Page 9 of Past Due

“My mother and I moved away when I was four, and we didn’t come back until I was almost thirty.” She opened a cabinet and glanced back at me. “Do you like soup? I planned to reheat some for dinner.”

“Oh, yes, that’s fine.” I didn’t want her to go out of her way to feed me, but I also knew that the culture here was to be hospitable and generous. “Can I help with anything?”

“Sit,” she ordered. “And tell me what brought you to Albania.”

“Wanderlust,” I said, pulling out a chair. “Curiosity.”

She made a sound of disbelief and plunked a couple of stoneware bowls onto the counter. Narrowing her eyes, she insisted, “A man.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You’re here because of a man.”

“I’m not!”

“You are.” She wagged her finger at me. “Don’t try lying to me. I know that look on your face. It’s the same one that brought me back here.”

I swallowed the instinct to argue. She was right, of course. I was here because of a man. It was pathetic, really. I had traveled all this way to forget my infatuation with him, and yet, here I was, in his homeland, traipsing around the countryside trying to find answers to questions I was too afraid to ask.

“What’s his name?”

With a sigh, I finally confessed, “Besian. His name is Besian.”

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