back to her. “Welcome home, Miss Combs,” he said, and called forth the next in line.
Home. She was home. Whatever that meant.
NINE
SEVERAL WEEKS LATER
Juliette kept a running count of resumes sent out in a spreadsheet on her computer. She’d heard stories that the numbers could get ridiculous, and she wanted to know how many she’d sent before she finally got hired. That way she could participate when people were telling horror stories about the economy at parties. She could relate to all the people she was feeling she had less and less in common with, since her time in Italy.
But the longer the spreadsheet got, the more depressing it got to put each entry down. And, with every doomed application she made to every uninteresting job, she imagined what would happen if she actually got the job she was applying for.
Even for the “good” jobs—the ones she thought would be the best match for her personality and education—that picture of her life going forward seemed depressing. The few interviews she got only made them more so. The buildings were invariably made in the ‘70s, and the people in them looked like they’d been in them since they were built. There was no sense of history—unless outdated technology and a few outdated ideas on gender roles in the workplace counted as history.
She missed Italy.
It was hard to talk about, with her mother and father both so unabashedly happy that she was around, and showering her with affection. It wasn’t just the buildings, the sense of history, and the constant music of the language surrounding her all the time. It was the little things, too. It was the market where she used to go to buy her food. It was the smell of the sea. It was the man that lived three doors down who used to whistle every time she went by, but never talked to her other than that.
And it was, unfortunately, Giancarlo.
Juliette had thought, when she’d left, that he’d ruined Italy for her. For the first week or so after she got back, that even seemed to be the case. She couldn’t think of Naples without him and the memory of the night they’d spent together coming up and making her sad and angry and embarrassed all at the same time.
But with the passage of a couple of weeks, those feelings started to change. The first hint of it came one morning when she was in the kitchen, making coffee before a long job-hunt session she had lined up. Her mother had come in, and asked why she was smiling, and she’d had to stop herself from telling her that she was thinking about Giancarlo.
At first she was perplexed. Why would she be smiling about him? But as time went on, she began to catch herself doing it more and more.
She’d forgiven him, without meaning to. A big part of it was recognizing that she’d lied, too, and she’d had even less of a reason to do so than he did. He should have told her that he was a prince, and that his family actually owned the palace they’d slept in, but that was all. It wasn’t so different, in the end. What he’d done and what she’d done.
She understood now, why she’d been so mad at the time. She’d been sad, on waking, that it was impossible to see him again. She’d been angry at how unfair it was all was; that she should get a taste of a sweet life with a gorgeous man, and only have one night to experience it.
And with that realization came shame. Shame that her emotions had gotten so twisted around, and that she’d been so cruel to him. And shame, most of all, that she hadn’t gone to him at the fountain.
The first night she dreamed of him, she could swear she smelled the sea when she woke up, the way she had that morning she’d woken in his arms. But in her dream, they weren’t at the palace. They were in her little apartment, close to the center of town, and they were just a normal couple, living a normal life.
It had been so sweet, even if it had been impossible, and it had
Home. She was home. Whatever that meant.
NINE
SEVERAL WEEKS LATER
Juliette kept a running count of resumes sent out in a spreadsheet on her computer. She’d heard stories that the numbers could get ridiculous, and she wanted to know how many she’d sent before she finally got hired. That way she could participate when people were telling horror stories about the economy at parties. She could relate to all the people she was feeling she had less and less in common with, since her time in Italy.
But the longer the spreadsheet got, the more depressing it got to put each entry down. And, with every doomed application she made to every uninteresting job, she imagined what would happen if she actually got the job she was applying for.
Even for the “good” jobs—the ones she thought would be the best match for her personality and education—that picture of her life going forward seemed depressing. The few interviews she got only made them more so. The buildings were invariably made in the ‘70s, and the people in them looked like they’d been in them since they were built. There was no sense of history—unless outdated technology and a few outdated ideas on gender roles in the workplace counted as history.
She missed Italy.
It was hard to talk about, with her mother and father both so unabashedly happy that she was around, and showering her with affection. It wasn’t just the buildings, the sense of history, and the constant music of the language surrounding her all the time. It was the little things, too. It was the market where she used to go to buy her food. It was the smell of the sea. It was the man that lived three doors down who used to whistle every time she went by, but never talked to her other than that.
And it was, unfortunately, Giancarlo.
Juliette had thought, when she’d left, that he’d ruined Italy for her. For the first week or so after she got back, that even seemed to be the case. She couldn’t think of Naples without him and the memory of the night they’d spent together coming up and making her sad and angry and embarrassed all at the same time.
But with the passage of a couple of weeks, those feelings started to change. The first hint of it came one morning when she was in the kitchen, making coffee before a long job-hunt session she had lined up. Her mother had come in, and asked why she was smiling, and she’d had to stop herself from telling her that she was thinking about Giancarlo.
At first she was perplexed. Why would she be smiling about him? But as time went on, she began to catch herself doing it more and more.
She’d forgiven him, without meaning to. A big part of it was recognizing that she’d lied, too, and she’d had even less of a reason to do so than he did. He should have told her that he was a prince, and that his family actually owned the palace they’d slept in, but that was all. It wasn’t so different, in the end. What he’d done and what she’d done.
She understood now, why she’d been so mad at the time. She’d been sad, on waking, that it was impossible to see him again. She’d been angry at how unfair it was all was; that she should get a taste of a sweet life with a gorgeous man, and only have one night to experience it.
And with that realization came shame. Shame that her emotions had gotten so twisted around, and that she’d been so cruel to him. And shame, most of all, that she hadn’t gone to him at the fountain.
The first night she dreamed of him, she could swear she smelled the sea when she woke up, the way she had that morning she’d woken in his arms. But in her dream, they weren’t at the palace. They were in her little apartment, close to the center of town, and they were just a normal couple, living a normal life.
It had been so sweet, even if it had been impossible, and it had
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