She stopped at the first café she came to and bought a cup of espresso and a sfogliatella, savoring the light, flaky layers of crust covered in powdered sugar. As she meandered down the street, she noticed people congregating at the statue in the square at the very center of the road, a bust of Benvenuto Cellini, the famous goldsmith and sculptor. Though placing locks on the bridge was now illegal, several of them were attached to the iron gate surrounding the sculpture.
Diana supposed that was one way to show one’s love for another person—doing something forbidden that could come with a hefty fine.
As she walked closer to the square, licking powdered sugar from her fingers, she peered up at the statue. Funny, he looked a little like Evan, her ex.
But Evan was far too practical to do anything that could get him in trouble. Though she’d wanted all the romance, the locks, the romantic proposal, she’d gotten none of that from him. He’d proposed to her in the kitchen of their first apartment in Brooklyn, on a weekday morning before he left for work. No ring; it’d just been a, “Hey, here’s a crazy idea . . .” kind of thing. She’d been wearing his boxer shorts and a T-shirt, and three minutes before that, she’d been sucking down coffee, trying to wake herself up. She hadn’t even brushed her teeth.
Good thing selfies hadn’t existed back then, because it definitely wasn’t a film-worthy moment.
She looked up at the windblown locks of Benvenuto Cellini, wondering if he was any more romantic. He looked it; dashing and handsome, with just a bit of a devilishly adventurous side. If he had been here, would he have swept her off her feet? Offered her a lock? Or even just a romantic stroll? A wink and a blown kiss? Anything?
Heck, even simply letting her be on this bridge would’ve been a step up. Though Diana had begged him all of their twenty-eight years of marriage, Evan had always been too busy to take her on that trip to Europe. How many times had she asked him? A billion?
She laughed to herself. Of course it never would’ve worked out. Of course. Why had it taken her so long to realize that?
A breeze picked up, blowing the salty, cool scent of the Arno over to her, and her stomach fluttered a bit. Like in Paris, it felt a bit magical here. Like dreams could come true. Like the start of a great, world-changing adventure. It had been that, for likely thousands of couples who’d started their happily-ever-after, right here.
As she stood there, she wished she could, in some small way, be a part of the history and time-honored tradition of the bridge.
But how, Diana? Unless you plan on jumping from it. You’re alone, remember?
She took another sip of her espresso. When she looked away, she noticed a man staring at her. He was a businessman, with a full head of silver hair, wearing a suit, and sitting at one of the outdoor bistro tables with his legs crossed, an open newspaper on his lap. Older, yes, maybe late fifties, but men always seemed to look better with age. Evan had gotten better looking, too, as much as she hated to admit it. This man was so devastatingly attractive, so perfect, Diana almost looked around to see where the camera crew was, filming him.
Then why was he staring at her?
She tried to look away but found she couldn’t. His eyes had magnetized her. The man was as fascinating as a train wreck, she thought, and probably as damaging as one, too. Really, Evan had done a number on her heart, making it wither in her chest—there was no reason why she would want to jump back into those dangerous waters again and risk further damaging it. And yet another part of her heart, the part that responded now, throbbed, coming to life, wanting her to dive in, head-first.
She clasped a hand over it to tell it to behave as she looked up and locked eyes with him again. God, he had gorgeous eyes, bright blue, like the sky.
He smiled.
She smiled back coyly.
A little part of her brain tickled with the image of the two of them walking this bridge, arm in arm. Eduardo— he looked like an Eduardo—would of course be wearing that fantastic custom suit, and yet he wouldn’t be concerned with anything but her. He’d be so overcome with love that he’d drop to his knee—saying to hell with any stains he might get on the fabric!—pulling out a magnificent diamond ring that sparkled in the Italian sunlight.
As the image solidified in her mind, he winked in a sexy, leisurely way.
Winked! At her? Was this really happening?
Then he blew her a kiss.
She gawked. At that moment, she imagined them together, so in love that nothing around them seemed to matter. “Marry me, my love, and be with me for always,” he’d say, both in Italian and English, because one language hardly seemed like enough.
Then, as she covered her mouth and cried softly, he’d slip the ring onto her finger as a crowd of envious onlookers watched. She’d smile through her tears and say, “Of course, of course. I want nothing more.”
As this thought settled in her mind, he waved, and his smile grew.
Normally stoic and strong, there’d be tears in his own eyes. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive,” he’d say, reaching into the pocket of that expensive blazer. He’d pull out an old padlock, shaped like a heart, with an intricate brass key, and braving the possibility of arrest or a fine, he’d lock it on the gate, and with all his might, throw the key into the Arno.
Then he’d take her in his arms, kissing her passionately, and—
He suddenly stood up and began to bee-line his way toward her.
Nervousness seeped in, tamping down the dreamy, giddy bubbles inside her, and her throat went dry. She swallowed, trying to keep her breathing calm as he wove his way through the crowd, his eyes still trained on hers.
Diana gripped her coffee for dear life and licked her lips, hoping she didn’t have powdered sugar there. I should say “Ciao.” Or “Buongiorno.” Or “Ciao”? Is it too late in the day for “Buongiorno”? Help!
When he was just steps away from her, she blurted, “Chiorno!”
Confusion tangled his face and she wanted to crawl into the cracks on the stone floor, but it only lasted a second. Because within that second, his smile returned . . . just long enough so that he could pass by Diana, hurrying toward the raven-haired beauty lounging against the railing of the bridge.
Diana spun to see him wrap an arm around her. They smiled together and shared the romantic kiss she’d been fantasizing about, then gazed out, together, over the Arno.
Diana stood there, pulled the cover off her espresso, and stared into its murky depths. She took a sip and rolled her eyes. “Chiorno. Really, Diana?” she muttered to herself, as a sound rose up over the regular Italian chatter.
A voice said, “Oh, honey, that’s perfect,” and a familiar laugh greeted her ears.
She knew that laugh, because, well, she’d spent over twenty-eight years listening to it.
No. It couldn’t be.
She spun around, sure she had to have been hearing things. It was the shock of the rejection from Eduardo, that was all. Now, the voice of her ex-husband was haunting her. That was it. After all, Evan had just returned from proposing to his too-young girlfriend in Haiti, less than a month ago. He was a busy surgeon, far too busy to go traipsing all over the world. Wasn’t that what he told her? I can’t get away, Di. I know you really want to go on vacation, but my practice needs me. Maybe next year. So she’d sacrificed, for him. For his career. And it had been worth it. He now had a thriving practice and was known as one of the best and most respected surgeons in New York City, which meant that there was absolutely no way that he could be . . .