I eat another spoonful and consider Liam’s advice. “Name one angsty song that you loved.”
He smiles and says, “‘Disarm.’”
“Smashing Pumpkins?” I ask disbelievingly. He nods and I shake my head. “And you think you know a guy.”
“So, what situation are you in when you’re best able to write?”
My stomach drops as Ryan fills my brain, rolling through like a fog. He slips under doors and over walls and if I let him pour in like this, there will be no getting him out again. I focus on Liam’s eyes to distract myself. They’re ice-blue but still warm, like tropical beach water that you only see in pictures.
“My process is similar to yours,” I eventually say. “I’m alone and I listen to music but more light stuff. I have a playlist of all the scores from romantic movies.”
“Sounds sprightly.”
“Quite sprightly. Okay, next question. What made you come to Italy?”
“I’m here on holiday.”
“Yes, but you could have gone on holiday anywhere in the world. Why Italy?” I can tell Liam is uncomfortable but I let the question stand.
He stirs his vanilla gelato around a bit, looking off into the passing crowd before he says, “Sentimental reasons.” I’m about to dive in with a follow-up question but he beats me to the punch. “My turn. Why are you here alone?”
Because the person I was in love with is already engaged. Because I was so picky in my twenties that I tossed away good guys who deserved more of a chance than I gave them. Because I’d rather stay home with my books than go out into the world and feel like I don’t measure up.
“I just am. I haven’t stopped working since I graduated from college and it’s hard to find Mr. Right when you’re almost always encamped in your apartment, trying to meet a deadline.”
Liam seems to accept my answer, though I’m sure he knows there’s more there.
“How about you?” I ask. “Why are you here alone?”
Liam pauses, his gaze dropping to his gelato before he looks back up at me. “I’m here alone because I didn’t think my wife would care to join me after our divorce.”
My eyebrows pop up. “You were married?”
“For two years. Pathetic, really.” He’s trying to laugh it off, but I can tell just how affected he is.
“It’s not pathetic.”
I can’t help but suddenly see Liam through a different, softer lens. Guarded as he is, there was a time when he trusted a woman enough to fall in love with her—to propose to her—to marry her.
“We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to,” I say after a bit. “This is all really personal stuff.”
“No, oddly enough, I don’t mind. This is one of the first times I’m willingly talking about my divorce and it feels...interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“I guess verbalizing your feelings is beneficial, after all. It appears I owe my mum an apology.”
I laugh quietly, thankful that the mood has been somewhat lightened.
“And before we finish up with today’s conversation, I have one last thing to ask you.”
“Go for it,” I say.
We stop walking just outside our courtyard.
“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” he asks.
I’m taken off guard by his question and end up squeezing my Styrofoam cup a little tighter. Even though I’ve spent almost every morning with Liam for the past few weeks, we’ve never ventured into dinner territory and I’m surprisingly nervous of disrupting our normal routine. But still, I don’t see any reason to say no.
“Sure,” I answer. “What time?”
His face remains indecipherable but relaxed. “How about eight o’clock?”
“Eight it is.”
With our plans secure, we enter the courtyard with easy smiles, but the air between us feels different. It’s not as carefree and there’s the slightest hint of tension and I’m not sure if I like it. I shake it off as best I can as I go into my building and Liam crosses the courtyard to go into his.
I take a nice long shower once I’m inside and check my email as I sit at the dining room table. I’m happily swimming in an oversize T-shirt with a towel wrapped around my dripping hair. I get to Maggie’s email last and find it unusually short, just one line asking me to call her. I look at my phone but don’t pick it up. I’m not ready to connect back with reality. Not yet.
Opting to email her tomorrow, I instead decide that I’m going to finish my novel right now—or at least write something. Anything. I end up sitting at the table for a solid hour and imagine smashing my laptop into the floor every five minutes. I’m a day away from my deadline. A day away from jeopardizing so much of what defines me. My career. My reputation. I have to prove to the publisher and myself that my best work isn’t behind me, but with every passing second, that outcome seems less and less likely.
I need to write. I need to finish. I type out a sentence and delete it. I force out a paragraph and delete it. I rub my hands over my face and leave them there, leaning my elbows against the desk. My mind is clouded with thoughts of fighting my way to safety but all I’m doing is digging my own grave. Soon I’ll be down so deep that the sun will disappear, replaced instead with layers of dirt and cold, wet air.
I shake my head and try again, typing and typing until I’ve filled an entire page. My fingers fall away from the keyboard until I bring them
