I snatch the letter ungracefully out of his hand. “Grazie.”
“Prego.”
I step away and tear the envelope open, pulling out the folded sheet of paper and I once again see Ryan’s handwriting.
Kara,
To answer the questions you’re probably asking: Yes, I flew over twelve hours to deliver this letter and the journal. Yes, I am now flying over fourteen hours to get back home. No, I did not take anything on the plane to make it easier for me. Yes, I got sick. A lot. And yes, I would fly this trip a million times over if it meant we might be together again. I love you.
—Ryan
My hand with the note falls to my side and I don’t know where to turn or look or think. I just stand there, staring blankly ahead as my mind spins and spins like some sketchy carnival ride. I stand there for all of ten seconds until I’m once again charging at Paolo’s hut.
“When did he leave? Paolo, when did he leave?” My tone is demanding and almost volatile, and Paolo’s self-satisfied demeanor shifts on the spot.
“Non no so,” he quickly answers. He fumbles around with his cell phone on his desk until he gets a handle on it and checks the time. “Five minutes? Maybe ten?”
I don’t wait around to question him further. I turn on my heels and run out of the courtyard, heading in the direction of the busy intersection two blocks away. I run and run and I don’t loosen my death grip on the journal the whole way. Reaching the intersection, my lungs are on fire and my heart is pounding. I scan the area around me, looking up and down the street until I turn to the taxi stop across the road, on the other side of the intersection. And then my heart feels like it stops altogether.
Ryan.
I see him. He’s here. A quiet, elated laugh jumps from my throat and I bring my free hand up to cover my mouth. He’s totally different and exactly the same. Jeans and a T-shirt and his Hurricanes baseball cap, but I’m no longer gazing at him through rose-colored glasses. Maybe that’s the difference. Of course, I see the cowboy I perpetually want to jump, the guy who understands me—who understood me from the beginning and always wanted more—but I also see the man who offered me the world and then brought it crashing down all around me.
I take a step back, letting myself fade into the bustling crowd while keeping Ryan in my line of sight. He looks pale. Not even the Italian sun could cure his motion sickness completely. He’s next in line at the taxi stop and he readjusts the strap of his travel bag over his shoulder as another cab pulls up to the curb.
He’s going to leave.
Panic races through me and my feet pull me forward. All I have to do is call out his name. The intersection traffic is loud, but I could be louder. Call out his name and he stays—do nothing and he goes. I try to speak but my throat seems to close. I don’t know what’s right anymore.
He opens the back seat door and it’s like I’m watching a movie right before the cliffhanger resolution. I should be a lead character but I feel like a passive viewer. Ryan looks up over the car to the corner that’s parallel to where I’m standing. Is he looking for me? Hoping I’ll come tearing out through the crowd to ask him to stay?
I remain motionless, drowning in my own indecision. Maybe he’ll see me and I won’t have to choose anything. His eyes will land on mine and all our issues will melt away—won’t be anything more than a bad dream.
I wait and I look and I move forward a small step more, thinking that if it’s meant to be, he’ll see me. If it’s meant to be, he’ll find me.
But he doesn’t.
With a final pull at his travel bag, he ducks into the car and closes the door. The taxi pulls away and I still don’t move. My stomach drops as I wonder if I just made a life-altering mistake. Maybe. Or maybe I just saved myself from another brutal heartbreak in the making. Still not knowing which side the coin will fall on, I disappear deeper and deeper into the crowds, silently hoping that I’ll disappear completely.
22
After I don’t appear in the courtyard for our usual breakfast the next morning, I’m not surprised when I hear knocking at my apartment door bright and early. Still in my pajamas, I cross the faux white marble floor of the entryway and pull the door open, finding Liam outside. He’s holding our pizzas and looking concerned.
“I don’t know what happened, but I do know that only something horrific would keep you from breakfast.”
“Come in,” I say, pushing the door back and stepping aside.
“I have to warn you, the pizzas are now cold and slightly soggy. I don’t think that will stand in your way, but I feel morally obligated to tell you.”
“I’m not deterred in the least.”
“I expected as much.”
Ten minutes later, Liam and I are settled in the living room. The space is minimally decorated with just a couch, a coffee table and a chair in front of the TV that I never watch. It’s on par with what you would expect from a pre-furnished apartment. Occupying the not-quite-as-comfortable Italian version of my reading chair, I’ve just finished explaining why I’m moping around inside instead of sitting out in the sunshine. Liam sits at one end of the brown upholstered couch and is holding the journal, minus the letter, which I just told him about.
“Well,” he says, leaning forward to place the journal on the rounded coffee table in front of him, “and who says people don’t make grand gestures anymore?”
“I wish Ryan didn’t make this one,” I mutter, pulling my knees close
