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Loves.
The word lands on me, soft as a feather, lingering for just a second before I let it drift away. I refocus on the braid. “Her hair is amazing,” I murmur, my fingers weaving through the silky strands.
“She got those incredible locks from her mother,” he says, his voice tinged with sadness.
He saidgot. Past tense. And even though he’s still wearing his wedding ring, I feel the weight of their loss.
“I’m sorry,” I utter before I can stop myself.
He nods, his expression heavy with emotion, but he won’t say more in front of the kids. And I don’t press, though my heart aches for him. For all of them.
Three beautiful kids growing up without a mother. And a heartbroken father, carrying the unbearable weight of it all, silently strong, all on his own.
I can’t imagine it.
“Never go to bed mad,” he adds after a moment, his voice soft. “That’s what she used to say. And for the record, with her Italian fire and my Irish temper, it wasn’t exactly easy. But I’m so glad we never did.”
My chest tightens as I take in his words. And the storyteller in me, the part that craves knowing people on a deep, human level, aches to hear more. “What else did she used to say?”
“Lots of things. That pasta is a staple. That tiramisu without espresso is sacrilege. That life’s too short to drink bad wine. And that when you love, love with all your heart or not at all.”
Funny, I’ve triednot at all,and it was a cold, empty wasteland I acclimated to, but never enjoyed being in. Butwith all my heart? Will I ever be ready for that?
Harrison continues, a small smile tugging at his lips. “She always said love is like a pretzel.”
“A pretzel?”
“Yeah. It twists you up, bends you out of shape, makes you uncomfortable. But that’s the only way it exists. And if, eventhrough all of that, you still can’t see yourself with anyone else...that’s how you know.”
“Know what?”
“That it’s real. And the kind of love worth fighting for.”
We pull up to the curb, and even though my feet are ready to step out, my heart isn’t. I’m not sure I’ve fully processed everything—Brian, home, leaving it all behind.
But Snooki doesn’t let me linger in my thoughts. She throws her arms around me, hugging me tight. “Thanks, Princess Peach Pop!”
I smile, squeezing her back. “Anytime, Princess Snooki.”
As I start to leave, I catch Harrison’s eyes in the mirror one last time. There’s something deep in his gaze—sadness, maybe, but so much love, too. It’s like he’s showing me what it means to have love, to lose it, and keep it all together. Because he has to.
My heart squeezes. I want him to find that again.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say softly.
“Anytime,” he replies.
Once inside, I’m swallowed whole by noise and chaos. The airport hums with the frantic energy of travelers, people surging past in thattake-no-prisonersstride reserved for Olympic speed walkers and New Yorkers.
I stand there, utterly turned around, so lost I can’t even tell which way is up. I try to master the flight board. It pretty much looks like a giant Battleship screen, an endless blur of cities, airlines, and the ominous trifecta of statuses: on-time, delayed, canceled.
Please don’t be canceled.
“Juliana Spenser?”
The woman is petite and pretty, but all business—sleek suit, hair in a tight bun, looking slightly harried, like she’s done this six times already today.
“What gave it away? Is it the signature Spenser look of complete confusion in airports?”
