Ache For You

27

“I’m saving the best part for last.”

“There’s more?” Jenner shouts.

“I didn’t tell you that I was bumped off my flight to Florence . . . but got on the flight because he gave me his plane ticket. His first-class ticket.”

“Rubbish!”

“It’s true!”

“Why would he give you his ticket?”

“Because he overheard me arguing with the gate agent. I told her I had to be on the flight because my father was dying. He stepped in to save the day.”

“That’s just about the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” Jenner sounds as if he’s about to faint.

My voice is dry. “Don’t pass out yet, because in trade for this ticket, he made me give him . . .”

Jenner sucks in a hard breath. “What? What did he make you give him?”

I know he’s picturing all kinds of hot, sweaty stranger s*x in a hallway closet, so I wait a beat, just to torture him. Then I say flatly, “He made me give him my sketch pad.”

Jenner’s silence throbs with confusion. “I’ve lost the plot.”

“You know, my sketch pad. The one I always use to design my dresses—”

“Yes, yes, of course I know. You’re always carrying the wretched thing around like a security blanket. Why would he want that dreadful tattered book?”

“Are you still sitting down?”

“Not only am I sitting down, I’m ruining my manicure gnawing on my cuticles! Spill, b***h, spill!”

“He’s a fashion designer.”

There’s a strangled sound on the other end of the line, like maybe Jenner’s choking on his tongue.

“And not just any fashion designer. You’ll recognize his name. You own a few of his suits.”

“Oh.” He pants like an overexcited puppy. “I’m having a stroke. I’m having a heart attack. I’ve burst a vessel in my brain. Who is it, Poppins? Who?”

I’m starting to enjoy this and grimly smile. “Matteo Moretti.”

A brief silence, then from Jenner’s throat bursts a long, wavering shriek that could rouse the dead from their graves. “Shut. Up!”

“I’m telling you.”

“You. Liar!”

“Swear to God.”

“No!”

“Yes, honey. One thousand percent yes.” I hear a loud thud and worry I’ve killed my best friend. “Jenner! Are you there?”

“Do you have any idea,” he begins faintly, “any idea how many times I’ve m*********d to the thought of Matteo Moretti?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Dude. TMI.”

“My God, Poppins, he’s the most beautiful man who ever lived. Did you see the spread of him in Italian GQ when he first launched his company?”

“No. I’d never seen a picture of him before. I had no idea what he looked like, which is why I didn’t recognize him at the airport!”

Jenner’s sigh is heavy and full of longing. “Matteo. Oh, my dear sweet Matteo. J’taime. J’adore. Tu es tout pour moi—”

“Please tell me you’re not touching yourself right now.”

He grumbles, “Puritan.”

“Can we get this train back on track? My point of this story is that I’m moving to Florence!”

I hear another sigh, but this one is different. Jenner has an entire vocabulary of sighs, each one nuanced, each one articulate. This one is what I imagine a mother disappointed in her daughter’s choice of husband would sound like. It’s all Where did I go wrong? and How could she be so stupid? and I ruined my vaginal canal for this?

“Darling,” he says gently, “it’s best not to make such huge life decisions when you’re grieving. Moving to another country on a whim isn’t like you. You’re dependable. Reliable. Grounded. What you need right now is therapy, not Italy.”

“Give me one reason why I should come back to the States.”

“Me.”

He says it like What other reason would anyone need? It makes me smile. “I happen to know for a fact that you come to Italy twice a year for Fashion Week. It’s not like we’d never see each other again. You’ll be here next month.”

He makes a noise of impatience. “Need I remind you that you already have a business to run here?”

“Oh yeah. I didn’t tell you about what happened yet.”

My hollow laugh causes Jenner to say, “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh is right. There was this fire, see . . .”

When I don’t continue the sentence because my throat has closed, Jenner says, “No. The universe can’t possibly hate you that much.”

I sit on the concrete bench across from the fountain and drop my head into my hand. “Apparently the universe has put me at the top of its most-hated list. I got a call from my landlord yesterday. The shop went up in flames, along with everything in it. My entire life there is gone. Even if I did come back, what would I return to? All that’s left is an apartment that isn’t mine and a reputation as Bradley Wingate’s sloppy seconds. Who’d want me? I’ll always be the girl who was dumped at the altar. I’ll never be able to live that down.”

We’re quiet for several minutes as Jenner absorbs that. “I suppose this is as good a time as any to tell you I saw him.”

I jerk my head up. My heart explodes like a grenade inside my chest. “When? How?”

“He came to my apartment. I made the mistake of opening the door without asking who it was.”

I stand and start to pace to try to work off the tension that’s gripped me. “What did he want?”

“To talk to you.”

When Jenner hesitates, I demand, “What are you leaving out?”