The English Bookstore in Bologna

Chapters 1-4

Sandy speeds through Bologna on her Vespa, furious at tourists who have overrun her adopted city. She moved here twelve years ago, before the bloggers and guidebooks, and now the crowds come for magic she doesn't want to share. She parks on Via Giulia, the cobblestone street where she lives and works, and heads toward the scaffolding that has hidden her bookstore for three months. The construction blocks customers from seeing her window displays or the sign: The Only English Bookstore in Bologna. She hung signs saying they're still open, but even a die-hard reader would need courage without a hard hat.

She opened the store ten years earlier, modeling it after Shakespeare and Company in Paris. She adored the location. Via Giulia is a Renaissance painting with grit and modern soul. But the store can go an hour without foot traffic. On slow days she plays a game with Moira, her sole employee, watching the window and cheering when someone passes like survivors spotting a plane. A short-term construction project in Bologna can take two or three years. Italians do nothing quickly, which is nice for long meals and young lovers who take their time pleasing her in bed, but she wants American oomph for getting things done.

The front room has top sellers, bookish tchotchkes, and a checkout counter. A narrow staircase leads to Sandy's small office where she hides when tired of people. Through a stone arch, the store opens to a larger space with a vaulted ceiling and frescoes of Bolognese men and women trading wares beneath porticoes. Shelves on rollers are organized by category. Along the back wall are staff favorites, with blue index cards explaining what Sandy and Moira like about each book. Sandy writes serious lines about realist works like A Little Life. Moira fills every space with exhausting contemplation about uplifting choices like the newest Emily Henry. The store is one of the most beautiful bookstores ever, but the headaches blind Sandy.

She finds the store empty except for Moira. Sandy knows she lost her mojo about eight years ago, but Moira holds the crown of worst bookseller on planet Earth. Moira has a squeaky British-accented voice and often must be told to speak up. Sandy doesn't fire her, maybe because she's not as mean as she lets on, or because it's her way of seeking forgiveness for being awful half the time. Moira dresses like she learned at a morgue—short boy's cut, purple glasses with fishbowl lenses, a big floppy black hat. She's terrified to speak up and interacts with people as if they'll lunge at her. Moira is Sandy's only friend, and vice versa, if only because of forced proximity. Sandy doesn't know what brought Moira from Bristol. When asked, Moira flushed red and mumbled about inheriting money from her aunt and starting over. Sandy guesses witness protection or the black sheep of a wealthy British family.

Moira says she's been thinking. Sandy replies, "Please don't do that." Moira stands taller and says they should start a book club. Sandy says, for all seven of their clients. Moira thinks it would be fun. Sandy calls it a bundle of joy, reaches for the fossilized coral in her pocket that always brings comfort, and says the glory days are gone. Moira says she knows Sandy doesn't see it anymore, but the bookstore is magic, and they owe her more than what they're giving her. Sandy asks, "Her?" Moira says yes, to her the bookstore is a living, breathing entity. She wants to supercharge her. Sandy feels a headache coming. She asks if this has to do with the advance copy of the self-help book Moira is reading. Moira comes alive like someone tased her. Yes, it's so good. From Meh to Megawatt! Bianca Briggs is an international treasure. Sandy crosses herself and asks God to spare her from ten more seconds on this hell ball. She says if the bookstore is living and breathing, she's on a respirator. No one wants a book club in this town. No one even wants to buy books. She tells Moira not to burden herself building something out of nothing. Sandy tried the community thing. The first two years were wonderful. Perusers bought books. Humans actually read books. Opening the bookstore gave her renewed hope and joy. Those days are gone. Finito. All she wants is to come into work, sell enough books to keep the lights on, and get on with her life without other interference. Capisci? Moira, at a safe distance behind the postcard stand, says Sandy might fire her, but she disagrees with all of it. There are a ton of expats in the city. They might all be running from something, but they crave connection too. People might find that here if Sandy lets them. Even Sandy might be craving connection. Sandy puts her hands on her waist and says she would fire Moira, but then she would have to get used to someone else's shit. So Moira is stuck with her and this godforsaken place until she smartens up and realizes she'd be better off scooping gelato. The good news is she doesn't have to overthink. There will be no supercharging the bookstore. Come in, sell six books a day, turn off the lights, lock the door. That's the perfect life. Got me? Moira shakes her mousy head. Sandy feels self-loathing and pity. There's nothing more miserable than feeling pity for someone, especially when you're the cause. She almost asks Moira to get a glass of wine, but she has avoided fraternizing with employees for ten years and won't start today. Moira must pull up her big-girl panties and get over it.

A Tuesday in March

George Briggs sits in his Midtown Phoenix apartment, holding a bottle of twenty-five Percocet pills. The internet has confirmed they're well beyond a lethal dose. All he has to do is knock them back like Tylenol, washing them down with the glass of ice water he set on a coaster because even though he won't live to see it, he still can't imagine leaving a ring on the coffee table. Most of his things are in boxes. The movers are coming in three days. It's a move he can't face. A lot of people don't understand the pain of retirement. For the unlucky few, work is what keeps them going. Without it, they have no purpose, and without a purpose, there is no point.

He jiggles the pills in his hand like candy, then tosses them into his mouth. As badly as he wants to go, the fear of making it happen riddles his insides. But the depression is so deep. Hopeless. Thoughts of what brought him here fill his head. In late January, a new kid who had somehow become his boss called him in. "You know we're having to tighten things right now," the kid had said. "Lots of competition. We're having to make some strategic shifts." Strategic shifts. Soon as you heard that, you were done. The most painful part is that George wasn't allowed to return to his desk. Almost thirty years with the company, and he was suddenly an outsider. They had his belongings delivered to him a day later. He hadn't even been able to say goodbye to his colleagues because security walked him out and watched him drive off the property. He gave his fucking life to that company. He skipped meaningful moments with his wife and daughter because he believed in Intel's mission. He sacrificed his marriage and perhaps being a good father for that company. Almost for naught.

George gathers the second handful of pills but pauses, setting his eyes on his goodbye message. He finally settled on a simple handwritten letter because he didn't need to explain himself. All he said is that he's sorry for the mess. Because when you're about to kill yourself, you wonder who will find you and what shape your body will be in and how the experience might affect them. He decided the best course is to preemptively call 911 and spare his housekeeper, who has a seven-year-old daughter, from finding him. That's why his phone rests next to the coaster. One more handful, once he's past the point of no return, he'll make the call. Sorry for the mess. His eyes water as he lifts the second handful to his mouth. He pushes the pills in, whispering apologies. His hands shake as he chases them with water. Killing yourself is awful business. Though it's dead quiet, he's screaming inside.

Ping. His phone lights up with a text. He's tempted not to look, not to get sidetracked. But out of the corner of his eye, as the pills reach his belly, he sees it's Bianca. He reaches for the phone and opens the message. Hey Dad, letting you know I'm sticking an ARC of my book in the mail today. Don't feel like you have to read it, but I wanted to share. Thirty-two years old, and I still want my dad to be proud of me. A sigh escapes him as he sets the phone back down. Perhaps it's psychosomatic, but he feels the rumble of the pills as they begin to break up in his stomach. Proud of her? Yeah, he's proud of her. How could he not be? She conquered the world. In a world that is black and ugly, she's its one redeeming feature, the one light that never faded. Guilt and shame pour over him. What he's doing hits even harder now. He will break her heart and brand her the daughter of a man who took his own life. He shakes his head, hearing his stomach gurgle. "What have I done?" he whispers. "What have I done?"

Bianca in Austin

It is mid-April. Bianca Briggs slouches over, her heart puttering like a car running on empty, in the office of her psychotherapy practice in Austin. She lets the newest one-star Amazon review of her first and definitely last book run through her. It hacks away at her self-confidence and fills her with regret. The book, From Meh to Megawatt, released two weeks ago, and what she thought was her contribution to the self-development genre has become a public execution. She reads a one-star review that calls her prescriptions exhausting, mocks the Peggy Meh character as childish, and jokes about needing to snort a Xanax to get through it. But the cruelty isn't what cuts deepest. The cruel part is that the reviews are right. Using an anonymized, flawed client as a device was a terrible idea. There is too much information, an overprescription of what one reviewer dismisses as holistic garbage. She has become the person she never wanted to be: a rabid go-getter like her father, always chasing more. She never should have believed she could be an author.

She sets down her phone and picks up the framed photograph her mother sent from Palm Springs. The photo kept her up all night, and she looks at it for the hundredth time. It shows a lively group at a rickety wooden table inside the Osteria del Sole in Bologna, taken when the world was different. In the booth against the wall sits a younger, skinnier Bianca, a high-spirited brunette with one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette in her mouth, beside a handsome, mustachioed Italian caught midsentence. She remembers how Corrado chased his chef dreams to Paris, and she speaks to the couple in the photo as if they can answer. She took a gap year in Italy at twenty-two to find and save herself. She succeeded, recapturing her youth, and almost stayed in Bologna. On her last night before returning to the US, she promised Corrado and herself that she wouldn't get sucked back into her old ways: overworking, worrying about the future, needing control. She sees how naive that promise was. The memory transforms into fury. She spins the frame across the room, a sharp curse shooting from her mouth. The edge jabs the wall, then the frame shatters on the hardwood. She stares at the glass, shocked by her own rage. This is it, her third-life crisis boiling over. She crosses the room, drops to her knees, retrieves the bent frame, and shakes loose the broken glass. Tears slip down her cheeks. A soft alarm chimes. It is already eleven. A client canceled, giving her the last hour to wade through self-despair and trace the origins of her demise. She pushes up and buzzes her receptionist, asking for five minutes. The receptionist hears something fall and asks if everything is okay. Bianca claims she knocked something over and is sweeping it up.

She cleans the mess, spruces up in the mirror, and sashays down the hall with false bravado to the waiting room. Her smile could scare the sunshine. She greets Lacy with vivaciousness even as the inner Bianca wants to burn everything to the ground.

Fifteen minutes later, Lacy lies on the angular gray couch in the counseling room and describes pushing her husband into the pool at the Four Seasons. He was in a tux. It was cold for Austin, steam rising off the water. Lacy is Bianca's age, early thirties, dressed all in white with espadrilles and a beaded turquoise necklace, ankles crossed, holding a gold tasseled pillow over her stomach. Above her hangs a large canvas of an elephant with feather earrings. Bianca asks how many people saw, smiling unprofessionally. At least sixty, all in formal dress, all influencers. They grabbed their phones and filmed. Now Austin knows the marriage is coming apart, and Lacy hears whispers wherever she goes. She thanks God for Whole Foods delivery. Outside the nail salon and Bianca's office, she is imprisoned at home. Lacy stops. Bianca has stopped taking notes. Bianca pretends to glance at her notes, but looks down at a comic strip she started drawing: panels beginning with a rough sketch of a plane taking off, labeled Bianca Airlines. The second panel shows the same plane chased by large-caliber gunfire. She tells Lacy she is listening and wonders how fast the state licensing board would pull her license if they saw this session.

Chapters 5-7

Chapter 5: Romance Is DEAD

Sandy runs her bookstore with Moira the Mouse as her only employee, and the romance section is deliberately small. When a curvy brunette in her early thirties browses, Sandy jokes about whether she's hunting for the mystery section. The woman asks for the new Bridgerton book, and Sandy seethes inwardly at another romance disciple. The woman reveals she's the owner's neighbor, just moved from Austin, and mentions she noticed her own book on the shelves. She introduces herself as Bianca Briggs, author of From Meh to Megawatt: Supercharge Your Life.

Sandy calls for Moira, who creeps out from the back. Moira recognizes Bianca instantly and springs to attention. Bianca is stunned to be recognized. Moira reveals a tattoo reading "Leave BURN MARKS," the battle cry of the Megawatters, meaning living life loudly enough to leave a crater. Bianca is flattered. Moira whisper-screams about how she's been pushing the book. When Bianca reveals she just moved to Via Giulia, Moira's mouth opens wide. They're neighbors. Moira declares, "Megawatters unite!"

Bianca explains she did a gap year in Bologna ten years ago, when Sandy opened the bookstore. Moira gushes about following the book's steps, about Peggy Meh being her favorite, about jumping into a cold lake. Moira confesses she took the train to Lake Garda and jumped in naked. Bianca cackles. Moira suggests a book signing, and Sandy reluctantly agrees, knowing she needs people through the door to preserve what she and her son Jack started. Bianca hesitates, admitting her book didn't do well back home and part of her came to escape. Moira gushes about Peggy Meh transforming into Peggy Megawatt over two years of therapy. Moira reveals she recently called herself Moira Megawatt in the mirror. Bianca smiles with gratitude.

Moira notes Bianca's been quiet on social media. Bianca explains she's been busy moving. Sandy steers Moira to let Bianca be, but Moira adds that a signing would mean so much. Bianca agrees with a sprinkle of defeat. Sandy checks the calendar, finds it empty, and proposes next Thursday from four to six. Bianca has no other plans. Moira says it would mean the world. Sandy agrees while caressing the rough coral in her pocket, her pacifier of strength.

Bianca's New Life in Bologna

Bianca can't process being recognized by someone with a tattoo. She has Megawatters who respond to her posts, but someone branding themselves is next-level. She couldn't refuse Moira's plea and figures a harmless hour signing will help ingratiate her into the neighborhood. She climbs three flights of crooked stone steps to her new flat: abundant light, stark-white stucco walls, bright colors, air-conditioning, a Nespresso machine, decent stemware. Both bedrooms have comfortable queen beds. A balcony overlooking Via Giulia begs for potted plants. Last night she heard her opera-singing neighbor break into a haunting aria that brought her to tears and filled her heart with hope that maybe she hasn't messed up beyond repair.

She calls her mom, Faith, now Faith Morrison, living with her new husband in Palm Springs. Faith married him for his money, no secret. After chitchat, Faith brings up Bianca's dad, saying he still hasn't found his way in retirement. Bianca is surprised they talk all the time. Faith clarifies she's not flirting with George, but he's struggling after working hard his whole life. Bianca imagines her father squirming in joblessness and says it's good for him. Faith suggests community college classes. Bianca laughs at the mention of golf, which he's always hated. She agrees to check in on him tomorrow. After hanging up, Bianca falls back into her chair. She crossed an ocean to escape these things, but already the book and her dad have found her.

Candles in a Coffin

Deep in the Antler's Reach clubhouse in Red Hawk, Scottsdale, George washes his face at one of ten sparkling sinks surrounded by shaving lotions and cologne. To many, this is retirement glory. George is one of the younger members and the new guy. The whole thing is a travesty, but at least he's trying. Two months ago, in March, he swallowed pills, and Bianca's text saved him. Possibly the only thing getting him out of bed is the Zoloft Faith talked him into after she flew in following his near-death experience. He confessed his depression, and Faith came from Palm Springs despite her husband's complaints. Before leaving, he made her promise not to tell Bianca. Faith gripped him and kissed his mouth.

George splashes warm water on his face. In the mirror, he sees the young man he used to be. He shaves every morning because he has time to kill. His walnut-brown hair has turned silver but is still thick and wavy. A guy two sinks down complains about golf carts. George thinks of the bottle of pills in the medicine cabinet, not the Zoloft, the other ones. He was not meant for this life. But he's here, trying, and trying is his big win every day.

He joins his foursome at a table overlooking the driving range. A Michelob Light waits. He throws down twenty dollars. One suggests he get lessons, and George replies he'll let them know if he needs advice, his leg bouncing. He'd be fine if he never swung another club. What was he thinking, moving here? He excuses himself and scurries for the exit.

George has been emailing Intel about consulting, but the microchip world has changed. His expertise is overpriced and dated. He fell into management during the rise of AI chips and lost his grip on new technology. Faith suggests chess, volunteering, playing an instrument. He recoils at the ukulele. She suggests baking, a boat. He reminds her they're in the desert. Bianca makes similar suggestions when she calls from Bologna. They have a call tomorrow, the highlight of his day.

George is glad Faith is enjoying life and that his daughter is successful, no thanks to him. Maybe the one thing he passed on is his work ethic. He's still scratching his head over Bianca moving to Italy to "find herself." He drives his golf cart home to a place on the sixteenth green. He wonders what it would be like to close the garage door, stuff a rag in the muffler, and go to sleep in the front seat. His HVAC person found mold in his air vents, so he's slowly dying by breathing, but not fast enough. Sixty-five is too early to stop working. He would have kept going another fifteen years if Intel had let him, but old men like him were easy pawns.

George pours a Scotch and sits in front of the television. Noticing movement outside, he leaps up. His archnemesis, an evil squirrel named Mr. Nutz, sits on the bird feeder munching seeds. The little devil has been taunting him for a week. George grabs his rake and charges, yelling. The squirrel leaps away, and George swings, the tines slashing the earth. The squirrel winks. George says he's messing with the wrong guy. The squirrel laughs like Rodney Dangerfield. After more attempts, it disappears behind cacti.

Back in his chair, George flips through Netflix, takes a shower, ticks off his to-do list. He makes chicken, baked potato, and broccoli. After channel surfing, he decides to sleep so he can fast-forward to talking to Bianca. But he stares at the ceiling for two hours, concocting ways to design a better bird feeder. When he drifts off, Mr. Nutz visits his dreams, teasing and laughing.

George wakes with the eagerness of a child. Their call is at seven, but it's only five. After coffee, he texts Bianca to see if she's available earlier. She FaceTimes him twenty minutes later. It takes him a couple minutes to work through an audio issue. A man who built microprocessors can't figure out basic online communication. He greets her, saying she looks handsome. She says he looks handsome. He tells her he has a date with a squirrel. She asks what, and he says long story. The first thing that hits him is how kind she is after what he put her through with constant work, the divorce, and unsolicited advice.

He asks what's new and how Boloney is. She corrects him: Ba-lone-ya. He jokes that she and her mother used to find his humor charming. She says she still does. She asks what's new. When she texted about finding an apartment, it hurt inside. His hope that she'd return home died. She signed a one-year lease. He buried his sadness when she told him how happy she was. He worked too hard all his life, but now she's doing the opposite, not working at all. She needs a happy medium before it's too late. He bites his tongue. Their relationship feels like it's on life support. He forces enthusiasm when she tells him about the book signing, which makes him proud. He asks if she's writing another. She says no, just seeing what the universe brings. All her talk about the universe. Accountability died somewhere in the early aughts. You can't teach kids everything; they have to learn some lessons the hard way.

She asks how he's doing, and he says retirement's not that bad. She pushes. He tilts his head, seeing a vision of his retirement party, coworkers cheering as he faced a cake with candles.

The birthday cake now haunts George as something grimmer: nails driven into a coffin, a career and purpose sealed away. Retirement isn't paradise. The mold in his air vents means walls must be torn open for a month. He confesses to Bianca that he hates golf more than life itself, despite buying a house on a course. His one mission involves Mr. Nutz, a ninja he can't catch. Bianca laughs and reminds him she's there if he wants to talk. George privately wishes she'd invite him to visit. Pride stops him. He won't poison her Italian journey with his misery.

Two hours, two more cups of coffee, thirty minutes on the elliptical, a cleaned house, folded laundry, and four newspapers later, George stares at his legal pad. Fix window screen. Call bank. Buy BB Gun. Eye appointment. Clean garage. A bird feeder defense system involving cayenne pepper, rotating baffles, and a guillotine blade. Groceries. Bianca at seven a.m. tomorrow. The candles morphing into nails, he knows he has to find another job, but who hires hardware engineers in their mid-sixties? The world has passed him by. He can't even figure out FaceTime. The unfairness of fathers being unable to ask daughters for real help gnaws at him. He wants to call Bianca back, maybe ask to visit, but terror holds him back.

That's when Mr. Nutz appears. The squirrel feasts on birdseed like caviar, casting a sideways glance and delivering an insulting wink. George grabs a rake, races across the patio, and swings hard. The squirrel dodges, and the rake smacks the feeder, sending seed showering down. Mr. Nutz escapes to a rock. George warns, "I will bury you on this land," and swings again, missing until the squirrel seeks refuge behind the grill. When George pushes the grill aside, the squirrel heads toward the open back door. A horror scenario plays: Mr. Nutz inside his house, under the couch. He runs, but something catches him, a hose, a crack in the sidewalk, and he falls forward. The rake lands tines-up, and his forearm crashes down. Blood draws. Mr. Nutz gives a belly laugh and disappears into the house. George peels himself off the ground and later returns from urgent care with a tetanus shot, disinfected wounds, and bandages he keeps hidden from the camera.

That afternoon, George calls Bianca and fumbles through asking if she has room for her old man for about a month while the mold is dealt with. Silence. He hates himself for asking, adds clumsily that he's missing her like crazy. Dead silence. Then she says absolutely, she'd love for him to come. He asks if she's sure, and she smiles, telling him he'd never be a bother and she could use the company and some fatherly sage advice. In his mind's eye, he sees hammers driving nails into coffins, rakes coming down on squirrels, and flashes of Bianca through the years: first born, first word, first steps, middle school sass, high school suitors, crossing the graduation stage. He tells her he knows she's messing with him, but she insists she's not. Tears prick his eyes. Forget the Zoloft. Bianca is the only thing keeping him alive. He asks one more time if she's sure, and he thinks he detects terror hiding behind her smile, though maybe it's his own fear mirrored back. She says one hundred percent, and that Italy will be good for him. Seeing her, getting a chance to redeem himself, might be enough to keep him fighting another day.

Harold keeps his distance, watching Alice and Renzo stroll through serpentine alleys, dash across streets hand in hand, sharing kisses under porticoes. May has brought the first tastes of a Bolognese summer. He's been following them for a week, not as a stalker but as a concerned citizen looking out for his former lover. He sees no signs of decay. It isn't love, though. He knows that. Renzo is way too old for her. She's been deceived. The couple stops into Il Gelatauro, a busy gelato shop near the university, where they share a cup of stracciatella, exchanging saliva, stealing kisses, having a sword fight with their spoons. Harold cringes behind a column, a pang burning in his chest. Renzo is no doubt an ex-lover's worst nightmare, not far off from the image Harold painted while playing the heartbroken vampire trapped in his castle

Chapters 8-10

Well-Intentioned Cupids

Bianca cannot believe Carol actually told Corrado she moved to town and gave him her number. Since then, Bianca has joined Carol and her expat crew at long meals, wandered museums finding pieces of herself in paintings, and forced herself to stop chasing goals and instead explore new streets and paths out of the city. Somewhere in all this, Carol decided to play Cupid.

Corrado invited her to coffee at Le Briciole di Via Giulia, the pasticceria down the block. She arrives early, nervous. The place looks stuck in time, black and white, with dated floral wallpaper. Corrado arrives on time, still the same strapping guy who cast a spell on her a decade ago. Dark jeans, tight white T-shirt, a chef's knife tattoo on one arm. "Queen Bee," he says. "E passato troppo tempo."

He comes in for two kisses, taking his time, possibly sniffing her. An organic woody scent rises to her nose. He tells her she looks angelic. She refuses to fall prey to his games. His shaggy hair is all over the place, a faint scar above his left eyebrow, a shadow of beard. When she mentions she thought he was in Paris, he says it was time to come home. She tells him she has no idea if she is staying, that she is testing the waters.

They stand at the bar with croissants and cappuccinos. It is easy to talk with him, as if ten years of absence didn't exist. She tells him about college, grad school, her practice. She doesn't mention the book. He asks if she is seeing anyone. She deflects, then admits she is not, focusing on herself. He calls her cerebral, says he loved that about her. Her laugh feels like first blood drawn. He stares and stares while she tells herself to hold strong.

She asks about him. He says yes to the restaurant, that it is his child, that there is no girl anymore. He looks around exaggeratedly, asking where the woman God promised him is. She refuses to laugh again, reminding herself of his ability to make every girl feel that way. She breaks off a piece of croissant and moans that she missed this. He admits he thought about reaching out but didn't see the point, that it took him a long time to get over her. She steers him toward culinary school, Paris, the Michelin star. He tells her about the new restaurant opening in six weeks. She remembers his scrambled eggs, and he says he makes them even better now. She tells him they are right back where they left off, that she is not looking for anything.

He asks what she is doing tomorrow night. She reminds him what she just said. He asks why put labels on it, suggesting church or a museum, then mentions the Michelangelo eagle she liked. She asks how he remembers that. He taps his head and says he remembers a lot about her, that she broke his heart. She finally says no, telling him her dad is coming tomorrow from Arizona and isn't doing very well. Corrado asks if he is sick. She says no, worse, he is retired and it is crushing him. Corrado offers to be of service.

He asks where he can find her book. She realizes he knows she is a writer, which means he has been keeping tabs on her. Then he adds that Carol told him, and she blushes, mortified. She tells him it is probably not his type, a female-focused self-help thing. He insists he wants to jump into the head of his old friend Bianca. He mentions the title, From Meh to Megawatt, and asks if she is now supercharged. She tells him he is not allowed to read it. He says he will have to find another way to supercharge himself. She says she doesn't know what she is doing right now but definitely not writing another book. Corrado says it sounds like she and her father are in the same boat, two people seeking new identities. She shrugs, realizing he is right. He tells her she knows where to find him. A block down, she texts Carol: I can't believe you.

George Arrives

Four days later, George walks through the Bologna airport telling himself to take deep breaths. He has barely slept. It has been more than a year since he saw Bianca. He imagines a heart attack on the escalator. He isn't much of a traveler and knows exactly why he prefers to stay home.

Then he finds her, arms open wide, wearing a knee-length floral dress, a smile on her face. It is a vision, seeing his daughter so joyful. He offers a genuine smile, but it is painted on top of a depressed skeleton of a man. He hopes she won't see how badly life has broken him down. He knows she will. They hold each other. He tells her she looks the best he has ever seen her. She pulls away and asks about his arm. He touches the bandage and tells her about the war with the squirrel, how he fell on a rake. Mr. Nutz 7, George 0. She covers her mouth and says she is glad he escaped with his life.

She comments on his shiny white tennis shoes, calling him a regular Larry David. She tells him she is so glad he is here. He wonders if that is true. At the baggage carousel, it quits working midway through. They wait twenty more minutes. George does not lose his cool, wondering whether Bianca noticed how patient he was.

They take a taxi back to her place. She points out the bookstore where she has her signing, her local wine bar, and the pasticceria where she and Corrado had breakfast. She asks if he remembers him. George hates when his daughter talks about the men in her life. He asks if Corrado is the kid she liked way back when. She says they had coffee, no big deal, that he is a chef now opening a restaurant in the Hotel Minerva. George hadn't meant to say kid. In the country an hour, and he has already screwed things up.

She tells him she connected with Carol, started yoga, hangs out with her crew, mostly expats. She swings open the apartment door and gives him the tour. He forces his spirits to lift, exclaiming how wonderful the kitchen is, calling the bedroom lovely, chirping that he loves the guest room. The guest room has light spilling in, thick pillows, a bouquet of flowers, and a gift basket overflowing with chocolate, snacks, and fancy waters. He tells her she is too good to him, a lifetime of guilt going after him. She takes his hands and says they should figure out a way to shake these retirement blues. He says he needs to find a new way to direct his energy. She suggests seeing what Italy does to that.

A yawn escapes him. She tells him the best thing to fight jet lag is to stay up. He says he might close his eyes for an hour. She warns he will regret it. He says an hour and a shower will make him great. Once she closes the door, he climbs onto the bed, noting the cheap pillows, the firm mattress, his feet hanging off the edge. He might as well sleep on the floor. It is a good thing he booked a one-way trip. Still, being here with Bianca beats sitting alone in some extended-stay situation. But he has to make sure he doesn't bring any of his darkness into her life.

He unpacks, arranging everything neatly. He keeps his bottle of Zoloft hidden, not wanting Bianca to know he is on an antidepressant. He stares at the bidet, wondering what you would do with such a thing. He stretches out, thumbs through his phone. It is the middle of the night back in Arizona. Mr. Nutz has probably weaseled his way into the house and is using George's robe. The bastard. Another yawn comes. He sets his phone down and shuts his eyes, his neck at a ninety-degree angle. The pillow is thicker than a car seat cushion. He tosses it aside. It takes him another twenty minutes of churning up thoughts and fears, worrying he could slip back into that awful place he was in March, until finally he drifts off.

A Walk Through Bologna

An hour later, George limps down three stories to Via Giulia, every muscle suffering. Bianca pulls open the building door. George slips on his sunglasses. His cushiony new shoes are the best thing going. They stop for coffee and a pinza Bolognese, then keep going. All he wants is to be easy so she won't regret hosting him. No, he wants to be fun. If only fun were easy.

After walking through the University District, they enter Giardini Margherita, her favorite park. Fountains shoot water into the air. The sun spills through the trees. They sit on a bench. George all but collapses, wiping sweat from his brow. She tells him they are going to her favorite pizza place for lunch, though Italians don't eat lunch till two. He exclaims that two is dinnertime. She says they will be there right when it opens.

She tells him she knows he is tired and never wants to talk about things, but she wants to know how he is, that she would like to help. Her question punches him in the gut. There is nothing worse than making your kids feel like they have to help you. He tells her not to worry, that he is already coming out of it. She tells him not to bullshit her. He laughs. She asks if there has to be something good about retirement, isn't it nice to not deal with Intel bureaucracy, to finally have free time. He tells her he doesn't need a session, that he is here for her. She says they are here for each other, to humor her, to tell her what the good things are. He asks if she means good things plural. After they share a smile, he tells her he doesn't need to be analyzed or fixed. He is going to find another job.

She asks why, doesn't he have enough money. He says maybe he does, who knows how long he will live. She tells him if he makes it to one hundred, she will be there for him. Please, please don't let me last that long, he thinks. He tells her he has feelers out about consulting work, might move back to Phoenix, get away from the purgatory of the golf course. A brown bird lands in front of them. After a while, George says his sun is setting, that they should figure her out, what she is going to do next. Even as the words leave his lips, he knows he has crossed into the demilitarized zone. She repeats figure me out. She says she is doing great. He tells her she walked out on everything. It might be nice for a minute, but trust him, she needs to get back to work. She asks if he is the expert. The conversation escalates quickly.

He has over thirty years on her, but he forces himself to stop. Calmly this time, feeling his love for her, he says he gets that he isn't exactly a role model, but all a dad can do is hope he can save his daughter from learning everything the hard way. Sixty-five years is a lot of time hacking away at life. Bianca stares off toward a fountain. He tells her she is going to get bored fast doing nothing. If she waits too long, the world back home will have passed her by. Her friends will move on.

She comes back hot, telling him she didn't put her world on hold back in Austin, that she has no plans to return. She might stay here forever, or move to Thailand, or try the East Coast. This is not living in a paused world. She is taking a step toward living a better life, breaking free from a trance. And it is not that she doesn't aspire to be like him, but she doesn't aspire to work as hard as he did. No offense. There is so much more out there. George resists saying, "You'll see soon enough." He sees the candles of his retirement cake again, the way they turned into nails in his mind. He says nothing, because he has already gone too far.

She plows ahead, telling him all she has done since grad school is go, go, go. Where has it gotten her? She barely remembers the last few years. She wants what the people have here, soaking up each second, living like they might not wake up tomorrow. If she runs out of money, she will figure it out. But that is not right now. George is incredulous.

George sits on a bench near the Fountain of Neptune, frustrated and worried. He thinks about how Bianca has a successful life back in Arizona, a thriving practice, and how she has given all that up for a year in Italy. He wonders what she sees in Bologna, a crumbly old city that can't compare to the United States. He worries about the chaos of the world, the threat of war, the inconvenience of visiting her. He tells her he supports her but can't keep coming back to visit because he's too old. Bianca listens without interrupting, then tells him she is not broken, she is healing. She tells him he is not too old, but that he is lacking purpose since leaving Intel. He just needs to find a new purpose rather than giving up. Then she stands abruptly and walks away, telling him to stop before it gets ugly. George watches her leave, cursing himself.

The next morning, Bianca lies in bed, dreading the day. She feels exhausted after just one day with her dad. She decides to reframe the situation, telling herself she is a warrior. She thinks of her father's visit as the ultimate showdown, an opportunity to mend the broken parts of the little girl inside her. She decides to follow her own advice from her book, to become the director of her own thoughts, naming herself Admiral Gigawatt. She chuckles and feels a surge of creativity. But then she remembers a one-star review of her book that called it a "nothing burger," and the memory brings a wave of shame. She worries that she isn't a funny person. She forces herself to stay positive, speaking

Chapters 11-13

At Sorso Sospetto

Sandy sits with Moira and Harold in a back room of Sorso Sospetto, a centuries old wine bar near her apartment and bookstore. She usually avoids it to keep pleasure away from business. The place is elegant and overdecorated, all velvet, gold, brick, candlelight, carved tables, and esoteric Euro-jazz. She orders Lambrusco and a charcuterie board in Italian, then turns to her silent companions. They act like this is an eighth-grade dance. Sandy tells Moira to go first. Moira thought she would get a good turnout and put in effort, only to find Sandy was right all along. She shrinks and says building something cannot happen overnight; they have to keep trying. Harold says Moira was great and Bianca is super smart. His voice is soft, slightly nasal. Sandy sees both need confidence. She asks Harold if he read Bianca's book. He has not read much since Alice left, and he scratches his face. Sandy thinks he is broken. He is twenty-three. She remembers her son Jack at that age, his chip on the shoulder after his father went to prison for hurting Sandy, her struggle as a single mother, then the marines.

The waiter brings wine. Sandy toasts to heartache, saying it does not cut less when you get older, but it is hard to dodge. They echo her. She pushes Harold to talk. Once he starts, he cannot stop. He builds backend software for companies around the world. He was in a Denver coffee shop when Alice walked in, and the fireworks were so explosive they ended up in Bologna together. Sandy asks if he followed a teenager back to Bologna and thought it would last. He shrugs. Put that way, it sounds absurd, but they love each other. Or did. He leans on the table. Sandy sees he is bright. Love dumbed down everyone. He says Alice was way out of his league, so he should have seen it coming. It felt real. He has never been in love before.

Sandy feels for him. She remembers Lisa, who broke Jack's heart in eleventh grade. His father was in prison, so he was already struggling, and Lisa dumped him through a friend. Jack fell into an ugly despair, locked his door, listened to Metallica, and barely spoke. Sandy asks Harold why he is still here. He hopes Alice might see the error of her ways. Sandy says, "Oh, dear God. You're waiting for her?" He stares into his wine. Moira pats his hand. He says he has never felt like this before, hurt dripping from each syllable. He keeps thinking Alice will realize what they had. He meets Sandy's eyes like a son looking at his mother. He swears she was in love too. It was not only him.

Sandy sits up straight and crosses her arms. She asks if he knows how flighty a nineteen-year-old girl can be. She does not mean to be a cagna, but he is a gelato flavor, and Alice will not know which one she likes until she tastes them all. She begs him not to wait. He fidgets, scratches his face, shifts the table mat, slides his glass left and right. He asks what else he is supposed to do. Go home? Give up? If you love someone, you cannot go out without a fight. Sandy says he is not dressed to fight. He is a sad sack. She repeats it in Italian. She tells him to get rid of the stubble that is not a beard, get a haircut, trim his ear hairs, change how he dresses. No offense, but Alice is pretty. When they met, Sandy wondered what Alice saw in him. Now she knows he is a nice guy. But everyone is nice. He needs to stand out. Become the man Alice wants.

Instead of being hurt, Harold sifts through her words for a solution. His resilience impresses her. This kid has promise. Sandy realizes she was slightly harsh. She adds that she says this knowing he is sharp and kind. Alice would be lucky to get him back. He just has to try. He is a digital nomad doing okay for himself, living in one of the greatest cities in the world, free to do whatever he wants. She taps his glass. A ping rings out. He needs to act like it. He says if only it were that easy. Moira chimes in that he has a lot going for him. Sandy says either give up and go home or put up a fight starting today. Being caught in the middle is no place to be.

Harold nods, then turns to Moira. He apologizes about her book signing. Now she knows why he did not want to come. But he is glad he did. Moira says she thinks he is great. Sandy is right. Alice is lucky to be loved like that. A lot of girls would be envious. Sandy notices Moira staring too deeply into Harold's eyes. She feels sorry for both of them. The cameriere sets down an impressive charcuterie board: Mortadella Bologna, Salame Felino, pickled vegetables, squacquerone cheese, and Parmigiano-Reggiano in various ages. They eat in silence.

After a few bites of mortadella, Sandy asks Moira, "So you ... What are we going to do with you?" Moira covers her mouth, finishes chewing cheese, and shrugs. Sandy thinks Moira is more lost than Harold, and she feels for her too. Sandy really cares for Moira, maybe more than any other human in Bologna. She wants Moira to know that Sandy is hardest on the people she likes most. Sandy says she appreciates what Moira is trying to do with the shop, to supercharge it. Sandy tried that long before Moira was there, and she failed too. It is not a community kind of place. They have discussed this ad nauseam. The narration notes this may not be exactly true. Sandy tried and succeeded for two years, the golden years. Then she lost faith, and the bookstore and Sandy gave up on each other. She reaches for the coral in her pants pocket. Moira says, "But it could be," running a knife through the Parmigiano like a mouse after dinner. Sandy tells herself to stop being a bitch. Moira is not a mouse. What would her son say if he knew who Sandy had become? Sandy recognizes Moira's desperation and frustration because she was a victim of it too. Things did not work out how you hoped. Ever. The sooner you accept it, the better. Sandy cannot believe she is about to say it, but Moira's hopelessness makes her want to leap off her balcony. She tells Moira that if her skin is thick enough, she can try again. Start the book club she keeps going on about. Build a community. Resurrect Sandy's bookstore.

Moira springs to life. "Really?" Sandy wags a finger. But Moira should not forget how long it took her to get over Emily St. John Mandel. She better thicken that pale British skin. Harold asks who, mouth full, going after mortadella like he might never eat again. Sandy asks if Moira wants to tell him. Moira sets the cheese down. She explains Emily St. John Mandel is one of the most exciting working writers, almost genre-less. She started in crime but is now into postapoc, spec, and time travel. Literary but breaks rules. Expertly plays with time. Everybody needs to read... Sandy cuts her off before she goes on all night about Station Eleven. Moira says that is not even her favorite. Sea of Tranquility was a masterpiece. Sandy slaps her forehead. Someone should pay her to keep these kids on track. Moira collects herself. Emily came in one day while on holiday. Moira knew exactly who she was and perhaps overpraised her. Sandy calls that the understatement of the millennium. Moira asked her to sign books, so they went to the shelf. Moira had filed them under St. John and not Mandel. Apparently this is Emily's pet peeve. She was nice about it, and Moira moved them that second, but it was a dark moment considering how much of a fan she is. A few days later, Moira jumped onto Instagram to apologize, and Emily's bio read: File under Mandel. St. John is my middle name. Moira thinks she is the reason Emily did that. Sandy cracks a smile. Moira brought this on herself. A clueless romantic floating through life. Harold says it does not seem like a big deal. Sandy reaches for her wine and says to Moira it was the end of the world. Moira barely spoke for a week. Did not eat. Could not look Sandy in the eyes. Harold says, "Oh, gosh. You care that much, don't you? You must be the best employee." Sandy is not sure whose eyebrows shoot up higher. Holding back the snarky response that first loaded into the chamber, she says Moira is by far the best she has ever had. Moira perks up like God appeared to share secrets of the universe. She says Sandy does not mean that. Sandy is messing with her. Sandy laughs, an honest laugh. She says though she enjoys the occasional prank on Moira's behalf, she is serious. Moira is pretty amazing. Sandy's own words make her squirm, but warmth rises up her spine. Moira launches into planning. What would the book club look like? What would they call it? What books? Sandy says no, no, no. She wants nothing to do with it. She is giving Moira permission to run it. She bets Harold would be her first member. Right, Harold? His pupils dilate. "Uh, yeah, okay." Sandy polishes off her wine. She says she is going to leave them two to get to know each other. She has a dance class and a hungry cat waiting. Moira says, "Wait, but..." frozen in place. Sandy says, "You'll be fine," then leans toward Harold. "Be nice to her. She's a good one."

Harold and Moira

Harold picks at his fingernails under the table but tries to stop. He hears his father's voice: "Stop picking at your goddamn fingernails, Harry." Harold says he does not like being called Harry. His father says, "And I don’t like washing windows for a living. Tough shit!" What Sandy said hurt, but she was right. He is not living up to the person Alice met in the coffee shop. He is not leaving burn marks, as the book discussion said. No craters left by the Harold asteroid. He let himself get lazy, morphing back into someone less exciting. Moira's voice brings him back. She says Alice is lucky to be loved like that. He guesses so. He asks if she has ever been in love. Moira exhales. She thought so once, but things went sideways. She was apparently the only one living the fairy tale. She tells him not to mind Sandy. Sandy is like a bear cub wrapped in cobra skin. Once you get to know her, she is appealing in a strange way. You will never wonder what is on her mind. No filter. Harold grins. He can see that. He asks how long she has worked for Sandy. A year now. Before that? He assumes she was born in England. What brought her here? Bristol, yeah. She arrived in Bologna two years ago and started with Sandy last year. Almost like reciting history from a memorized script, she explains she got tired of England and wanted a change. She came to Bologna because she visited with her parents once. Harold says she snuck in before Brexit. Barely. She is an EU resident now. Harold decides she is one of the good ones, a kind soul. He thanks her for inviting him. He does not know anyone, and it has been lonely without Alice. Moira says he has proved her point about expats. They are a strange bunch a long way from home, but they do not like being lonely. They have barely dented the charcuterie board. Harold takes two more salami to even out his mortadella slices. Moira asks if he wants advice. Sure. Move on. If Alice realizes how lucky she is, she will come back. But Moira believes, especially after reading Bianca's book, that they have to take control. That warrior mindset. They cannot be victims. They have to see problems as challenges. He is faced with a decision right now. Get beaten up with heartache or see it as an opportunity to plug himself in and go full megawatt. In other words, level up. His head swivels like a pinball lever. He asks if she plays video games. Um, naturally. He thought she was a bookworm. She says they go hand in hand. She loves stories, what they teach us, how they pull us in. She asks his console of choice, his desert-island game. He says no, do not do that to him. He scrolls through games he plays most, hating the idea of choosing. He is taking all the Witchers, Fallouts, the Mass Effects, probably Fortnite for old school's sake. She says he is only allowed one. Harold slaps the table, suddenly claustrophobic. Then he is not going. She sets up the world ending, pure chaos, nuclear winter, zombies eating humans, and he is not going? Let the zombies come and get him. He does not want to play just one game. What a nightmare. He is half serious. He also realizes that for once he is not thinking about Alice, so that is nice. Moira is laughing at him. He asks if she is enjoying torturing him. She thinks this is adorable. He says there is nothing adorable about it. The momentum of their conversation picks up speed in a slightly pleasurable way. She says okay, fine, he chooses. He is about to hop on a plane as nukes are dropping. A swarm of zombies is pulling at the chain-link fence, close to ripping it open, and yet he is given one minute to choose a console and game with which he will survive.