Chapter 19 Bad Decisions
Bad Decisions
Still red-faced from an hour and a half of tango, Sandy strolled alongside Harold, elbows hooked, her heels clicking on the sidewalk.
“You’re getting better,” she said.
“Really? You don’t have to say that.” Harold was almost unrecognizable compared with the young man she’d first met.
Confidence, curiosity. A witty and sometimes dark sense of humor.
That silly peach-fuzz beard was gone. Giovanni had certainly done good work.
Harold wore skinny jeans and a flashy shirt with a stiff collar.
She imagined Alice wouldn’t recognize him.
“Alice spent the night two nights ago,” he admitted, as if he’d read her mind.
“Hold on, what?” How had he not mentioned this yet?
“Yeah, I guess she and Renzo got in a fight and—”
“You guess? They either did or didn’t. This is what we have to work on, Harold. Speak definitively. Words matter. You don’t guess.”
“Okay, sorry.”
“And don’t apologize.”
The little guy seemed to turn into a small deer, whatever they were called. Anyway, Bambi’s feelings were hurt, and dammit if it didn’t make Sandy feel bad. This kid really meant something to her.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to jump on you. I’m just invested, that’s all. You’re like my . . .” She almost said son, but the word didn’t feel right as it wound through the neural pathways toward her tongue.
“Anyway,” she said, “you were saying . . .”
“She came home. I’d had a drink with Moira, walked her home, then found Alice standing outside. Across the street under a yellow umbrella.”
Harold pulled out a pack of Murattis and lit one.
“You smoke now?”
“On occasion.”
Sandy held out her hand. “May I?”
He lit her a cigarette and kept talking. “Renzo was being an asshole, and she walked out, came straight to me.”
“And? God, you tell a slow story.”
“And nothing. She fell asleep in my arms on the couch. I made her breakfast like old times. A flower and a quote, all that. And then we watched a movie, her favorite, Say Anything. And then she left.”
“She left? Where did she go?”
“To a friend’s house. Said she had to figure out what’s going on.”
“And was that friend Renzo?”
“I don’t know. I hope not.” He took a deep drag. “He was texting and calling her constantly, all these apologies.”
“Ouch.”
She enjoyed a puff, the first in months. Not since she’d last had sex with the jazz musician, a postcoital delight.
“Did she say anything about your apartment, your clothes. Your whole vibe? The confidence that you’ve built up?”
“I guess. Sorry, yes. She complimented me.”
“How did she leave it? Are you going to see her again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. Right back to where we started.”
“Yeah, I know. And I’m tired. This whole thing, trying so hard, is exhausting.”
Sandy shook her head. “You’re not giving up, are you?”
“I don’t know.” He stopped. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I’ve been referring to myself, well, the new me, as Aroldo.”
“Aroldo?” She took a big puff.
“As a way to see myself differently. Kind of like what Bianca writes about in her book, faking it till you make it. Have you read it?”
His strange behavior, the funny accent and different phrasing when he spoke, suddenly made sense. “Um, no. Self-help is something you do when you’re in your twenties, maybe thirties. Not in your . . . Well. Forget it. And what does Alice think of Aroldo?”
“I don’t know. She seemed impressed.”
“And yet you’re in the friend zone?”
“Maybe.”
She stubbed her cigarette out on a trash can.
Enough of that. “Look, it’s exhausting to be amazing.
I know that more than anyone. You can laugh at that one.
” Once he did, the fakest laugh ever faked, she continued, “But it’s the only way to break through the noise.
There’s a reason she once loved you. Because you’re an extraordinary young man with all kinds of promise.
You don’t even realize how much passion you have inside of you, but I see it on the dance floor.
I see the real you kicking to get out. Whether you call him Harold or Aroldo or whomever. ”
They continued walking. “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you how to play the game?”
“The game?”
“Yeah, you know. Playing hard to get. Making her work for it.”
“I’m aware of such a game.”
“And are you playing it? It doesn’t sound like it to me, letting her fall asleep in your arms, buying her flowers, making her breakfast—”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“She has some work to do. She ran off with another man. Make her earn you back.”
His voice lifted an octave. “I don’t know if she wants me back!
And how am I supposed to play hard to get or any other games if I’m not even around her?
Here I am, spending all this time playing Aroldo, living this entirely new life to reel her in, and she’s barely thinking about me.
Then when we’re finally back together, I fucking blow it. ”
She put an arm around him. “You see? This is the passion I’m talking about.”
“Stop laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” she said, fully aware of the joy painting her face. “I appreciate you, Harold. Or Aroldo, whatever your name is. There’s something so beautiful about the naivete of young lovers.”
“I’m seeing nothing beautiful about it.”
She let go and found his eyes. “Don’t worry. You have me on your side. I’m going to help you get her back. Just don’t buy her any more flowers. You see her again, you be cordial, but don’t invite her up. Don’t cook her breakfast. And definitely don’t let her fall asleep in your arms! Got me?”
George stopped by the bookstore. He hadn’t seen Sandy since the book club event three days prior but wanted to make good on his offer to help with any handyman needs.
She was behind the counter, tapping away on the keyboard, but she gave a warm smile when he pushed through the door, the bell chiming.
“There he is. How’s life in the doghouse? Hold on, what’s that in your hand?”
He looked down at the pink toolbox. “It was a gift for Bianca. She didn’t even have a hammer.”
“What is she, five?”
“I know, I know. I realized it when I brought it up to her apartment. The look she gave me.”
Sandy chuckled. “I bet. I’m surprised you didn’t get some pink roller skates too.”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
After a shared smile, she asked, “Is she still mad at you?”
“We’re moving past it. Trying to find common ground.” He noticed a few perusers, as Sandy called them, wandering through the aisles as he approached the counter.
“And have you read her book yet?”
“She made me promise I wouldn’t read it.”
“What?” Sandy said. “Do you not understand women at all?”
He shook his head. “Not in the slightest.”
“Read the book, George. She needs praise from you, of all people.”
“What, why?”
“Because you’re her father. If she’s anything like the rest of the world, a parent’s approval is paramount.”
“I don’t think she cares what I have to say.”
“That’s not true.”
He stepped back and set the toolbox down while she rang up a customer, wondering whether Sandy was right. Probably so. This was exactly why he kept screwing up. He was living life without a compass.
Once the customer had left, he said, “No peruser there.”
“No, but she bought last year’s Hilderbrand from the discount bin. I made exactly nothing on that. Just as bad as a peruser. At this rate, I’ll be out of business by the fall.”
“Are you really struggling or just venting?”
She crossed her arms. “I’m doing both.”
“Okay, well, at the risk of getting in big trouble, may I offer a few suggestions? It all comes from a guy who spent his entire life in the business world and now has nothing to do.”
“Should I grab my notepad?”
“If you want to. I can’t promise it’s going to be any—”
“George. I’m kidding. I’m not getting out my notepad. Feel free to tell me how to run the business I’ve been in for ten years. But I won’t be taking notes.”
He looked away.
“Fine, tell me. I’m dying to know.”
“Okay. Well, I like everything Moira’s doing. You have to build a sense of community. The English speakers here need to have a place to convene. And maybe—”
“Did I hear my name?” Moira came under the arch and said hello.
“You did, actually,” George said.
Sandy gripped her throat and pretended to choke herself. He had to give it to her: She was funny without even trying. If he wasn’t reading things wrong, she might even be flirting.
“At the risk of being blackballed from the store,” George said, “I was adding on to your ideas for drawing in more customers.”
“I can’t wait to hear!” Moira looked over at Sandy, seeking approval to eavesdrop.
Sandy set both hands on the counter. “That makes two of us. This is a real meeting of the minds here. Moira the Invincible, and George, the newest greatest bookseller on earth, who has been at it for exactly zero days.”
“Let’s hear him out,” Moira said.
“Please don’t throw anything at me, but what if . . . what if you included a section of American and British items, things people crave from back home? If they’re anything like me, they can’t find pancakes anywhere. Or Cheez-Its.”
“Cheez-Its,” Sandy said with eyes the size of basketballs.
“Yeah. Cheez-Its. I bet even American expats in Venice will come to your store for Cheez-Its. You need more ways to draw them. Slushies would be another good one.”
“How about the American version of Coca-Cola with high-fructose corn syrup?” Sandy offered. “Gotta supersize them, though. And don’t forget ketchup. We’ll need to build extra shelves for all the ketchup.”
“Look at funny lady on a roll! And Twinkies. Root beer.”
Sandy pressed her hands over her ears, a playful look on her face.
And George fell in love with her. Right then and there.
“How about from England, Moira?” George asked. “What do you miss?”
Moira exploded with glee. “He’s got a point, Sandy. There’s nothing I miss more than bangers and mash. You can’t find good English sausages anywhere. And mushy peas, yum! We’d have to create a refrigerated section.”
Sandy pretended to smack her head against the counter. “Please make it stop.”