“This one’s cute,” said Maura. “‘Your name is Taylor, but you’re my Giuletta. We’re in Verona, let’s never forgetta.’”
“Can you tell what this one means?” Nina pointed to another sticker.
Maura studied the yellow paper under Nina’s finger.
Se il per sempre non esiste lo inventeremo noi.
Her forehead scrunched, her brain searching for the words. “If forever doesn’t exist,” she said, “we’ll invent it ourselves.”
In the afternoon, Nina and Maura wandered along the edge of the Adige River, wending their way toward the Ponte Pietra, the main bridge in Verona. The Roman-era overpass had been built with a combination of red bricks and limestone, and Nina thought that the blending of the two different materials managed to appear both messy and beautiful at the same time.
The wind was whipping hard off the water, and a few passersby clutched their hats. The river’s current looked surprisingly rough, whitecaps passing beneath the bridge.
“It’s Juliet’s spirit,” Maura theorized, “come to exact her revenge on all who groped her statue.”
They saw a small gathering of people near the end of the bridge, where a makeshift shrine of flowers, candles, and a few stuffed bears had been erected.
“It looks like a memorial,” said Nina.
As they approached, Nina recognized the man and woman in one of the framed photographs. The newlyweds who had jumped off the bridge that spring.
“Let’s keep walking,” Nina said, hoping not to dwell in sadness. But whenever she glanced back at the water, she couldn’t help but think about the couple who had leapt in together, and the short-string bride who had drowned. At least she had known a great love in her life. What were the words that Maura had read on that Post-it? Maybe we can invent our own forever.
“What are you thinking about?” Maura asked. “You’re so quiet.”
“The note you read in Italian,” she answered. “Si siempre no existe . . . ?”
Maura laughed. “I think that’s Spanish.”
Another burst of wind blew past, and Nina felt a strange sense of energy lifting her up. She stopped walking and turned to face Maura, her expression suddenly serious.
“You know, for the first few weeks we were dating, I kept waiting for you to break up with me,” Nina said. “I couldn’t imagine that someone so special, so . . . unforgettable . . . would even remember my name.” She paused. “And here we are, two years later, facing the fact that forever doesn’t exist. For anyone. But I still want to invent it with you.”
Rarely had Maura been rendered speechless, but in that instant, she seemed to be.
“I’m asking you to marry me,” Nina clarified nervously.
“I know,” Maura finally said. “And the thing is . . . I would have said yes, if the proposal hadn’t been so cheesy.”
Nina let out a laugh of pleasure and relief. “Will you give me a second chance, then?”
Maura smiled at her. “Yes.”
Ben
Ben’s parents had kept a storage unit in lower Manhattan ever since they sold their family home in New Jersey and moved into their apartment, but in her newfound retirement, Ben’s mother had read one too many books on downsizing and decluttering, and she was convinced that at least half of their stored items were now unnecessary. So, on Saturday afternoon, Ben headed downtown to help his parents clear out the unit.
When he arrived, his parents were already rummaging through towers of sealed brown boxes and tossing items into huge black trash bags.
“Just throw away or donate anything you don’t want to keep,” his mother said.
“Anything that doesn’t spark joy?” Ben teased.
His mom playfully mussed her son’s hair with her fingers, the way she often did when he was younger. Back then he found it annoying and babyish, but now Ben didn’t mind so much.
“I think you need a haircut,” she said, unable to control her motherly impulse.
“Let’s just focus on the boxes, shall we?”
Ben sat down atop an unopened trunk and started combing through cases of old clothing, separating the pieces that would go to Goodwill from those in too rough a condition to salvage. The methodical task allowed his mind to roam untethered, and it didn’t take long for him to think of Amie, of all the truths still untold—about his string, about their letters.
But there was just no obvious answer. Ben liked Amie. He liked her broad smile and her asymmetric freckles, her passion for her job, and the fact that everything just felt so easy between them, as easy in person as it was on the page. And, of course, what Ben truly liked about Amie were the thoughts and fears and dreams that lay beneath the surface. The ones she revealed in writing.