P.S. If you’re wondering who’s watching Duke while I’m on this trip, you should know it’s my dad. We’re not back to how we used to be, maybe we never will be, but I’m trying. I won’t break my promise to you. If you take one thing away from this letter and forget the rest, let it be that.

Great, so someone sprinkled water all over my letter. No wait, that’s me crying. Again.

I’m sad and relieved and so homesick for Ryan that I could die, and how dare he send this to me! But Ryan also said he was on a trip. Wait. Is he here?

I bolt for Paolo’s hut a second later. I’ve never run track a day in my life but now I’m thinking that maybe I should have.

“Paolo!” I yell, my hair falling in disarray in front of my face as I fling myself onto the reception desk.

He’s waiting for me and smiling, resting his chin on his fist as he leans forward on the counter.

“He told me you come here yelling. He knows you very well.”

“He who?” I ask, out of breath. “Was this hand-delivered?”

“Si. Signore Ryan came this morning. He ask for you, he wait a few hours, he give me the package, then he go.”

“He go?” I all but shriek. “You mean he’s gone gone? Is he coming back?”

I’ve never seen Paolo look so smug as he does in this moment, reaching into the left breast pocket of his gray blazer. He pulls out an envelope and hands it to me. “He leave this for you.”

I snatch the letter ungracefully out of his hand. “Grazie.”

“Prego.”

I step away and tear the envelope open, pulling out the folded sheet of paper and I once again see Ryan’s handwriting.

Kara,

To answer the questions you’re probably asking: Yes, I flew over twelve hours to deliver this letter and the journal. Yes, I am now flying over fourteen hours to get back home. No, I did not take anything on the plane to make it easier for me. Yes, I got sick. A lot. And yes, I would fly this trip a million times over if it meant we might be together again. I love you.

—Ryan

My hand with the note falls to my side and I don’t know where to turn or look or think. I just stand there, staring blankly ahead as my mind spins and spins like some sketchy carnival ride. I stand there for all of ten seconds until I’m once again charging at Paolo’s hut.

“When did he leave? Paolo, when did he leave?” My tone is demanding and almost volatile, and Paolo’s self-satisfied demeanor shifts on the spot.