author. He wrote many great books, some of which you were probably assigned to read in school. He’s known for writing philosophical but also accessible literature.

His books oftentimes seem like they’re about one thing, but they always have a deeper meaning, like about our own mortality or leaving your comfort zone behind in order to grow. ”

Any other twentysomething guy would have tuned me out by now, but Hart is still listening intently, his chin resting on his hand, leaning close.

“Anyway, he wrote this line in one of his books that essentially asks”—I clear my throat—“you’ve sacrificed your entire life to be who you are today. Was it worth it?”

Hart doesn’t speak for a few seconds; he just lets those words sink deep into his psyche. Then his brow creases. “ Shit. ” He draws out the word.

I nod in agreement. “I know.”

And now I don’t have to tell him that my greatest fear is that I’ve sacrificed the wrong things, that I’m not who or where I want to be. Or that I’m fearful none of it will be worth it.

Lifting the glass to my lips, I take a long sip of cabernet.

“When are you leaving?” he asks.

His question drags me from our stolen moment.

“Tomorrow.” Realizing that it’s getting late and that my wineglass is now empty, I should probably pull myself away from his gorgeous hazel eyes and kind smile.

If I don’t, I’ll order another glass of wine, and then I don’t know if I’d be so resolute about not following him back to his hotel room, should he suggest it again. “In fact, I should probably go pack.”

I signal the bartender and ask for my check.

“I’ve got it,” he says, handing the bartender his credit card.

I don’t like the idea that I’ve taken advantage of his kindness. I all but cried on his shoulder and quoted some rather depressing literature. I can’t let him buy my drink too.

“This should cover my half,” I say, grabbing a bill from my wallet.

When I set it on the bar in front of him, my hand brushes his, and he seems almost surprised by my gesture, giving me a curious look. Maybe girls his age are happy to let him pay. Probably so.

“Thanks for listening. It was nice meeting you, Hart. Good night.”

“Good night, Alessia. And for the record, I think your ex is an idiot.”