Chapter 11 The Misfits #2
Sandy slowed the mouse’s roll by wagging a finger. “But let’s not forget how long it took for you to get over what happened with Emily St. John Mandel. You better thicken up that pale British skin of yours.”
“Who?” Harold asked, with his mouth full. He’d been going after the mortadella like he might never eat again.
“You want to tell him?” Sandy asked.
Moira set the cheese down on her plate. “She’s one of the most exciting working writers right now, almost genre-less really.
She started out writing crime, but she’s more into postapoc, spec, and time travel now.
All quite literary, though. Breaks all the rules.
Expertly plays with time. Everybody needs to read—”
“Okay,” Sandy said, “let’s move along, or we’ll be here all night, listening to you go on about Station Eleven.”
“That’s not even my favorite. Sea of Tranquility was a masterpiece.”
Sandy dramatically slapped her forehead. Someone should pay her to keep these kids on track.
“Sorry, okay.” Moira collected herself. “Emily came in one day, randomly popped in while on holiday. I knew exactly who she was and perhaps overpraised her.”
“Understatement of the millennium,” Sandy couldn’t keep from saying.
“Anyway, I asked her to sign her books, so we went over to the shelf. I’d filed them under St. John and not Mandel.
Apparently, this is her pet peeve. She was nice about it, and I moved them that second, but it was a dark moment for me, considering how much of a fan I am.
A few days later, I jumped onto Instagram to send her an apology, and her bio read: File under Mandel.
St. John is my middle name. I think I’m the reason she did that. ”
Sandy cracked a smile. Moira brought this stuff on herself. A clueless romantic floating through life.
“That doesn’t seem like that big of a deal,” Harold said.
Sandy reached for her wine. “To Moira, the end of the world. She barely spoke for a week. Didn’t eat. Couldn’t look me in the eyes.”
“Oh, gosh,” Harold said. “You care that much, don’t you? You must be the best employee.”
Sandy wasn’t sure whose eyebrows shot up higher, hers or Moira’s. Holding back the snarky response that first loaded into the chamber, she said, “She’s by far the best I’ve ever had.”
Moira perked up like God had appeared to share with her the secrets of the universe. “You don’t mean that. I know you. You’re messing with me.”
Sandy laughed, an honest-to-God laugh. “Though I do enjoy the occasional prank on your behalf, I’m serious. You’re pretty amazing, Moira.” Sandy’s own words made her squirm some, but a sensation of warmth rose up her spine.
Moira had already launched into planning. “What would the book club look like? What would we call it? What books?”
“No, no, no. I want nothing to do with it. I’m giving you permission to run it. And I bet Harold here would be your first member. Right, Harold?”
His pupils dilated. “Uh, yeah, okay.”
Sandy polished off her wine. “Okay, I’m going to leave you two to get to know each other. I have a dance class and a hungry cat waiting for me.”
“Wait, but . . .” Moira had frozen in place.
“You’ll be fine,” Sandy said and then leaned toward Harold. “Be nice to her. She’s a good one.”
Harold picked at his fingernails under the table but kept trying to stop himself, hearing his father’s voice. “Stop picking at your goddamn fingernails, Harry.”
“I don’t like being called Harry.”
“And I don’t like washing windows for a living. Tough shit!”
What Sandy had said had hurt, but maybe she was right.
No, not maybe. She was right. He wasn’t exactly living up to the person Alice had met in the coffee shop.
Not anymore. He certainly wasn’t leaving burn marks, per the book discussion earlier.
No craters left by the Harold asteroid. He’d let himself get lazy, morphing back into someone less exciting.
“She really is lucky, you know.” Moira’s voice brought him back. “Alice, I mean. To be loved like that.”
“I guess so.” He scrambled for something else to say. “Have you ever been in love?”
Moira audibly exhaled. “I thought so, once, but things went sideways. I was apparently the only one living the fairy tale. Don’t mind Sandy, by the way.
She’s like a bear cub wrapped up in cobra skin.
Once you get to know her, she’s appealing in a strange way.
You’ll never wonder what’s on her mind. No filter with that one. ”
A genuine grin bent his lips. “I can see that. How long have you been working for her?”
“A year now.”
“And before that? I’m assuming you were born in England. What brought you here?”
“Bristol, yeah. Arrived in Bologna two years ago, started with Sandy last year.” Almost like she was reciting her history from a memorized script, she explained that she’d gotten tired of England and wanted a change. Came to Bologna because she’d visited with her parents once.
“And you snuck in before Brexit, I guess.”
“Barely. I’m an EU resident now.”
She was one of the good ones, Harold decided. A kind soul. “Thanks for inviting me. To the book thing and this. I don’t know anyone, and it’s been pretty lonely without Alice.”
“And you’ve proved my point about expats. We’re a strange bunch a long way from our homes, but we don’t like being lonely.”
They’d barely put a dent into the charcuterie board, and he went about deciding what to have next. He’d had five mortadella slices and three salamis, so he took two more salami to even it out.
“Do you want my advice?” Moira asked.
“Sure.”
“Move on. If she realizes how lucky she is, she’ll come back.
But I believe, especially after reading Bianca’s book, that we have to take control.
That whole warrior mindset thing. We can’t be victims. We have to look at our problems as challenges.
You’re faced with a decision right now. Get beaten up with heartache or see it as an opportunity to plug yourself in and go full megawatt. In other words, level up.”
His head swiveled like a pinball lever. “Level up? You play video games?”
“Um, naturally.”
“I just . . . really? I thought you were a bookworm.”
“They go hand in hand, don’t they? I love stories, what they teach us, how they pull us in. What’s your console of choice, your desert-island game?”
“No, don’t do that to me.” He scrolled through some of the games he played most, hating the idea of being forced to choose. “No way I’m putting myself through such trauma. I’m taking all the Witchers, Fallouts, the Mass Effects, probably Fortnite for old school’s sake.”
“You’re only allowed one.”
Harold slapped the table, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. “Then I’m not going.”
“The world is ending, pure chaos, nuclear winter, zombies eating humans, and you’re not going?”
“Let the zombies come and get me. It’s not happening. I don’t want to play just one game. What a nightmare.” He was half serious. He also realized that, for once, he wasn’t thinking about Alice, so that was nice. He realized Moira was laughing at him.
“Are you enjoying torturing me?”
“I think this is adorable.”
“There’s nothing adorable about it.” The momentum of their conversation was picking up speed in a slightly pleasurable way.
“Okay, fine, you choose. You’re about to hop on a plane as the nukes are dropping.
A swarm of zombies is pulling at the chain-link fence, close to ripping it open, and yet you’re given one minute to choose a console and game with which you will spend the rest of your life.
Hopefully with margaritas and a hammock and all those Jimmy Buffett things. ”
Funnily enough, Moira squirmed more than he had. She sucked in air through her teeth as her gaze bounced around the room. A smile appeared and expanded by the second, till finally she said, “Nope. Not doing it.”
“Aha. I knew it.”
Basking in the afterglow of a fun moment, smiles lingering, they both took long sips of wine.
They stayed another hour, chatting about video games and their childhoods and anything else that came up in what proved to be a nice escape—albeit briefly—from thinking about Renzo undressing and finessing his Alice, with each kiss taking her further away from what was supposed to be.
In the morning, Bianca pulled on a robe and found her dad in the kitchen removing everything from the cabinets. “What in the . . .”
He stopped and turned with a Tupperware in his hand. He’d already dressed for the day, wearing his bright-white tennis shoes and another pair of khakis. “You know me. Couldn’t sleep. I don’t think anyone’s pulled out everything and dusted since the Renaissance.”
“How long have you been up?”
“A couple of hours. No big deal. I’m enjoying myself.”
“Yeah, it looks like a ton of fun.”
She found a Nespresso capsule, popped it into the machine, and made a cup. Once the noise had died down, she said, “Can I make you one?”
“Please. I didn’t want to wake you.”
Finding another pod, she said, “I’ve got to get going to meet the fortune—this woman. Can I do anything for you?”
“I’m fine, thanks. This’ll take all morning, I suspect, then I thought I might go down to the bookstore, see if I can find anything.”
“I’m sure it has nothing to do with Sandy.”
Dead quiet.
“Dad?”
He took a random Tupperware lid and attempted to fit it onto a container. The size wasn’t even close.
Bianca set her cup down and poked him in the back. “Hello in there? Does somebody have a crush?”
He turned back only long enough to show a face sans expression. It was adorable.
“You dog,” she said.
“What? Your old man’s too old to flirt with someone?”
“Of all the ways to fill your retirement, chasing women wasn’t what I’d expected. But I like it. When’s the last time you dated? Decades? Do you know what you’re doing? Do you need help? She’s a live wire, that one.”
Setting down the Tupperware, he turned and leaned against the counter, still trying to keep a straight face, but Bianca could see a young boy inside trying to get out.