Chapter 8 Well-Intentioned Cupids #2
“No!” she said. “I don’t know what I’m doing right now, but definitely not writing another book.” Bianca wished Peggy Meh had never been born.
“Sounds like you and your father are in the same boat,” Corrado said, moving closer to her. “Two people seeking new identities.”
She shrugged. She hadn’t exactly thought about it that way, but Corrado was right.
“Well,” he said, glancing at their empty cups and plate, “you know where to find me. Let’s get you out of here so you can go on with your searching.” He placed a couple of euros on the bar and led her out for an awkward goodbye.
A block down, she texted Carol: I can’t believe you.
“Deep breaths,” George said as he walked through the airport gangway in Bologna four days after inviting himself. He’d barely slept and was running on caffeine from the bad coffee on the plane.
It had been more than a year since he’d seen Bianca.
He’d flown into Austin for a weekend, visited the Continental Club with her and a boyfriend who’d only lasted a few months.
Thank God. He was a finance guy that was far too into himself.
George and Bianca had done a few touristy things, then he’d gotten out of there before he drove her mad.
He might not make it to baggage claim if he didn’t pull it together. Wouldn’t that be a way to go, a heart attack on the escalator. God, the hospital in Bologna was probably decades behind an American one.
Heart attack or not, he was hurting and worn down. He’d sat upright throughout the night, hoping the Benadryl would kick in while absorbing the awful smells of the other passengers and being jolted by turbulence and unruly food carts.
He wasn’t much of a traveler and had only left the country a few times, all of the trips forced on him by Bianca and her mother. In this moment, he knew exactly why he preferred to stay at home.
Then he found her, her arms open wide. She wore a knee-length floral dress. A smile graced her face. It was a vision to behold, seeing his daughter so joyful, and all the shit that was wrong with his world fell away, if only momentarily.
“There she is,” he said, offering a genuine smile.
But it was a smile painted on top of a depressed skeleton of a man, and he hoped she wouldn’t see how badly life had broken him down.
What was he thinking, though? She was a therapist because she’d always been able to see inside people. She’d know it in minutes.
“Hi, Dad.” They held each other for a while.
“You look like . . . the best I’ve ever seen you. Someone’s happy.”
“I am.” She pulled away to inspect him. “What’s going on with your arm?”
“Oh, this? War with that squirrel I told you about.” He touched the bandage wrapped around his forearm, wishing he’d worn long sleeves. “Yeah, he won.”
Her eyebrows curled, so he elaborated, ending with, “. . . and while trying to keep him from getting into the house, I fell on a rake. Mr. Nutz 7, George 0.”
She’d covered her mouth while listening to the story. As she pulled her hand away, she shook her head. “I’m not even sure what to say, but I’m glad you escaped with your life.”
If she only knew what she was saying.
“And look at those shiny white tennis shoes. You’re a regular Larry David.”
George looked down at himself, the golf shirt tucked into khakis, his brand-new New Balances with their cushy soles.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.
He wondered if that were true. “Thanks for letting me barge in.”
His first test on Italian soil came moments later, when the baggage carousel quit working midway through delivering bags. They were forced to wait twenty more minutes as one guy—no, not a crew—one guy brought out two bags at a time. C’mon, Italy, you can do better.
But. But! George did not lose his cool. He wondered whether Bianca even noticed how patient he was, despite his lack of sleep and how he’d never seen a baggage carousel break back home.
Some might have even called him a hero for being so easygoing.
Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration, but he at least deserved a pat on the back.
They took a taxi back to her place, and George delighted in the excitement that radiated from her. He remembered visiting her here ten years ago, and she’d been the same, playing tour guide, bragging about this city that she’d discovered.
“That’s the bookstore where I have the signing,” she said as they reached her street, Via Giulia. “And that’s my local wine bar and then the pasticceria where Corrado and I had breakfast yesterday. You remember him, right?”
George hated when his daughter talked about the men in her life—they’d never be good enough for her.
Before the finance guy, there was a golf pro (far too obsessed with sports), a psychologist (too many therapists in one room), and some sort of AI entrepreneur (he’d been okay but never stopped talking about money). All of them unworthy.
“The kid you liked way back when?” he asked.
“Yeah, we had coffee, no big deal. He’s a chef now, opening a fancy restaurant in the Hotel Minerva.”
George hadn’t meant to say kid. In the country an hour, and he’d already screwed things up. Not that she’d gotten hung up by it.
“And I connected with Carol; you remember her. I’ve started her yoga classes and hang out with her crew some. Mostly expats.” She told him how they’d sit for hours, doing nothing but chatting, this big group of them. Nothing but chatting? George tried not to judge.
“Here I am,” she said, swinging open the apartment door.
She needed his enthusiasm now more than ever, so putting true effort in, he forced his spirits to lift as she gave him the tour.
“Oh, how wonderful,” he said when she showed him the kitchen, which was disjointed and dusty.
“Lovely!” he exclaimed when she pushed open the door to her large bedroom, an all-white affair, her laptop on the desk by the window; and “I love it!” he chirped in an even higher-pitched voice when she showed him the guest room.
Light spilled in from the two windows that looked out over Via Giulia below.
Several thick pillows lay across the top of the queen bed.
A bouquet of flowers sprang from a vase next to a gift basket overflowing with what looked like chocolate and some other snacks, hand lotion, and a couple of fancy bottled waters.
“You’re too good to me,” he said, a lifetime of guilt going after him like a snake in a sleeping bag.
She faced him, took his hands, and said, “I’m glad you’re here. Let’s figure out a way to shake these retirement blues.”
Though it was a lot—the intimacy—George held eye contact. “You know me. Gotta find a new way to direct my energy.”
She squeezed his hands. “Let’s see what Italy does to that.”
A yawn escaped his lips, and he turned away. All at once, the heaviness of the travel came at him.
“You must be exhausted,” Bianca said. “The best thing to fight jet lag is to stay up. Can you make it to seven tonight?”
He ran a hand through his hair, doing math with his foggy head. It was around 9:00 a.m. now. “Phew, I don’t know. I might close my eyes for a while. An hour or so.”
“You’ll regret it.”
He inclined his shoulders. “I’m not in my thirties anymore. Give me an hour and a shower, and I’ll be great.” He shook his head and gave her a peck on the cheek, thanked her again.
Once she’d closed the door to his room, he climbed onto the bed, noting the cheap pillows and the firmness of the mattress and the unbearable fact that his feet hung off the edge.
He might as well sleep on the floor. It was a good thing he’d booked a one-way trip.
No idea how long he’d last. Still, being here with Bianca sure beat sitting alone in some sort of extended-stay situation while they cleaned up his HVAC system.
But he had to make sure he didn’t bring any of his darkness into her life.
A few minutes after closing his eyes, he popped up and unzipped his bag.
He moved everything to its rightful place, socks and underwear in one drawer, T-shirts and shorts in another.
He hung his pants and shirts, then took his toiletry kit to the bathroom and arranged everything neatly, the shaving cream and razor on the right side, toothbrush, floss, and paste on the left, the Neosporin and gauze for his arm on the small shelf above the toilet.
He kept his bottle of Zoloft hidden, not wanting Bianca to know that he was on an antidepressant.
Then he stared at the bidet, just stared at it, wondering what in the world you’d do with such a thing. This wasn’t the first time he’d wondered it, as he recalled his question from last time he visited, but he couldn’t remember Bianca’s explanation.
He stretched out on the bed again, clicked together his magnetic readers, and thumbed through his phone. It was the middle of the night back in Arizona, not much happening. Mr. Nutz had probably weaseled his way into the house and was drawing a hot bath and using George’s robe. The bastard.
Another yawn came fast and fierce, stretching his whole face.
Setting his phone down, he slipped under the covers and shut his eyes again, his neck at a ninety-degree angle.
The pillow was thicker than a car seat cushion and even stiffer than the mattress.
One night here, and he’d need a lifetime of chiropractic care.
He tossed the pillow aside. Took him another twenty minutes of tossing and turning, churning up thoughts and fears, worrying that he could at any minute slip back into that awful place he’d been in March, till finally he drifted off . . .