between us. I’d nearly forgotten how good
we looked together. He had driven me crazy all the time with his haphazard, devil-may-care approach to life, his constant
disorganization. I liked to think that we had balanced each other out perfectly, me with my obsession with order, him with
his total lack of a schedule. I think he made me loosen up a little, if only for the summer. And I think I helped make him
a little more responsible.
But I had no idea where he was now, or what he was doing. He had never specifically asked me to stay—but I wouldn’t have,
anyhow; I had to come home to help take care of Becky and finish college. He had told me he couldn’t do long distance, and
I had left anyway. I could have stayed. I knew I could have stayed and built a life in Rome. But Becky and Dad needed me,
and so I’d turned my back and gone.
So, in the end, I suppose it was my fault. I didn’t even blame him when he stopped calling or responding to my e-mails two
weeks after I’d left Rome. I knew I had hurt him. But I’d thought then that the world was wide open for me, that I’d fall
in love again with someone new, that Francesco would one day be a fond memory.
Instead, I was nearly thirty-five, and despite the fact that I’d been in and out of several relationships in my adulthood,
Francesco remained the only man I’d ever really loved.
How had I walked away from that so easily?
I put the keepsakes, diary, and photos away, back in their box, and closed the lid decisively, as if banishing the memories
to the past, where they belonged. But even after I climbed back into bed, turned out the light, and tried to fall asleep,
Francesco was still there, lurking at the edges of my mind.
That Sunday morning, after avoiding nine calls from Michael and deleting the six messages he’d left without listening to them,
I arrived at my dad’s narrow row house in Brooklyn, juggling a big brown bag of pumpernickel bagels (our favorite), a container
of cream cheese, and two cups of coffee, one of which I had managed to spill on my white T-shirt en route.
“Hello, beautiful,” my dad greeted me as he usually did, taking the bagels and cream cheese from my hands as he bent down
to kiss my cheek.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, stepping inside and pulling the door closed behind me while balancing both coffee cups in the crook of
my arm.
We settled in the kitchen nook with our usual Sunday spread of bagels, cream cheese, and the lox Dad always bought from the
deli two blocks away. He poured us two glasses of orange juice from the jug in his fridge and sat down across from me, a serious
expression on his face.
“Becky told me about your date with that young man from the restaurant,” he said without any preface.
I could feel myself turning red. “It’s no big deal.”
“Cat, it is a big deal,” he said firmly. He paused and didn’t speak again until I looked at him. “You’ve had a lot of bad
luck, kiddo. But it’s not your fault.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Yeah, well,” I said, “at some point, I think we have to start tracing it back to
me. After all, I’m the one making all these bad decisions, aren’t I?”
“I don’t think the restaurant guy was a bad decision,” my father said. “How were you to know?”
“Don’t you think I should have sensed that something was off?” I picked up a knife and began to violently slather a bagel
with cream cheese. “But all I thought was,
Wow, this guy is so nice
. I actually thought I’d finally met a good one, you know?”
My father looked at me sadly. “You will.”
I set the knife down and stared at my bagel. “I don’t know why we’re even talking about this,” I said. “It’s fine. Let’s talk
about something more exciting. Like the wedding. Or Becky’s honeymoon. Or your new golf clubs.”
My dad arched an eyebrow at me. “You always do that,” he said. “But not this time. We’re going to
we looked together. He had driven me crazy all the time with his haphazard, devil-may-care approach to life, his constant
disorganization. I liked to think that we had balanced each other out perfectly, me with my obsession with order, him with
his total lack of a schedule. I think he made me loosen up a little, if only for the summer. And I think I helped make him
a little more responsible.
But I had no idea where he was now, or what he was doing. He had never specifically asked me to stay—but I wouldn’t have,
anyhow; I had to come home to help take care of Becky and finish college. He had told me he couldn’t do long distance, and
I had left anyway. I could have stayed. I knew I could have stayed and built a life in Rome. But Becky and Dad needed me,
and so I’d turned my back and gone.
So, in the end, I suppose it was my fault. I didn’t even blame him when he stopped calling or responding to my e-mails two
weeks after I’d left Rome. I knew I had hurt him. But I’d thought then that the world was wide open for me, that I’d fall
in love again with someone new, that Francesco would one day be a fond memory.
Instead, I was nearly thirty-five, and despite the fact that I’d been in and out of several relationships in my adulthood,
Francesco remained the only man I’d ever really loved.
How had I walked away from that so easily?
I put the keepsakes, diary, and photos away, back in their box, and closed the lid decisively, as if banishing the memories
to the past, where they belonged. But even after I climbed back into bed, turned out the light, and tried to fall asleep,
Francesco was still there, lurking at the edges of my mind.
That Sunday morning, after avoiding nine calls from Michael and deleting the six messages he’d left without listening to them,
I arrived at my dad’s narrow row house in Brooklyn, juggling a big brown bag of pumpernickel bagels (our favorite), a container
of cream cheese, and two cups of coffee, one of which I had managed to spill on my white T-shirt en route.
“Hello, beautiful,” my dad greeted me as he usually did, taking the bagels and cream cheese from my hands as he bent down
to kiss my cheek.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, stepping inside and pulling the door closed behind me while balancing both coffee cups in the crook of
my arm.
We settled in the kitchen nook with our usual Sunday spread of bagels, cream cheese, and the lox Dad always bought from the
deli two blocks away. He poured us two glasses of orange juice from the jug in his fridge and sat down across from me, a serious
expression on his face.
“Becky told me about your date with that young man from the restaurant,” he said without any preface.
I could feel myself turning red. “It’s no big deal.”
“Cat, it is a big deal,” he said firmly. He paused and didn’t speak again until I looked at him. “You’ve had a lot of bad
luck, kiddo. But it’s not your fault.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Yeah, well,” I said, “at some point, I think we have to start tracing it back to
me. After all, I’m the one making all these bad decisions, aren’t I?”
“I don’t think the restaurant guy was a bad decision,” my father said. “How were you to know?”
“Don’t you think I should have sensed that something was off?” I picked up a knife and began to violently slather a bagel
with cream cheese. “But all I thought was,
Wow, this guy is so nice
. I actually thought I’d finally met a good one, you know?”
My father looked at me sadly. “You will.”
I set the knife down and stared at my bagel. “I don’t know why we’re even talking about this,” I said. “It’s fine. Let’s talk
about something more exciting. Like the wedding. Or Becky’s honeymoon. Or your new golf clubs.”
My dad arched an eyebrow at me. “You always do that,” he said. “But not this time. We’re going to
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