Chapter 22 Running from Yourself #2
Aroldo sat on the balcony in the twilight, sipping on a shot of limoncello, texting back and forth with Alice.
Every ding on his phone, each of her responses, worked to restore his heart back to normal.
In fact, he’d even started watering her potted plants again, resurrecting them from near death.
He and the plants were in this together, metamorphosing from wilted shrivels into their greatest selves.
He wasn’t ready to call it a victory, but he was getting somewhere, wedging back into her heart.
Each play had to be exacting.
Several days ago, not an hour after they’d last seen each other, she’d sent the first text of this thread. A simple message: I barely recognized you today!
Aroldo had put so much thought and care into his reply. He’d even made her sweat and not responded till early the next morning with a brief: same ole me.
She’d shot him back a fast one. You’re up early.
Off for a run.
Get out.
Training for the Venice Marathon in late October. Looking into a digital nomad visa now.
What was beautiful about becoming Aroldo was that he had been running; his body was changing. Was he going to run the marathon? That was yet to be determined.
The texts had continued nonstop, and it had become one of the most enjoyable games of Aroldo’s life. He’d become his own avatar and was now playing for real love, the highest of stakes.
He was pretty sure she was enjoying the exchanges as well, as she was the one who started them up in the morning and was always quickest to respond. He couldn’t help but believe that she wanted him to come rescue her from Renzo.
That’s what he’d decided to do. But he had to do it in a way that would leave burn marks. Yes, he’d finished Bianca’s book, and as on the nose as it was, her messages had landed.
Leave burn marks.
It was a hell of a way to live. And with this next play, Alice would feel the sizzle!
The Say Anything idea hadn’t left him. It was bold, even for Aroldo. And potentially embarrassing. Would he dare stand there with a boom box, playing Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes”? And would she come out onto the balcony, witness the depth of his devotion, and fall back in love with him?
Aroldo poured himself another shot of limoncello and, using a few of Bianca’s tricks from the book, began to visualize himself as Lloyd Dobler, the character John Cusack plays in the movie.
If he were to pull this off, he’d have to dress like Cusack, the jeans and The Clash T-shirt, the long beige, eighties trench coat.
And he’d have to somehow find an old boom box like the one Cusack held up outside of Skye’s house.
With his eyes closed, Aroldo saw himself standing in the square looking up at the balcony of Renzo’s apartment, reenacting the scene.
Inside the apartment, Alice lay in bed, perhaps resistance-cuddling with Aroldo’s enemy, the evil Renzo.
Wasn’t that a nice new turn of phrase, resistance-cuddling; this was one of the many fine creations of Aroldo, a man who issued far more poetic ability than Harold.
Upon hearing Peter Gabriel, Alice slips on her nightgown and sneaks out onto the balcony, where she—
Hold on, had it been reenacted before, the Say Anything scene?
With an imploded chest, Aroldo inquired with ChatGPT, and the news jabbed him in the eye. At least thirty to forty times, including on The Simpsons, Family Guy, South Park, and How I Met Your Mother.
“Great job, Harold, you schmuck,” Aroldo said. “Way to be original. Next time, let me handle it.” He nearly cast his phone off the balcony. That fast, he’d been knocked down—better yet, demoted—back to Harold.
A weaker version of himself looked at the limoncello. He didn’t even like lemons. He didn’t even drink alcohol back home.
Then, a song broke through the air.
The opera singer was at it again.
The man stood with his hand on the railing, several balconies up, looking out over the city, belting out a song.
Aroldo let the aria pierce his soul.
When it ended, Aroldo gave the man a standing ovation. He wasn’t the only one. People from other balconies and on the street did the same.
“Bravo,” Aroldo cheered. “Bravo!”
The opera man bowed and retreated inside.
As the man’s vibrato still lingered in his ears, Aroldo suddenly knew how to make his next play all the more powerful. And far more original.
Sandy arrived early to work, but Moira had still beaten her there. The guppy sat on the stool behind the counter, staring at the computer through her windshields for glasses. “Buongiorno.”
Sandy growled at her.
“Can I get your approval on some things?”
“What things?”
Windshield Face started going as if she’d been wound up. “I’m working on another newsletter, and some flyers. See?” She twisted the screen Sandy’s way.
The flyers were impressive, but she refused to offer praise, or even approval. “Okay,” Sandy said in short.
Moira’s enthusiasm shrank. “I wanted to see if you could give me more of a budget.”
“I didn’t know you had one.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of it. I was hoping for five hundred euros, so I can run some ads on the social media sites, maybe put something in the English paper. Print out a stack of flyers. Our printer’s the worst. I want to do color. Get them out all over the city. What do you think?”
“I think I need more coffee.” Sandy started toward the steps to her office.
“Yeah, I understand,” Moira called out to her. “If you’re wanting to stay frugal, I could cover the cost?”
Sandy pivoted and took a big step toward Moira.
Why did Moira care so much? “Yes, frugal is right. And no, I don’t have five hundred euros that you can waste printing color copies of your silly flyers.
Let me save you the time, as I thought I’d done before.
Don’t bother. There is no supercharging this dinosaur of a store.
No one reads books anymore; therefore, no one needs a store of them; therefore, no one wants a book club.
Besides, George says Bianca hates her own book, so even the author doesn’t want to attend. ”
Now that felt like a victory, a mighty general climbing back on her horse after defeating the enemy. But Moira’s silence ruined everything, penetrating through the steel walls around Sandy’s ticker.
In a move that even surprised Sandy, she let the posture of the general inside her slacken, and said, “Sorry, I wasn’t supposed to say that.” Ugh, she hated apologizing.
“I know she was frustrated about some of the reviews, but why does she hate the book?”
Sandy looked up to the ceiling, wishing it would fall on her. “I don’t know. Yes, the reviews. And it hasn’t sold like she’d hoped. I think she regrets trying to be a writer.”
Concern, a classic mark of weakness, reared its ugly head behind Moira’s windshields. “That’s so sad. It’s such a good book.”
Sandy gestured toward the books no one was buying. “They’re all good books. That’s why they get published. But books, along with book clubs, are dead, Moira. And that’s why I’m moving to Lisbon.” She couldn’t help herself.
“What?” Moira covered her mouth.
“You might as well know. I’m selling the bookstore. Or shutting it down. You wanna buy it? I’ll give it to you for cheap.”
“You’re not serious. I know you.” Again, why did Moira care?
Sandy couldn’t help but keep going. “You don’t think I’m serious? Do you know me as someone who jokes around?”
Moira shook her head, and the pitiful look on her face kicked at the fading embers of Sandy’s dying heart.
“I’m sorry,” Sandy said. “I didn’t want to tell you yet, but you’re just .
. . You won’t let up with the Megawatter crap and all your efforts to promote the book club.
I shouldn’t have let you start it in the first place. ”
“How long do I have?” The guppy sure could throw a pity party.
“I don’t know. I haven’t looked into it yet. I just decided.”
Moira nodded and closed out the screen with her flyer. “Okay, I guess I’ll cancel. I didn’t realize Bianca hated her book. I was just trying to help.”
“And now you see what helping does, right?”
Moira shook her head, and a tear fell from her eye.
“Nope,” Sandy said, “we’re not doing this again. I’ve already seen enough tears out of you to last till I come back to haunt you from my grave.” Sandy thought herself funny, but Moira ignored her.
“Do you mind if I take a sick day?”
Sandy wondered if stabbing herself in the jugular with a pen would do the trick.
They had nice pens with “The Only English Bookstore in Bologna” printed on them.
No one ever bought them, so maybe they could be repurposed.
Good news was that there would be an opening for another clueless romantic who might think an English-only bookstore in Bologna was a good idea.
Even bookstores in Madrid offered other languages.
But Sandy couldn’t do that because she’d clung to a name that had seemed clever at the time.
It would be an abomination to suddenly offer a Spanish section in the corner.
Moira was still waiting for an answer.
“You’ve never taken a sick day.”
“Which means I’m entitled to one.”
“Of course.” Sandy wasn’t about to start begging or offering more apologies. It was probably best for Moira to learn that the world wasn’t a pretty place. Certainly nothing like the settings of the soulless books she liked to get lost in.
Moira quickly gathered her things, pressed her floppy hat to her head, and started to the door. “See you tomorrow,” she muttered.
Sandy didn’t like how she felt inside, so purely for selfish reasons, she said, “Now, c’mon, Moira, settle down.”
It was too late. Her sole employee was out the door and gone. It had already been so damned quiet after George left. And now she’d run Moira off.
Sandy hated herself even more than she normally did. She took her phone and texted, Okay, I’m sorry for being a bitch. Don’t cancel the book club. You’ve put too much work into it already.
Then she called Jack.