Chapter 4 A Fling to Remember #2
“I still hear him, like it was yesterday,” Bianca replied, blushing when she heard the longing in her voice.
“No, not because I still miss him . . . but because I broke that promise.” Bianca couldn’t believe how nice it was to talk to someone.
She didn’t have too many close friends in Austin, as she’d sadly not made the time to cultivate them.
“You’re adorable,” Carol said after hearing Bianca’s tale. “Sounds like you’re exhausted. Who wouldn’t be?”
Bianca set her elbows on the table and interlocked her fingers. “I look at you and see what I could have been. I’m all wound up, chasing all this . . . this external achievement. For what? We’re all destined for the same place, and I’m living like we get to take our trophy case with us.”
Carol gave a nod. “The US will do that to you.”
“No kidding.”
“What kind of visa did you get, the nomad one?”
“No, I’m Italian on my mother’s side. The Malatestas. My grandmother was born in Modena before immigrating to the States.”
“Maybe I did know that. You’ll have to join my yoga studio. I still teach a morning class almost every day.”
“I’d love to.”
A collective song of church bells rang and echoed around them, signifying 8:00 p.m. “Listen to those bells. That’s why I’m here. The magic of Europe. Honestly, I’m jealous of you. Full on, want-to-kill-you-in-your-sleep jealous.”
“Oh, c’mon.”
“I’m serious. You never left. You found your Italian soulmate and have built this amazing life.”
Carol batted her eyelashes. “It’s not terrible.”
Bianca paused to drink her wine, the bubbles tingling on her tongue. “Tell me about it. Rub in my face all the things I’m missing. When can I meet this husband of yours?”
“Silvie is charming. A doctor, an orthopedic surgeon. We have a home up in the hills and our pied-à-terre here.”
“Of course you have a pied-à-terre. God, I hate you so much.”
As Carol painted the picture of her life, Bianca couldn’t stop shaking her head. “You even have a slight Italian accent when you speak English. That’s how long you’ve been here. Would it be awkward if I took your life? We could trade. Would your husband notice?”
Carol laughed. “I remember how funny you used to be.”
A deep longing came over Bianca, a voice harkening back to the good old days. “Yeah, well, I hope I can find that person again. I remember how much we used to crack each other up. Youth fades away, doesn’t it? I feel like a frog in boiling water; adulthood snuck up on me.”
Carol raised her wine. “To frogs that better jump out of the pot before it’s too late.”
Bianca clinked her glass, feeling desperation in her chest. “Cin, cin.”
“Are there really cracks in the veneer of Bianca Briggs?” Carol asked. “I don’t believe you. You look so happy in the pics I see of you. You’re famous back home. And the book. I’m jealous of you!”
“Oh, there are cracks all right. I did a good job of hiding them, even from myself. Italy definitely has her hands full with me.” At Carol’s prodding, Bianca elaborated on what she’d been doing the last ten years and how it had started to come apart at the seams.
“Still, you wrote a book. That’s a big deal. Were the reviews that bad?”
“Oh, yeah, they were bad. Want to hear a few?” Bianca found them quickly, as she’d become Christopher Columbus when it came to finding the awful shit people said about her book.
“My favorite from last week, from Self-Help Junkie02: This could have been an email.” She looked up.
“My life’s work could have been an email?
Or this one: Clearly written by someone who doesn’t understand real human beings.
Or this: Meatless, not even a bone. Three hundred pages of overconfident, tone-deaf cartilage.
Or: I would give it negative one star if I could.
I’m actually worse off after digesting this drivel.
” Bianca moved to the next page. “And she calls herself a therapist? The only reason I’m not returning it is I don’t have the energy to drive to UPS. ”
The last one caused a chuckle. “You probably shouldn’t be reading those. Besides, I’m sure some people loved it.”
Bianca set down her phone. “Firstly, every author reads their reviews. If they say they don’t, they’re lying. And that first review on , the five-star, that’s my mom.”
Carol brushed her hand through the air. “You’re hitting a nerve with these people. They’re not ready for what you’re throwing down.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Bianca let herself relax.
“You want the truth since I’m letting it all out?
I got too ambitious. I let my insecurities get the best of me and got caught up in thinking that if I became a big deal, then I’d matter.
So I’ve been relentless, clamoring for things to achieve, whatever it took to get to the top. ”
“Spoken like a true psychotherapist.”
“At least I’m self-aware.”
Carol twisted her glass between her fingers. “So that’s it? You’re giving yourself over to Italy, letting her resurrect your spirit? And maybe or maybe not returning home afterward?”
“Esattamente. I’m leaping headfirst into the proverbial bowl of pasta. See if there’s some meaning to be found by the time I scarpetta the last of the sauce with my bread.”
Carol patted her hand. “I like your plan. You’ll be good as new before too long.”
“Let’s hope so. It worked last time.” Moving on, Bianca asked, “You remember the fortune teller Donna Bologna, right?”
“Naturally. I went for a reading last year.”
Bianca’s mouth fell agape. “She’s still around? I’ll have to go by and thank her for ruining my life.”
“How’d she do that?”
“She told me I’d write a book. There I was, innocent Bianca getting ready to go to grad school, work my way to building a practice. And she had to drop that bomb on me. Writing wasn’t even on my radar, but once she said it, it was like I couldn’t put the idea back in the box.”
“I believe it. First time I went to see her, she said I’d never leave Italy. And here I am.”
Later, Carol said, “Speaking of Corrado . . . I’m sure he’d love to see you.”
Each time Bianca heard his name, her heart kicked. “He’s in Paris now, isn’t he? I see his food porn on Insta.” She knew damn well he was working at L’Ambroisie, but she wasn’t about to admit it.
“No. He’s here. In Bologna.”
“What?” Her chest seized. The violin music he used to play while she studied ran through her head.
“He’s about to open up a new restaurant in the Hotel Minerva, going for a Michelin star. He was in the paper last week. One of Bologna’s own, coming home.”
“A Michelin star? Good for him.” She could taste one of the spectacular frittatas he used to make when she’d stay over at his place.
“Is he married and all that?” Bianca asked, loathing the overly curious tone in her voice.
Carol bit back another smile. She was having too much fun. “You really don’t keep up with him? He’s single, a bad breakup in Paris last year. Probably half of why he’s back. You should call him.”
“No. I couldn’t. I . . .”
Carol exhaled dramatically, then said something in rapid-fire Italian having to do with love.
“Slow down,” Bianca said.
“Have you forgotten your Italian?”
“A lot of it.”
Carol continued to speak Italian but dumbed it down. Bianca did her best to keep up.
“You haven’t lost everything,” Carol said. “I know a good tutor. He’s cute too. You’ll be back to normal in no time. So, Corrado. Are you going to call him? I have his cell.”
Bianca reddened. “No. I have to focus on me for a while.”
Carol waved her hand through the air. “Oh, please. Famous last words.”
Bianca almost didn’t say it but did anyway. The wine had removed her filter. “I don’t even want him to see me right now. I feel so ugly.”
“What? You look better than ever.”
“Right. All this carbo-loading since I’ve been here, on top of what the last ten years has done to me. Ugh.” Bianca couldn’t imagine seeing him this way.
“You need to stop,” Carol said. “You look fantastic. I’d kill for your curves.”
Hating the way she seemed to be searching for pity or compliments, Bianca swiftly thanked her, then: “More importantly, I still need to find a place to live. I only have the Airbnb another week.”
Carol crinkled her eyebrows. “You changed the subject on me.”
“Maybe. But seriously, I’m not relationship material right now.”
The seconds passed by like pounding heartbeats. Yes, Bianca was going to leap back into everything Italy—except for him.
“Fine, fine,” Carol said. “I might have a place for you, on Via Giulia, one of my favorite streets in the city. Do you know it?”
Bianca couldn’t recall.
“A friend of mine is moving out. Cobblestones, sconces. There’s the most adorable English bookstore, a wine bar, pasticceria, wonderful clothing boutique, and get this . . . a man who sings opera from his balcony.”
As the image came alive in her mind, Bianca sat up straight. “Please call your friend right now.”