Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
I canceled my plane reservations and was lucky to be able to extend my Vrbo stay. I left a voice mail with Dr. Sariah’s office saying that I needed additional Zoom appointments since I was staying a bit longer. Then I spent a few hours on my laptop trying to decide what to do with the mess.
I was lucky. My mother had a hefty life insurance policy that easily took care of the bills, and I’d been able to save a nice nest egg the past few years. For now, I didn’t need to work. The thought made me feel a bit lost, as if my career had been my main tether to a sense of self-worth, and without work, I’d be useless. But I was learning other things about myself that I deserved to delve deeper into.
Some of the work lit me up, but other parts rang false. I needed to figure out what I wanted to give up or change. After a long conversation with Eliza, I made a hard yet radical decision.
I canceled the rest of the season of the podcast.
There was no way to bring true authenticity to listeners and respect my guests when I wasn’t fully emotionally invested anymore. The idea of pushing through to finish the book also had to be set aside. My outlook had changed, and I was no longer qualified to tell the world how to handle problems when I was struggling through so much myself. I needed to be a student again before picking up the role of teacher, adviser, or coach.
My clients were trickier—I couldn’t disappear, and I owed them the care they paid for and expected. I decided to talk with each of them personally. One by one, I shared with them my vulnerability regarding my mother’s passing and asked to put most of them on hold. Some I kept, because I believed I could still help. By the time afternoon fell, I was exhausted but elated.
For the first time, I was facing things head-on and making hard decisions that I’d tried putting off for too long. My entire body seemed lighter and more open. Even better?
The world suddenly held limitless possibilities. Scary? Hell yes. But hopeful. I’d practiced the meditation Dr. Sariah had set for me to tap into my intuition and strengthen that inner voice that popped in and out at various times. I guessed the voice was my truth teller.
I began a new routine.
Each morning, I’d write in my journal, then walk. At first, I felt lost, untethered to the world I’d created and believed in. I couldn’t remember the last time I wasn’t pulled toward a task or pushing myself to do more. Be better. Achieve. Here, under the warmth of my family’s company and the laid-back manner of Sicilian culture, I was beginning to change, shedding my old self like a snake shed its skin.
I toured all the iconic sights of Sciacca, lingering over the hidden histories and details of the churches and monuments. I snapped pictures that called to me, captioning them with My Sicilian Summer , sometimes doing videos that were all about sharing my discoveries and had nothing to do with followers or courting clients. I became addicted to the traditional Sicilian breakfast consisting of day-old bread soaked with espresso and served as a cereal. I drank freshly squeezed blood-orange juice that reminded me of Russo Farms and ate gelato every afternoon during my sightseeing. I haunted my favorite pasticceria —La Favola—and chatted with the owner, Maria, who always welcomed me. Each day, she’d recommend a new treat, and I’d sit and sip a cappuccino, nibbling on puff pastries filled with cream, apple tarts with caramelized burnt edges, and cannoli baked perfectly crisp yet tender, overflowing with salty ricotta and nutty pistachios. My favorite was their famous ova murina , a soft shell filled with cream, almonds, and cinnamon.
I ignored the scale, blossomed into my natural curves, and embraced my new physique, which was strong from the daily hiking and hill climbing.
I sat on benches and eavesdropped on conversations in Italian, spending time listening to audio lessons on the basics of the language. I saw my family every day—either at the pub in the evenings or at my grandmother’s house. Sometimes, I visited the pizzeria, where Teresa and Emilio taught me how to make the dough and some unique signature dishes.
We held a simple memorial for my mother, where the priest blessed us and we offered candles and prayers for the safe passage of her soul. When I wept, I was never alone, and somehow, the grief was manageable. My grandfather stayed close to my side, a silent support of solidarity that soothed my soul. Afterward, we walked, and I shared memories of Mom, enjoying the surprise of his smile when he heard a story he liked.
I slept easily and dreamlessly. I woke up energized and smiling.
And I began to fall for Quint.
The connection between us grew slowly, subtly, as everything good here in Sicily did. He helped me when I practiced speaking Italian, quizzing me on simple sentences and correcting my mispronunciations. When I arrived at Bar Sciacca, Quint always had a special dish for me to try, made by his own hands. There was something beautifully intimate about eating the food he cooked, and I enjoyed his teasing when I ate carbs without a fight and moaned over a delicious dish.
Every evening, we walked outside and sat on the bench shaded by a cluster of trees. Each day that passed, a closeness developed between us, a blurry line of friendship and something deeper. We never crossed the divide. I’d told my cousins and family about my breakup with Jason, but I hesitated with Quint. Somehow, my saying aloud that Jason was out of my life was an invitation to change things between us. And as much as I craved a deeper intimacy, I was scared. It was easier to live in this shadowed middle ground where all kinds of possibilities existed. I thought of indulging in an affair until I returned home, but the hollowness in my chest confirmed I wasn’t looking for a fun fling. Not with him.
God, I was confused, and his continued silence made me afraid to push the issue.
“Your thoughts are serious tonight, no?” Quint asked with a bit of teasing. He sat on the bench next to me, obviously studying my face as I chewed away over my analysis of us.
I was glad he couldn’t see my cheeks burn. How embarrassing to think I was tangled with longing for him, when he most likely went home to a woman each night to warm his bed. Which was his right, because I’d come here having a boyfriend. I shifted in my seat and forced a smile. “Sorry, I guess I was thinking about work.”
“Are you worried about what you left behind?”
My gaze crashed into his and shivers skated down my spine. The question burned in his eyes, but his meaning seemed deeper. The scent of spice and citrus swarmed me. I ached to touch him, so I curled my fingers into fists. “Not anymore,” I said softly.
He reached out and dragged the backs of his knuckles across my cheek. My breath stuttered in my chest. “You have had so much change to deal with. I understand if your heart has ties to the past.”
Now I knew there were undercurrents, and I had a choice. It was then I made my decision, in that moment, under the moonlight, with a man who had begun to stir things up inside me I’d never experienced before. “I’m figuring stuff out about work. I want to go in a new direction with my career, but I’m not clear yet. As for my heart?”
He cocked his head, waiting for me to finish. I still felt the imprint of his hand on my cheek, the rough warmth lingering. “I told Jason I don’t want to be with him anymore. We broke up.”
A wave of emotion flickered across his face. I couldn’t pinpoint anything specific, though I hoped he was pleased. The air was charged between us, full of possibilities, but his tone was mild when he finally spoke. “I see. And how do you feel about this?”
The question held undertones I didn’t know if I was ready for. Yes, I’d been with Jason for more than a year, but looking back, I knew my heart hadn’t been completely invested. I didn’t feel like I was broken and looking to soothe a gaping wound. Instead, it was as if a lock had been opened and I was ready to leap.
But Quint didn’t know anything about my relationship with Jason. Once again, I admired his restraint and care as he navigated my announcement.
“Relieved,” I said honestly. “It wasn’t working for a while. We weren’t right for each other, but it took my mom’s death for me to realize everything that was wrong with us.”
“Sometimes, a tragedy does this to us. Forces us to confront things we hid.”
I loved the way he shared his thoughts without hesitation. It was a strength that made him even sexier to me. I ached to be impulsive and lean into his arms. To see what happened next. But there was too much to process, and I needed more time before I made a move.
I remembered our last talk and the words sprang from my lips. “Sometimes our pain is a gift of growth.”
His eyes warmed. We sat in silence together, shoulders touching, staring into the night. Slowly, he clasped my fingers with his. Giddiness sparked through my veins.
“I have tomorrow off. Would you like to go to the beach with me?” Quint asked.
“Yes. I’d like that.”
“Then it’s a date.”
We smiled at each other, still holding hands.