Chapter 30 The Warmth of Blank Pages #2
The empty page eyed her, and in a flash, she saw the negative reviews since the release of From Meh to Megawatt and felt all the ways she’d fucked up, how she’d wasted ten years living and working in a trance, and she saw the blank page of her life and how she’d thrown away her practice and given up on her life back in Texas.
She had No Idea where she was going or what she was doing from here.
But she didn’t have to know.
She could be here now.
Living in freaking Italy with a blank page inviting her in. Not demanding that she write anything in particular, but waving her over and saying, “Come in. The water’s warm.”
One word, one sentence at a time.
She hovered her fingers over the keys, then took a breath and started to hammer away.
This one’s for me. But you’re welcome to peek over my shoulder if you want, because we’re likely going through the same stuff. And it all starts here, where the blank page beckons.
“Mom, guess what, I’m coming home,” Harold announced. “I found a cheap flight that arrives on Friday night. Can you pick me up?”
“Can I pick you up?” his mom asked sarcastically. It was 6:00 a.m. over there. “I was about to catch a flight to Italy and come drag your little ass back.”
“And guess what? I’ve been invited to the opening of a fancy new restaurant. Nine courses! Can you believe that? Don’t worry; Sandy, the bookstore owner I told you about, is paying.”
“Nine courses? How are you going to eat all that, Harold. Last time I saw you, you were as skinny as a pole.”
“I know. Sandy just texted, saying that I shouldn’t eat beforehand so I can make room.”
“I want pictures. We’re doing a whole slideshow when you get home. And please tell me you aren’t going anywhere else for a while. It’s gotten lonely here.”
“No, Mom. I’m not going anywhere. Actually, I was thinking about trying to get into CCD—after I pay you back for this trip.” He’d spent the morning checking out the Community College of Denver, looking through the degrees. It wasn’t Harvard, but it sure beat sitting around waiting for a break.
“You know I support you, Harold. I think it’s a nice idea.” He heard her strike a match and light a cigarette.
“I do know that, Mom. You’ve always been there for me.”
“Always will!”
After they’d hung up, Harold texted his group of gamer friends. He’d never met them in person, but for years, he’d been playing role-play games like Project Zomboid, a slow-burn survival sim, and VRChat, where you hang out as avatars in virtual worlds.
Hey, guys, would you mind if I invited my friend Moira to play? She’s one of us.
While he waited for a response, he accepted that in becoming Aroldo he’d taken his role-playing too far. It was best to leave it in the virtual world.
A burst of energy struck him, and he said out loud, “I matter because I choose to matter. Take that, Dad, and Duo, and all you other doubters out there.”
Charging up to a stand, he said again, “I matter because I choose to matter. Just the way I am.”
He couldn’t remember feeling better in his life. With a renewed sense of purpose, he beat on his chest, like an ape in the jungle signaling his dominance, like a once lost man who has finally found his way.
He pounded on his chest harder and harder, shouting, “Harold Gibler matters!”
Sandy hid in her office, about to dial Jack. Moira was on the sales floor, basking in the fucking glow of hosting a successful book club. If Sandy weren’t so proud of her, she’d be upset. Sandy hated being proven wrong.
At least she used to.
She liked being wrong in this case. Moira had been correct: People really are looking for connection. They’d had a banner day yesterday, selling more books than the entire week before. That’s what you get when you turn the bookstore into a Jerry Springer event.
“Jackie,” she whispered into the phone. “What a summer, and it’s not even over yet.
Moira somehow pulled off the book club event, the one I told you about, if you ever listen to the messages all the way through.
It turned into a Jerry Springer or Oprah thing, long story, but we had a banner day of sales.
We’re back to the usual now, though, a bunch of perusers.
Had a woman today who brought seven books to the register.
I rang her up, ran the card, and then she changed her mind.
Returned six of them. I can’t with these people. ”
Moira’s voice rose up the stairs. “Sandy, you have to get down here.”
Sandy stormed halfway down the circular steps. “Dear God, I’m in the middle of something.”
“You have to see this!”
Sandy put the phone back to her ear. “I have to go, Jack. Apparently, there’s something I have to see.”
Moira stood at the bottom of the stairs, gleaming in orgiastic splendor.
“What is it?” Sandy asked. “Did Taylor Jenkins Reid have a cover reveal? Emily Henry announce a new one? Harold take you to tongue town last night?”
“Sandy Cooke. I can’t believe you said that.”
“I can’t believe you can’t believe it. Since when do I have a filter? So did Harold take you upstairs last night or what?”
“We had spritzes, that’s it.”
“Uh-huh,” Sandy said, a smile ambushing her. “Maybe tonight’s your lucky night.”
“Okay, noted. Now can I tell you why I called you out from your lair?”
“My lair?”
“That’s what I call it now.” She clasped her hand to her mouth playfully. “Oops, should I have filtered that?”
“Oh, dear God. Is this still part of the gloating for being right? I can’t handle it.”
Moira laughed. Like really laughed. Not a mousy laugh, the real McCoy. Then, she said, “They’re taking the scaffolding down.”
“What?”
Moira pointed toward the entrance.
Sandy marched that way, immediately noticing that more daylight crept in than usual.
She pushed through the doors and found, to her surprise and perhaps delight, that five men looked to be taking down the scaffolding.
Okay, two of them were leaning against the columns of the porticoes, smoking cigarettes and chatting.
“Hai finalmente finito?” she asked the more handsome of the two.
He said through a smoke cloud, “Si, abbiamo finito.”
Sandy lifted her arms to the sky. “Meno male. Thank God.”
She turned back to Moira, who’d followed her out. “I guess this means I can’t move to Lisbon.”
“You were never moving to Lisbon.”
“Don’t test me, Moira. I’m not sure I love this new version of you.”
“It’s not a version of me. It’s the real me.”
“Poor Harold.”
“Harold and I aren’t a couple.”
“It’s a matter of time. You wait and see. I’ve an eye for these kinds of things.”
“Is that right? She who doesn’t even allow a romance section in her bookstore is now an expert of all things romance?”
Sandy cackled and said over her shoulder as she led them back inside, “Oh, no. I’m still not a romance gal. There will be no romance section in this bookstore as long as I live, but I know when I see two people who still haven’t learned the hard way. Future victims, as I call them.”
“For your information, we decided to be friends. He’s going back to the States, anyway.”
“Friends,” Sandy said, rather snidely. “Famous last words.”
Twilight fell over the Piazza Maggiore, painting the sky a caramel hue.
The church bells of the Basilica di San Petronio pounded out the hour.
The smoky scent of coffee wafted out of a café just as busy in the evening as during the day.
A young blond busker sang the daylights out of a Coldplay song.
Tourists and locals alike wandered into the evening, perhaps seeking an Aperol spritz or their first sip of Lambrusco, some of them surely reconnecting with long-lost friends and nearly forgotten lovers.
Bianca stood below Michelangelo’s eagle, the stone carving perched on a wall near the statue of Neptune. Its wings were spread, ready to take flight.
Feeling her own renewed trajectory, her wings eager to flutter, she set her hand on the stone wall and let her eyes fall closed.
The sounds around her dissipated. The concerns of who she might one day become, what she might do, where she might go, fell away.
Only the whispers of her ancestors remained.