“Tesoro, you’re coming back, right? You promised,” Strega calls from behind the counter, her arms open wide for a hug. I wrap my arms around her considerable size, wishing for the umpteenth time that she was my mother. Life with her as a parent would be a hoot, and I would’ve felt actual affection growing up. I sink into the hug for a second longer, memorizing everything about it.
“I’ll be back,” I reply as I pat her on her back. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but I’ll be back. I promise.”
My eyes drift over to the chair I always think of as ‘Kyle’s.’
It’s empty, same as it’s been for two weeks since he made the big step forward. I’d expected the reverse, but his backslide has been worse than I thought it’d be. I haven’t seen him, not at Strega’s, the market, my shows . . . anywhere.
I even went by his apartment, banged on the door until the neighbors came out and said they hadn’t seen him either.
“I’m worried about him. Will you keep an eye out for him? And if he comes in, stuff him full of biscotti and cornetti and FaceTime me right then so I can give him a piece of my mind. I don’t care how late or what time it is in NYC, okay?”
Strega’s smile is sad. “Just because you cannot save them all does not mean you stop trying. Stronzino, he is a hard case, I think. Maybe choose easier next time you want to play guardian angel.”
It’s wise advice, motherly, I think with another pang.
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” I reply wistfully. It’s a common phrase in Italy, used for everything from wanting the bad boy to drinking too much wine with dinner. It’s uselessly and endlessly used to excuse a myriad of things.
“Ah, but the brain must sometimes get involved and tell the heart to sit down and shut up.” She zips an imaginary zipper across her lips and tosses the key over her shoulder. “You think about that next time, Tesoro. But yes, I will watch for him.”
Walking out of the café feels final somehow, though I do have every intention of returning. But I have floated far too long and far too wide to make guesses about where I’ll go after being with Emma. I’m perfectly willing to go wherever the wind blows.
I just wish it wasn’t back to NYC.
The fourteen total hours to get back to New York go smoothly, mostly in a doze in my seat, and I do end up eating all three biscotti. The heart wants what it wants.
I’m glad I don’t have to mess with baggage claim. It makes TSA easy, but it does seem a bit sad that my entire life can be contained in one carry-on suitcase and a big backpack.
But long months of trekking through Europe carrying everything by myself has made me selective and an excellent packer. I could give Marie Kondo lessons in decluttering.
I finally make it out to the public space and scan, looking for Emma. Her blonde hair peeks out from behind a reuniting family and I squeal. “Emma!”
In an instant, my suitcase wheels are flying over the tile, clicking madly as I airport-run as fast as I can toward her, and she waves, seeing me.
“Carly!” she squeals back, running for me too.
We meet in the middle, hugging and jumping up and down in a circle. We probably look like loons to anyone watching, but I can’t give them a second’s thought with my bestie right here with me. Finally.
“Oh, my gosh! You cut your hair!” she says, playing with my current shag. I laugh, not wanting to tell her that this time, it’s simply six months of growing out after a self-chop in Sarajevo.
“Yeah, about fifteen times,” I laugh, shaking my head. “You too! You look great!”
I yank her back in for another hug, stockpiling them today like I’ll never get another.
A throat clears from behind her, and at first, I think we’re in the way. But when Emma looks over her shoulder, I can see the affection in her eyes as plain as day. I grin big and wide, scanning him from head to toe.
He’s nowhere near as sexy as Kyle, in my opinion, but Emma certainly knows how to pick some USDA choice beef. I offer my hand. “You must be the ‘It’s Complicated’ man.”
He raises a brow and glances at Emma, who rushes to do introductions. “Carly