of good in this situation. I’m in a beautiful country. I’ve shed my attachments. I’m free to do as I want, as long as my newfound confidence doesn’t get the best of me.
I put my palms to the gravelly road and prop myself up. I stand, dust myself off, and raise my arms to stretch. The bad feelings threaten to pull me back as a haze falls over me. That’s what this sadness is, a haze that makes me move slowly, interrupts my train of thought, and makes me all-around uncomfortable.
But I press on, because old Marty wouldn’t.
Siena’s not hard to figure out. The center is the piazza, and out from there in a semicircle will get you to where you need to go. I need to go to a bus station, and I can find it if I go outside the city.
But that’s not what happens. In minutes, I’m lost. Siena’s small, but made of hills—I scale a hill and look out between buildings, but see nothing except another street. Siena is taller than a corn maze, more complex than those extreme sudoku puzzles. I walk by a large brick wall three different times, wishing and begging for the bus station to appear, but nothing does. All at once, I realize I’m not panicking. I know I could just ask someone, but I’m determined. My breaths aren’t shallow; my palms are only wet from the residual tears.
I’m almost too crushed to worry about being lost. The realization makes me sad.
Suddenly, I turn a corner and the brick maze releases its hold on me. I’m free.
To reward myself, I stop by a small market for a Fanta and some crispy M&Ms. I try to keep my thoughts light. I even half smile when I finally make it to the station, and think about getting home early in the day. Old Marty would go straight to bed. New Marty is going to do whatever he can to stop sulking. He won’t be that person.
I won’t be that person.
Not now.
I get back into Florence about seven hours early for my flight, but I go straight to the airport. Florence is beautiful, but I’m on a mission right now, and I’m going home.
Home! It’s still weird to think about. But it is my home, damn it. And it’s time I stopped acting like an intruder and started acting like someone who belongs. I can do this.
At the ticket counter, I try in vain to exchange my ticket, and I’m stuck buying a new one. It drains a lot of my funds.
I connect to the airport’s Wi-Fi and shoot out a message to Dani.
Sorry to bolt like that. I’m in Florence now, flying out soon. But you’ve probably figured that out by now. Wanted to catch you before you got on the bus in an hour or so, thinking you left me behind. Thanks for talking to me.
P.S. I’m in. Let’s try for that busking license.
I hope that’s enough as I hit send. They still have time to get the message, so they don’t freak out too much. Pierce will have an empty seat next to him on the flight where he can store all his bad attitude, all his assiness. I feel okay.
For a while.
I board the plane, and once we take off, I stare out the window as all of Italy grows smaller beneath me. I’m starting to get used to this—this flying thing.
Before we even hit cruising altitude, I start to cry.
There was a part of me that knew Pierce could’ve been my first love, and thought he actually was. Will he be the one that got away, like you see in movies and books? The guy who sticks with me, always in the back of my mind, for the rest of my life? I might have loved him, the times he was sweet to me. The way he picked me up at the airport and welcomed me to London immediately.
Fuck, some part of me loved him when he took me to Big Ben.
I pull my knees to my chest and lean against the window, and I let it out. As quietly as I can, but I don’t care about the people around me. I don’t care about anyone else. Old Marty would’ve cared. Would have been strong to save face and not embarrass himself. New Marty cries in public. New Marty makes an ass of himself and doesn’t care, because they don’t know about the hole that was just punched