I give myself a literal shake so I’ll stop gawking. Jesus, what am I, a fifteen-year-old boy? I turn on my heel and head back toward my hotel.
I take my time, putting that strolling thing into practice. The street is lined with little shops, and I wander in and out of a couple. The third one I step into holds shelf after shelf of little notebooks and journals and diaries. Exactly the kind of shop I can lose hours in. I move slowly, pulling things off the shelves to open them, feel them, smell them. Many are leather-bound, and I inhale quietly. The blank paper also has a scent that I love, and I lift one of the journals to my nose and take a sniff. The reality is that I don’t need another notebook or journal. I have dozens at home. They are my kryptonite when I shop, and especially when I shop away from home. I find one with a deep green cover that speaks to me, then move further into the shop where the next shelf features small, pocket-size notebooks. My brain flashes me an image of the battered notebook Marina used, spiral bound at the top like the kind a TV detective would use when interrogating a suspect. I find a beautiful one bound in black leather, and before I can second-guess myself, put it on top of the green journal in my hand.
Ten minutes later, I am on the street again, my bag filled with three journals and a small notebook. I have no idea when or if I’ll actually give the notebook to Marina, but I don’t regret buying it. I hit a couple more shops before heading back to my hotel.
Marco is at the front desk, as usual, and I wonder if he’s ever not sitting there. His friendly smile is the complete opposite of the expression he wore this morning, and I remember the heated discussion he had with his sister.
“Buongiorno, Ms. Chambers,” he says, and looking at him now, I’m shocked I didn’t notice the physical similarities between him and his sister sooner. Same nearly black hair. Same cheekbone placement. Same slightly almond-shaped eyes.Where Marina’s are dark like roast espresso, Marco’s are lighter, more like cedar or mahogany.
“Buongiorno, Marco,” I say back as I push the elevator button.
It’s amusing to me how worried I can get about leaving Reggie on his own for too long versus how often I come home, shouldering that worry, only to find him dead asleep on the couch/bed/floor in a sunbeam, all my worrying for nothing. Today, he’s curled up on the couch in the living room, a furry little ball up against one of the pillows. Sleeping hard, judging by the amount of blinking and yawning he does after I walk in.
“Dude, you could start pulling your weight around here, you know,” I say affectionately as I sit next to him and scoop him up. “I mean, throw in some laundry once in a while. Get some groceries. Bake cookies. You know?”
He looks at me with those marble eyes, then swipes his tongue across my nose, which makes me laugh.
“I missed you, too, sweetie.”
We spend the next few minutes snuggling. I know he needs a walk, so I leash him up and take him out in the heat, which hasn’t gotten any less oppressive. Luckily, Reggie is a couch potato and outside is simply a necessity. Within fifteen minutes, we’re back in the hotel suite and I’m staring at the laptop sitting closed on the desk.
I’ve never looked at it as a nemesis before. It’s always been an extension of me, my partner in this very solo job I have. I’ve never looked at it as something ominous. It’s hard to do that now, and I try my best to breathe, to think, to let the creativity in.
I owe Scott an update at some point today. It’s still morning at home, so I’ve got some time. But instead of pulling out the chair and sitting, I move to the window, push the sheer curtains aside, and stare at the buildings beyond and the street below.
It really is gorgeous, even here in my own personalcobblestone alleyway-street-thing. I’m learning who everybody is: which man owns the coffee shop and what the woman looks like who always opens the bag store at eight o’clock sharp. I can see all the activity from my large windows, and I’ve learned that I find it relaxing to people watch from there. I make myself a cup of tea, pull a chair up to the windowsill, and just observe. I breathe in the scents of Rome—the basil and the bread and the tomato sauce—and wonder if I will ever find myself again.
I sigh, pull my dog into my lap, and sip my tea.
Chapter Six
Two days later, I’m at my desk staring at my laptop. I’ve written about half a scene and can’t decide if I like it. I’ve got two female characters that I do kinda like. The main characters are pastry chefs who have a negative history and haven’t seen each other in a long time, and I need to get them to fall in love. Which should be easy, given how many times I’ve done this, but it’s been a struggle.
My phone rings, and I glance down to see that it’s Scott. I can’t put him off any longer. I take a deep breath and answer.
“Hey, Scott.” I inject my voice with some cheer.
“Hey, how’s Rome?” He also seems to be adding an extra note of cheer, and I appreciate the effort.
“Hot,” I say, then laugh softly. I stand up and start pacing. “It’s ridiculously hot. But it’s good. Things are moving in the right direction.” It’s not exactly a lie. I don’t saythings are moving in the right direction super slowly, as I’m writing about seven words a day, but that’s still the right direction.
“Oh, that’s great. That’s good.” He clears his throat, and it’s perfectly clear to me that he’s being pressured by those above him. Guilt settles in my stomach like a peach pit, sharp and ridged and unpleasant. “Will I be able to see something soon?”
Scott doesn’t normally ask to see pages up front. He trusts me. Or he used to. Now he wants to cover his ass, and I can’t blame the guy. I’ve become untrustworthy, and that realization sits on me like an elephant parking on my chest.
“Yeah,” I say, trying hard to keep that cheer in my voice, butit’s difficult. “Sure. Give me a few more days, okay?”
There’s a beat of silence. It’s awkward. It’s uncomfortable. Scott and I have never had trouble communicating before. Not once. “Lily…are you okay?” His voice has gone soft now, laced with concern, and it puts a lump in my throat. He’s a good guy who cares about me, and I’m putting him in a terrible position by not holding up my end of the business arrangement. “You don’t seem like yourself recently, and if I’m being honest, it has me worried.”
The lump has grown. I struggle to swallow it down in order to speak, but Scott goes on before I can.
“Do you need anything? Is there something I can do to help?” The care in his voice brings tears to my eyes, and I’m incredibly grateful he can’t see me right now. “I’m worried,” he says again.
I clear my throat, wandering through the suite to the bedroom where Reggie is curled up on the bed. “I’m okay. Really. Just—” I clear it again and finally feel like I have my voice back. “I’m just working through a few things is all. But I’m okay.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
