It takes me a while to find a safe parking space—one where my Fiat isn’t in jeopardy of getting dented or bumped. Parking in Italy can be nerve-racking. I scurry up the jagged cobblestone sidewalk, make it to the front door of La Terrazza di Rossa, and catch my breath.

Two men whistle and say, “Mama mia,” as they walk past me and enter the restaurant. It happens so often that I’ve learned to ignore it. It happened more when I was blond. In the last six or seven months, I’ve let my hair stay its natural brown.

Now that I’ve found some composure, I walk into the restaurant. The scents of garlic and cooking wine stimulate the air. The space is probably about a thousand square feet with not a lot of ambiance—just good food. I search the tables for Salvatore.

The maître d asks, in Italian, if he can help me. I ask if he has a reservation for Salvatore Bovetti. When he tells me that he does but my dinner companion has not arrived, he shows me to a nice table along the window with a city view.

“Would you like a drink, madame?”

As usual for Italians, he stopped speaking to me in Italian as soon as he figured out I’m American. I long for the day when my Italian is so precise that they assume I’m from here.

“Vorrei un vino di rosso,” I say, telling him I would like a red wine.

Now that we’re back to using his native language, he asks me which kind, and I tell him.

The waiter soon arrives with my wine. I sip it and feel kind of exposed as I wait. You mean to tell me that my father would still be alive if I had never married John? That sick feeling returns to my stomach. I’m not even hungry anymore, and I’m also starting to wonder why I’m still sitting here, waiting for a man who hasn’t thought enough of me to call to say he’s running this late.

“Un altro bicchiere di vino?” the waiter says, offering another glass of wine.

“Si, grazie,” I say.

I’m halfway through the second glass when Salvatore walks through the door. I glare at the man who somehow ended up my boyfriend as he leans in close to the hostess, who was not at the door when I walked in. She has long blond hair and is wearing a dress cut so low that she’s only a quarter of an inch away from displaying her areolas. I don’t know what he’s saying to her, but he hasn’t even acknowledged me sitting here.

Salvatore likes blondes. When he saw that I changed my hair back to its natural color, someone would’ve thought I kicked him in the forehead or something. Heck, I almost went back to Natalia, my stylist, and asked her to make me blond again. But for some reason, I was averse to turning back.

Finally, Salvatore and the hostess look in my direction. My instincts direct me to smile weakly, but I can’t muster up the expression. He touches the young lady’s bare back. She’s grinning sheepishly, and her eyes appear glossed over.

When he reaches our table, he tells the young lady to stay and sits right down. It’s as if I’m watching an actor on stage as Salvatore announces that he’s hungry, picks up the menu as if he hadn’t read it at least ten times in the past, and orders the agnello scattadito, which are the lamb chops, from the hostess.

“And you?” he says without looking up.

I blink rapidly, lost for words. Then I’m suddenly lightheaded, and it’s as if all the voices and clinking silverware in the restaurant are as loud as thunder. I glance at the hostess, who’s watching me impatiently. I’ve been here enough to know that taking our order is not her job, yet she’s willing to venture off course for this man.

I scratch my head as I pick up the menu. I’m confused. Normally I get the salmon, but this evening, I want to order what I think will take the shortest period of time to eat.

“Vorrei zuppa di pesce,” I say, ordering the fish soup.

The hostess maintains her pasted-on smile as she takes our menus. Salvatore’s eyes pass over me to watch the hostess walk away. He often stares at women as if he’s undressing them. He stared at me that way when we first made each other’s acquaintance. I was just like the hostess back then—feeling kind of special.

I pick up my glass of wine and hold it close to my lips. “So why were you so late?”

He looks at the next table and does a double take at the attractive woman who’s having dinner with her male counterpart. I shake my head. Why hasn’t the fact that he can’t keep his eyes to himself bothered me as much as it does right now?

Salvatore shrugs half-heartedly. “I had business.”

“You’re over an hour late. You could’ve called.”

“Then why did you wait?”

I tilt my head to study him incredulously. What a great question. “I don’t know.”

“Listen…” He shifts in his seat and puts on a charming smile. “You are right. I should call. The next time, I will do it.”

The next time? This surely isn’t the first time he’s made me wait so long for him. Suddenly I want to prod him and test him just to see what this relationship is really made of.

“Anyway, I learned some horrible news today.”

His eyebrows furrow as if he’s interested in hearing more.

“My ex-husband has been arrested.”

“I see… and that is horrible why?”

“It’s because of what he did.”

He grunts impatiently and looks a little to my left and past me. “Should I guess, or will you tell me?”

I scratch my scalp and once again ask myself what’s going on here? Why do I feel as if I’m experiencing déja vu? Every nerve in my body cringes. Now that he’s done following whatever caught his attention across the room, he sets his eyes back on me.

I open my mouth to speak, but there’s that feeling again. His eyes are so familiar—the distance, the coldness.

“Well… I wanted to ask you a favor,” he says.

Now he’s watching me as if I’m the only woman in the world.

I tilt my head and furrow my brows. “What favor?”

“I need a loan.”

“What kind of loan?” I ask, but I already know the answer.

“It will be not much. It is why I am late. I have funds tied up…” He explains this great dilemma of his, and my stomach continues to turn in knots.

His eyes…

Who do they belong to?

What must I acknowledge?

Why are my eyes burning with tears?

And what must I do next?