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Derek hums in understanding though he doesn’t have kids of his own. I probably could complain to him, and he won’t mind. Not everyone is a Catholic school nun, but the days of prying eyes and believing your every movement is being watched have their side effects.
“Why did you decide on the name Matteo? I don’t remember you ever saying anything about being Italian?” Derek asks me, the abrupt shift in conversation was almost as jarring as the prospect of talking about Matteo’s heritage.
“I’m not Italian but Matteo is,” I tell him simply, allowing him to work out the implication himself but also holding my breath. I realize it’s completely irrational, thinking anyone who realizes my son has Italian blood will automatically connect him to the Mafia. Most people who are Italian-America have nothing to do with the mafia, and not even his father knows about him.
It’s a fear I’m going to live with forever.
My father tried to talk me out of the name, suggesting more traditional American names to put some extra distance between us and the Lombardi Famiglia. It felt wrong to deprive Matteo of some sort of connection. It also felt wrong to deny Enzo the opportunity to name his son, even if he never gets to meet Matteo.
“Mm, deadbeat father gets to name the kid but then never stuck around?” Derek says. Under normal circumstances, it’s a reasonable conclusion to come to. That doesn’t stop his assumptions about Matteo’s father, about Enzo, from turning my gut.
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” I insist, but Derek quirks an eyebrow up at me. It isn’t an attractive look on him. Instead of giving him a teasing look, which I'm sure he intended, it makes him look more arrogant and judgemental.
“My mom made a lot of excuses for my father too growing up. Word of advice, don’t let your kid hear it. Knowing your father is out there living his life instead of being there for you hurts no matter what reason you give him.”
There’s a sinking feeling in my gut whenever I think about the future and think about when Matteo asks about his father. I don’t know what options I have other than to lie to him. He came home the other day and asked why his friend had a mommy and a daddy when he only got a mommy.
“It would probably be good for him to have a man around who wants to be around. Probably would be good for you, too,” Derek says.
My tongue lashes out onto my lips, poised and ready to reject him. Derek has made his interest clear since the first class we had together. I’ve always talked openly about having a child, and I figured it would be enough to deter him. It never did. I knew this would happen.
The words get caught in my throat.
Why am I rejecting him?
There is never a chance of Enzo and me. I’m not against the idea of dating, it just has never happened. I’ve been busy raising Matteo and getting through school. Every time someone has shown interest in me, it is easier to brush them off than it is to pursue anything. And Derek is far from ugly. He’s sort of, well, pretty. He’s tall and made of lean muscle. His blonde, floppy hair falls in his face and those blue eyes are the color of the morning glory flowers that bloom in my neighbor’s yard.
My phone rings and I have to hold back a sigh of relief. I shoot Derek an apologetic smile but instead of moving away from me, he stays right by my side as I grab my phone.
A New York number pops on the screen.
My first instinct is to ignore it. I saved anyone who I want to have my number as a contact. An unknown number spells nothing but trouble. When I reject the call but the number calls back immediately, I answer it.
“Emma?”
Chapter Twelve- Emma
The voice on the other end of the line is unfamiliar.
“This is she,” I say, having to clear my throat at the end of the sentence. Something on my face must give me away because Derek looks concerned. I try to give him a soft smile, but I think it comes out more like a grimace. His presence is comforting, despite my earlier internal struggle.
Maybe there is a chance here for something more, I think to myself. I try to picture it. Derek and I could be something more than peers and coworkers. Friends, maybe. Lovers? That’s harder to picture.
“Oh, thank fuck, we have the right number,” the voice on the other end of the line says, relief clear in his voice. “This is Andy. You were at my wedding a couple of years ago but now’s not the time. Eric has you down as his emergency contact, but I know you moved away a couple of years ago.”
“Emergency contact? Wait, has there been an emergency?” I ask, my heart racing in my chest.
The long pause stretches for infinity.
“Emma, your father, we had to take him to the hospital. Emma, I think he needs you here.”
My heart stops. Despite our deteriorating relationship, the last thing I want is for anything to happen to my father. He’s my dad. Outside my aunt and Matteo, he’s the only family I have. And he’s an amazing grandpa to Matteo.
I take several seconds to gather myself before I can respond.
“What happened to him? Why is he in the hospital? Can I talk to him?”
All the questions come at once. There’s no space or time for him to answer them. I don’t think it would matter if he did. My brain isn’t functional enough to comprehend what is happening. I’m standing on the edge of a panic attack, something I haven’t had in years.
