Chapter 40
FORTY
JOE
Thursday, Two Weeks Later
Joe should’ve been in love with every second of it.
Rome was everything he’d imagined and then some: the soft rain on cobblestones, laundry strung between narrow streets, history layered in every stone.
He’d already explored the charming, narrow streets of Trastevere, captured the beauty of the gardens at Villa Borghese, and tasted his way through the market, Mercato di Testaccio.
It was a photojournalist’s dream. Even his espresso looked photogenic.
And yet his camera sat idle on the outdoor café table.
A fountain burbled in the piazza, tourists clustered around it snapping pictures. A dog napped in a patch of sun near a flower stall.
It should’ve thrilled him. On paper, it was perfect.
He lifted the camera out of habit and framed the scene, the cobbles, a fountain, a woman laughing as she tried to wrangle her kids into a photo. The shutter clicked.
He checked the back of the camera .
The exposure was right. The composition was fine. The color, the texture, the moment…it all worked.
And it felt completely hollow.
He tried again at the market later that week, lining up crates of tomatoes and peaches, but even that felt flat.
Another day, he waited for the exact angle of light on a café doorway that reminded him of the Hideaway.
In Florence, he shot a stone fountain that could’ve been Maple Falls’s smaller, fussier cousin.
Every time, it was the same result. The photo was technically solid, but emotionally it felt flat.
They weren’t his stories. They weren’t her stories.
Joe sat back in his chair now, the metal a little too cold against his shoulders despite the Roman heat, and opened his laptop. He told himself he’d cull the latest batch, pick ten or twelve frames to send to Marcus and draft a rough pitch about “hidden European corners.”
Instead, his cursor drifted.
Maple Falls—Feature.
He hesitated only a second before double-clicking.
Photos filled the screen: Krista on the Hideaway dock at sunrise, hair pulled up, camera strap cutting across her chest as she laughed at something he’d said.
Alice leaning over a churn, ice cream splattering her apron.
Walt’s hands on a boat rope, knuckles nicked and steady.
Zoe and Jackson silhouetted on the ridge.
The cave—lantern light turning damp rock into something almost holy.
The story he’d left behind.
He moved past the main folder before he could stop himself and hovered over another.
K + J—Private.
His throat tightened. He couldn’t open that one. Not yet. The memory of her in that black dress, of the way she’d looked through his lens with absolute trust, was sharp enough without the images.
He closed his eyes, pressing his fingertips briefly against his brow. Somewhere behind him, the barista called an order in Italian. A scooter buzzed past. Someone laughed.
All he could see was Krista behind the bar at the Hideaway, shaking a Hot Honey Margarita, serving up joy with ice and tequila.
He’d told himself he could have both. Three months in Europe, then back to Maple Falls. Back to her. Back to the lake and the bees and mornings that started with meditation and ended with her head on his shoulder.
But sitting here, half a world away, with a hard drive full of beautiful, empty pictures, the truth pressed in.
He didn’t want to be here at all. Not without her.
He tried to talk to her, but she was still leaving him on read. He knew she was dealing with a lot. He could only hope that she’d find her voice, figure out what she wanted out of life, and when she did, that he was part of the equation.
Joe was staring off into space, letting the what-ifs loop through his mind, when an older woman with curly gray hair sitting across from him met his eyes.
There was laughter there that Joe couldn’t quite bring himself to return.
The woman stood and walked over, as if invited, to his table.
Her faded floral dress swished with each step, and she carried an oversized tote—brimming with market goods—over one arm.
The woman fired off something rapid in Italian that Joe could only partially make out.
“Sorry.” He smiled and shook his head, letting her know he hadn’t caught it, trying to be polite nonetheless.
“Ah.” She squinted at him, then her face brightened. “American.” Her gaze flicked over his open laptop, his untouched coffee. “And you look like someone stole your happiness.”
Joe huffed a quiet laugh. “Jet lag?”
“Mm.” She made a doubtful sound. “Jet lag does not make that face.” Her smile turned knowing. “You left something back home…or should I say, someone.”
The grin she gave him reminded him of Mrs. Bishop—like she was already halfway into his business and fully enjoying herself.
Joe inhaled through his nose. “You could say that.”
“It’s not too late, you know.” She tapped her chest. “As long as you still feel her here, it’s not too late.”
“I’m not too sure…” He glanced down at his phone like it might save him. “She’s…not exactly talking to me.”
She waved a hand, unfazed. “Listen. Does she know you love her?”
“Uh…” The question hit like a shove. “I mean—she must, right?”
“Men.” She clicked her tongue, affectionate and unimpressed. “You think women read minds. We do not.”
Joe’s throat tightened. “It’s complicated.”
“Everything is complicated.” She leaned in just a little. “Just tell her you love her.”
Joe opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“Good.” Her smile returned, bright as sunlight on stone. “Start there. The rest will unfold how it’s meant to.” She straightened, hefting her tote. “Ciao, bello.”
“Yeah… ciao.”
Joe looked across the square, and back to his laptop. “Tell her you love her.” He repeated the woman’s words. Tell her you love her.
Joe snapped the laptop shut before he could talk himself out of it. His heart was already thudding faster, a drumbeat under his ribs.
He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering for a second over the airline app, and then he opened it.
When the confirmation pinged ten minutes later, he exhaled slowly, tension easing in places he hadn’t even realized were knotted.
For the first time since he’d landed in Europe, the lighting looked right. Not because it was special on its own.
Because now, finally, it was leading him back to where he wanted to be.