J

Twelve p.m.

Jake followed Mira inside the pizzeria. On the surface, he focused his attention on the strange décor, from the stone-carved walls to the cheap wooden chairs to the mismatched mosaic of floor tiles underneath. Deep down, he wondered if it was possible to wipe away the past two years and start over. Like an actual Rewind button for life.

But did he even want to start over with Mira? Before he'd boarded the plane at LAX, the answer had been a hard no, unsurprising given how LA was full of reminders of Lindsay. It had been over a month since they'd parted ways, but that didn't mean he hadn't been thinking about her. A lot, in fact. First, when he'd wondered if they'd truly broken up—it was only one bad conversation, after all—and then recently, when she'd come to his place to pick up her stuff and he'd realized it was truly over.

Not that he hadn't been thinking about Mira too.

Now, he pulled out a chair for her, feeling strangely chivalrous even though this wasn't a date. She said a quiet thanks and took her seat, sounding almost shy, which was a stark contrast to the confident foodie who'd been waiting with him on the other side of the restaurant door.

As Jake took the seat across from her, he remembered how thinking about Mira too much was what had led to that horrible conversation with Lindsay in the first place. But this wasn't the time to dwell on that. He would do that later when he wasn't sober, when the alcohol stirred up memories he couldn't escape. For now, there was pizza, and this moment with Mira, which felt like a hazy dream.

Mira scanned the menu for less than two seconds before setting it aside. "I don't need to bother with that. I know what I want."

Did she?

Jake could remember a time when the thing Mira had wanted had very much not been him. Or maybe it wasn't like that; maybe life had simply gotten in the way. At least, that was what he'd told himself (over and over), back when he'd needed a way to get over the pain of rejection. Dembe had played a big role in helping him get past it, one of the many times when their unexpected friendship had wound up meaning a lot.

It had started in the most casual way, when Dembe had found Jake's profile on Instagram and sent him pictures of Mira and Jake he'd sneakily taken that night in Paris—Jake's favorite photo being the one from 4 a.m., them laughing and holding hands while eating crêpes at the fountain by the Seine River. From there he and Dembe had started chatting on WhatsApp, and while at first it had been the usual exchange of viral videos, it had changed when things fell apart with Mira. After that Dembe always checked in—ready with wisdom, jokes, and even trash talk about Mira to help Jake get over the hurt. Not that deep down he'd agreed with any of the trash talk. Still, it was thoughtful in a way that most of his friendships with college buddies or co-workers weren't. And it was the reason why Jake had agreed to come to Dembe's destination wedding. It was also the reason why he'd later decided to come for the day-before festivities. Or why Dembe had convinced him. Things were over with Lindsay; why not have some fun? The fact that the wedding lined up with a work trip to Paris immediately after was a bonus.

And so here he sat across from a ghost from way back when, whom he'd once hoped to share a future with.

Before . . . after . . . hope . . . rejection, it was all a blur in the confusing crossroads of living in the moment and clinging to the past.

"What about you?" Mira said, breaking through the fog of his thoughts. "Do you know what you want?"

"You already told me what I want when we were standing outside."

"You didn't seem too convinced, though."

Jake was no longer sure they were talking about pizza. But pizza it had to be.

"It's hard to get excited when I'm team 'floppy New York slice.'"

"Don't say floppy New York slice in here," she hissed. "It could get you in trouble."

"Noted. And sure, let's try this famous Italian pizza."

Mira wasted no time in ordering two margherita pizzas. Once that was done, the atmosphere shifted to excruciating awkwardness, exactly like at the train station when they'd first said hello.

To Jake's relief, the soft jingle of the door chime broke through the heavy silence. He glanced behind him and saw a man and woman—both in their sixties—shuffle inside. "Guess they're hungry too," Jake noted.

"Uh-huh," Mira said.

More silence.

"How's the pizza in Tuscany?" he asked.

She shot him a look. "How did you know I've been in Tuscany?"

"Oh, I've seen some of your Instagram stories." He rubbed his jaw in a feeble attempt to conceal his Insta-embarrassment. It wasn't that Jake had been keeping tabs on Mira since they'd parted ways; not at all. Every now and then, though, usually at night, he'd find himself feeling curious, too curious not to click on the glowing icon of a recent Instagram story, the temporary slice of life that kept people hooked to the past.

"The pizza in Tuscany's good," she said. "But different. Like sometimes there's fresh chopped tomato on top."

His eyes bulged. "You're kidding."

"Dead serious."

When Jake had viewed her stories from Italy, he'd always half expected to see a dude in her updates. Always dreading the moment when he would. Even when there weren't any male companions, he would keep an eye out for telltale signs, like a glimpse of a shirted torso in the background of a photo of a restaurant dish, or a man's hand in a video of Mira clinking wineglasses. Despite his detective instincts, the signs had been almost nonexistent; a lack of confirmation that kept a tiny part of him wondering. Always wondering.

"It's interesting how different parts of Italy interpret pizza," he said, drumming his fingers against the table while not caring at all about regional influences. He longed to recapture the flow of conversation they'd shared before entering the restaurant. Anything to sound less robotic than he did right now. Maybe it was the fact that Mira hadn't been as close to Jake out there as she was in here, across the table and near enough to touch. He stole a glance at her long hair and how it flowed over one shoulder in loose waves. It was longer than he remembered, and the glow of her skin against her light summer dress was an intoxicating sight. He watched as she tucked her hair behind one ear, her fingers tracing the map his lips had charted long ago. She coughed and looked away. Like she'd noticed him staring.

Shit.

"Once the pizza makes it into the wood-fired oven it cooks in ninety seconds," she blurted.

Her random fun fact was a welcome relief from the confusing energy between them. "That's lightning fast," he said, still hating every word coming of his mouth. On the bright side, it meant the pizza would be here soon.

And mercifully, it was.

As the waiter set down two plates of fresh pizza, Mira's expression settled into something more familiar: her unabashed love of food.

"Look at that thick crust," she exclaimed. "And look how the cheese intermingles with the fresh San Marzano tomato sauce. And can you smell it?"

"Can I smell what?"

"The crust! The crust has a sort of doughy smell. Take a whiff and see."

Jake couldn't help but be endeared by her affection for dough smell. And much like in the past, he was eager to poke fun at her enthusiasm. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Liar."

"I mean it," he lied.

"Maybe I'm not describing it right." From the look in her eyes, he could see that she was questioning everything now. It was hilarious and satisfying to see, especially when it gave way to annoyance. "Whatever, it's a thing." She inched closer to the crust. "And it has to smell like it's supposed to, otherwise the powers that be will know it wasn't made in accordance with margherita pizza standards."

Finally, Jake inhaled the pizza. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be smelling, but these powers that be and specific standards all sound very official."

"Extremely official. Right down to the region of cheese and the cows."

"Then this better be worth it."

"It will be. And, speaking of rules . . ." She held up a knife and fork. "Try not to use your hands."

He followed her cue but found himself struggling to cut through the edges of the crust. When she noticed his losing battle between knife and crust, she held off on her own inaugural bite.

"You have to be firmer and cut against the plate," she explained. "Pretend the plate is a person you're aggressively stabbing."

"Channel all the past stabbings; got it."

She immediately laughed. "Exactly." It was the first time he'd made her laugh in forever. It felt nice. "Come on," she added. "We'll do it together."

And there, in weird, stabby unison, Mira and Jake had their first real taste of the best margherita pizza in the world.

***

"What was your favorite part?' she asked, plates cleared and bellies full.

"That thing about how the cheese was swimming around in the sauce." He wasn't even lying. "It felt like the cheese and sauce were melding into one magical entity." Even though Jake had been making fun of Mira earlier, he was now fully indoctrinated in the foodie way of life.

"Uh-huh," she said, struggling to keep a straight face. "A magical union of ingredients."

The buzzing energy between them was impossible to ignore, but as they sipped their water it quickly dissolved into silence. Jack racked his brain for a way to keep moving forward, but every potential topic was the fast road to reality, whereas this was all a dreamlike escape. For a moment he allowed himself to think beyond it. To a not-too-complicated reality of filling in Mira on the last nearly two years of his life (including his recent breakup).

And then Mira threw him into reality anyway. "Is your girlfriend meeting you at the wedding?"

"Girlfriend?" As soon as he spoke that triggering word, he realized he wasn't ready to talk about his life. And, unexpectedly, he found himself annoyed that she would have the audacity to ask.

"Never mind," she said, darting her eyes around the restaurant.

"I'm attending the wedding on my own," he said stiffly.

"Oh."

He hadn't meant to sound cold, but opening himself up to someone who at one time had pushed him away seemed impossible.

"What about you?" he said, eager to change the subject. "Going to the wedding with a hot Italian stallion?"

"Hardly." He felt relieved. "I do have a date, but he's there already. His family's in charge of the wine."

His stomach dropped. So there was an Italian stallion. But how? She'd never shared any Instagram stories of some sexy Italian, not even a hand or a torso as a background feature of a photo.

He wished Dembe had warned him, but it didn't matter if Mira had a guy when Jake was still getting over Lindsay. He was emotionally unavailable. And maybe now that he knew this, he could get Lindsay back one day, and live out the happy settled California future he'd been craving.

The only problem with Mira's love life not mattering, was that Jake suddenly felt like shit.

"We should probably get going," he said, the coldness in his voice too obvious to hide.

She leaned forward. "Jake, I think you misunderstood me."

He backed away from her and stood. "It's fine, Mira. No problem at all if I misunderstand. We haven't seen each other in two years, remember?"

"I remember,'" she said in low voice. She made her way to the door. "Let's go."

He hadn't wanted to be that cold, but the feeling had taken hold of him, that nagging feeling that he was setting himself up for more hurt.

Living in the moment: 0. Reality: 1.

***

It didn't take long for Mira and Jake to flag down a taxi, but whether or not the driver wanted to take them to the Amalfi Coast was unclear.

"Ravello," Mira said, for the second time. "Up high in the hills?" She showed the driver her phone. "It's this nice hotel. Iconic, spectacular views."

"He doesn't care about the views," Jake muttered.

She glanced back, either annoyed by his comment or annoyed from earlier. "Let me handle this."

At last the driver nodded in agreement. "I am from Amalfi; very good."

"See?" she said to Jake, suddenly smug.

"He's going to charge you more since you talked about the fancy hotel," Jake whispered.

She bit her lip. "Oh my god, you're right."

"This is a first," he said, genuinely wondering if he was being pranked.

"What is?"

"Hearing you admit that you're wrong."

It was a playful jab, but judging by her glare she wasn't having it. "You keep assuming I'm the same as I used to be."

"And you're not?"

"We haven't seen each other in person in two years. Weren't you the one who was reminding me of that?"

Jake hadn't expected to have his words thrown back at him like that. It stung. He suddenly regretted arriving a day before the wedding, or even being here at all. It was too late to go back, and even if he could, it wouldn't feel right to bail on Dembe's special day. He only hoped his good friend would swoop in fast and save the day with distractions.

Mira got into the taxi first, and as Jake slid in beside her, the back of his hand accidentally brushed against hers. In that moment, the hurt he'd been feeling gave way to something far more powerful; like every memory from every time they'd touched rolled into one.

Mira moved her hand away as the driver turned onto the main road, joining a line of heavy traffic. She could be as reserved as she wanted; he knew she'd felt it too.

"It wouldn't be a bad thing," he said, determined not to let her deny the feeling for reasons he couldn't understand.

She studied the traffic like it was somehow more enthralling than his words. "What wouldn't?"

"If you were the exact same person as before. I liked that person. A lot." If he'd been cold before, now he sounded as sincere as ever. He'd meant to.

She made the slightest move, turning toward him enough for one of her dress straps to fall past her shoulder. "I'm sorry to tell you that person is dead."

It was not the reaction to sincerity he'd expected, but as always with Mira, he found himself intrigued. "Excuse me?"

"Old me is dead. You are now interacting with the zombie version of me."

"You know zombies are stupid, right?"

She frowned. "Oh, right. They wander around and moan. And smell bad too."

"Like the literal corpses that they are."

"I should've said phoenix rising from the ashes."

"Or compared yourself to Jesus, if you were going for that whole resurrection thing."

"I wouldn't do that in Italy," she whispered. "The pope lives here."

"True."

He was saying words, but his mind was fixed on that fallen strap of her dress. The next thing he knew, the thin strap was between his fingers. He slid it back up and over her shoulder, the feel of her soft skin overwhelming him. "For the record," he managed in a low voice, "you smell a lot better than a zombie."

"SEAT BELTS!" the driver boomed, a command that nearly jolted Mira and Jake out of their seats. There were only two seat belts available in the back, and they were as far apart as possible. It irritated Jake to move away from her, but he shouldn't have been flirting with her anyway. Or touching her. Just then, the devil on his shoulder reminded him he was single, and while he might not have been completely over his ex, maybe a distraction would help the getting-over-it process.

What could go wrong?

He clicked himself into the seat belt, his mind playing back the feel of Mira's skin.

"Coast driving very dangerous," the driver said, as if they needed that scary information. "Cliffs. Sea."

"Did he say he's going to drive us off a cliff?" Mira whispered.

"It's not sounding good," Jake said.

She checked the map on her phone. "At least there's a lot of noncliff driving left to go." She sighed. "So we've got time before our watery end."

"Yeah. We've got time."

Mira may have changed into a proverbial zombie, but seeing her again and chatting and getting close felt incredibly familiar. At times he'd even forgotten he was in Italy now, and not back in the cobblestoned streets of Paris, where with each passing minute they'd been drawn to each other like magnets.

As the driver navigated the crowded streets of Naples, Jake started to wonder how the hours leading up to Eloise and Dembe's wedding would be different than those twenty-four hours in Paris. Maybe it would be sad or maybe it would be fun. Or possibly both.

And who the fuck was the Italian stallion?

There was a far more serious question too: Even if Jake and Mira somehow bridged the gap of the last two years and his recent hurt, what could the future possibly hold when their lives were on other sides of the world?

What a mess.

Jake wasn't ready to deal with any of that, so instead he focused on Mira's hair, the way it danced in the breeze flowing in from the open windows.

As for the rest? Future Jake's problem.