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“What are your plans?” I ask Bobby.

“I don’t have any.”

He takes me in his arms and holds me for a long while. He then kisses me; the familiar way our faces fit and our lips feel is comforting. But a spark is missing. The spark that had me marry Bobby in the first place.

“Happy anniversary,” he whispers. “Five years ago, we were in Vegas on our honeymoon. Remember?”

I hadn’t even thought of it. It didn’t cross my mind all day, nor did it in the days leading up to New Year’s. “What’s the gift for married four years and divorced for two?” I ask as he holds me close.

“Wood?”

“Nope.”

“Oven mitts?” he jokes.

“No. It’s regret.” At least, I believe it is for Bobby Bilancia and me. A long history means more memories than a heart can hold and the pain of letting them go.

“Should we try again?” Bobby asks as he kisses my neck.

I have to think. Regret, it turns out, is the knot in the gold chain that cannot be undone with the finest needle. Regret means we tried, failed, and lost hope. But it’s only in the act of forgiveness that we can let go of pain. When it comes to Bobby and me, that means letting go of each other.

“New year? New us?” Bobby offers weakly, as though he isn’t convinced he means it.

My heart aches for Bobby. He traveled all this way, which is not something that comes easily to him. He loves being home in New Jersey. He believes he’s here to win me back, and he came this far to assure himself that I still might be. If I wanted to make Bobby happy, I would go back to him in this moment, but I know, even if I did, it wouldn’t work.

“Will you forgive me?” I take his hand.

“If you forgive me,” he says softly. Bobby has forgiven me just in time to start a new year.

“We’ll always be family,” Bobby says, weighing his words like they are cuts of beef.

I nod. “We have a love that is bigger than being married.”

“I used to believe marriage was the greatest love,” Bobby says, letting me go.

Bobby holds my past, all of it, and I hold his. “Bobby, this is like the Nativity at Saint Rose.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You played Joseph in the Nativity. Remember? Your mom forgot the staff for your costume, so she wrapped your dad’s golf club in burlap at the last minute to stand in for a real staff. They told you to hold it upside down. Remember?”

A look of recognition crosses Bobby’s face. “Dad’s favorite putter.”

“The putter may have stood in for Joseph’s staff, but in the end, it was just a putter. It was never a staff. Don’t you see? Our marriage was a putter. It was a stand-in for the real thing.”

Bobby nods as he thinks. I take his hands in mine.

“We wanted it to work because we were sure we could. But it didn’t. You’re a good man, and you were a wonderful husband. ButI want you to be happy more than I wanted our marriage to work. I learned something in Italy. It’s called the art of the possible. Love is waiting out there for both of us.”

Bobby ponders what lies ahead for us. Just as surely as Bobby needs to walk after a meal, he does not stay in a place for long, when he can be happy at home. We walk around Lake Como until the moon slices through the clouds and lights our way back to the hotel. Bobby and I had not ended our marriage properly, if there even is such a thing. This time we didn’t slip past our feelings; we accepted them, and instead of rushing through them, we savored the goodbye just as we had embraced each other when we fell in love in the first place. Each step we took around Lake Como was in the direction of our future. Apart.

I take thetrain with Bobby back to Milan for his return flight. While I was happy to see him in Italy, I am also glad to see him go. I want to be alone to plan my goals. No resolutions, just an acceptance of the hard lessons that will become the foundation to build out the walls of my new life, which I hope will expand my view of everything that matters.

I return to the Villa d’Este hotel on Lake Como on the same train, climb the grand marble staircase to the second floor, and close the door to my room behind me. I open the draperies and tie them back. I open the doors to the terrace. I can hear the lake as its waves lap against the shore, but in the dark, I see nothing except the twinkle of lights from the houses on the distant shore. Soon, Bobby will be home in Lake Como, New Jersey, where we canoed and fed the ducks, the place where we grew up and fell in love and out of it. I change into my pajamas and get out my book. I slide under thefluffy down comforter and lean back on the pillows. I read myself to sleep.

When I wake the next morning,A Room with a Viewis open beside my pillow. I haven’t dreamed, or at least I don’t remember dreaming. No drama, no confusion, just a feeling of peace. I throw on clothes, grab my book, and stuff the key in my pocket.

When I get off the elevator, I follow the scent of fresh coffee to the dining room. The maître d’ sees me and leads me to the table by the window. He fills the table with a basket of hotcornetti,marmellata, coffee, and cream. For one. The sugar is on the table. Happiness in the new year is on the menu, so I reach for my phone to text Angelo.