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The stewardess isn’t a technical requirement on flights of this size, but it is handy to have one around in case of an emergency. She’s a trained professional, capable of providing emergency medical attention or in-air support to the pilot. I’m sure Emma sees her as another nicety, an advantage of being rich, but she’s a professional.
“Why don’t you take your seats, and I’ll finish my checks? We’ll by off shortly,” Captain Martin assures me.
The plane has two seats in each row on each side of the aisle. That leaves Emma with the option of sitting next to Matteo and leaving an open seat next to me or admitting she wants to sit next to me. I can see the battle happening in her eyes. Matteo’s seat is next to the aisle. It makes sense to me since the aisle gives us more room to buckle him in and get him out. But that means if Emma sits next to him, she won’t be near me. It also leaves a seat the stewardess might take. Not that she would. She knows better. Every staff member who comes into my service is aware of the fact that I will promptly dismiss anyone who tries to flirt with me.
Emma doesn’t know this.
After a few seconds of indecision, she sits down in the seat across the aisle from Matteo, and right next to me.
“Don’t think too much about this. This is just easier than trying to squeeze past his car seat.”
The satisfied smirk on my face fails to waver at her announcement. She puts on her seatbelt before turning her attention to Matteo. I suggested we get him a tablet to entertain himself during the flight, but Emma scoffed at the idea. She had made it this far in parenting with no tablet. She doesn’t intend on starting now. So instead, she has brought little toys and trinkets to keep him entertained and insisted we fly at night to give Matteo the chance to sleep on the plane.
“My house is nothing like yours,” she tells me once we’re up in the air. As if I expected her to have a mafia mansion in the middle of Kansas. I don’t tell her she doesn’t need to tell me because I’ve already seen it. My father’s men are thorough, and when he learned about the possibility of Matteo, he had the entire house documented to make sure it was safe.
Not safe enough if our men could break in.
Chapter Twenty-Eight- Emma
The house in Kansas isn’t much. It’s two bedrooms and one bathroom, tucked away in a little cul-de-sac. The real estate agent had called it a combo living/dining room and thrown around words like open concept, but really, it’s tiny. In the back, there’s a small plot of grass with a single tree that is technically considered a yard. I strung a swing from the tree, and Matteo can happily spend hours in it. Even in the winter, when every piece of exposed skin feels like it’s going to fall off from frostbite, Matteo insists I bundle him up in his warmest winter gear so he can sit on the swing for a few minutes.
I feel an almost devout respect for this place because it’s always going to be Matteo’s first home. He took his first steps here. Said his first words. It feels like I’m leaving behind a piece of my heart on the doorstep.
I don’t know what my father is going to do with the property since it is technically in his name. I doubt he’d be willing to hold on to it. Despite his robust bank account, he can’t picture holding onto something for sentimental reasons. And to an extent, I understand. There’s no reason for a house to sit here empty when I’ll be back in New York. There are families that could benefit from having this house. It just makes me sad to see it go. My father’s intentions have nothing to do with the usability of the house, but simply the extra money to go into his account.
Matteo wiggles out of my arms and runs into the living room, where he left behind some of his favorite toys. Enzo has already arranged for a moving truck and some boxes to be delivered to the house in the afternoon, so for now we need to organize and get things cleaned.
Enzo looks over everything with curiosity, like he’s cataloging our life before him. I let him. The house isn’t a mansion, but there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Matteo had a good life here, and he always knew how loved he was.
Parenting isn’t about the material things you can provide for them. It’s about safety, security, and love.
On one of the living room walls, there’s a collection of photos of Matteo and I. I didn’t have professional photos of him taken when he was a newborn, opting to do them myself. A professional probably could have done better, but I’m glad we had that moment between the two of us. Otherwise the wall is lined with selfies taken from a cell phone of the two of us, the few photos takes by friends or my aunt, and photos from the one time I paid a professional.
Next he looks at the fridge, which is covered in his art projects from preschool, and the pictures he has drawn for me. I plan on packing all of those in a carry-on. I couldn’t care less about the furniture or cookware, it’s not like I need any of that at Enzo’s house, but these drawings are precious beyond value.
“Cozy.”
I roll my eyes at Enzo’s description. Cozy is probably the nicest thing he could think to say. It’s the rich man’s way of saying small without sounding rude.
“Want to see my room?” Matteo asks Enzo, tugging on his pant leg to get his attention.
“I would love to.” Enzo takes the hand Matteo offers him and Matteo pulls him into his bedroom. Both the bedrooms are about the same in size and neither one has an ensuite, so I don’t think you can call either the master. Mine has a larger closet space, but other than that, they’re equal.
His room here isn’t as nice as the one we’ve set up in New York, but I think I did a good job with it. At Matteo’s request, three of the walls are dark green. I broke it up by doing an accent wall with a dinosaur wallpaper. It might not land me in an interior design magazine, but I still remember Matteo’s face when he saw it for the first time.
My room is plain in comparison. A double bed pressed up against the wall and a desk that’s hardly used. It’s easier to do my homework out in the living room when Matteo is still awake. I only use the desk when I’m studying after he has gone to bed.
While Matteo gives Enzo the tour, mainly showing off his favorite books and stuffed animals, I head into my bedroom to pull down clothes from the closet. A lot of the clothes I haven’t worn in years and I decide to make a pile of clothes I’m taking, and to donate the rest before I leave.
I should probably donate the furniture too. There’s no need for my bed at Enzo’s place.
Arms slide around my waist and I glance at Enzo. “Matteo is sorting through his toys. He wants to leave some with his friends at the preschool so they remember him.”
I snort. I can’t picture Matteo willingly giving up his toys, and I don’t know how to tell him we aren’t going to his preschool. There’s no convincing a toddler once they have their mind set on something, so I’ll just pack those toys away in a different box. In a month, he’ll completely have forgotten he’s ‘given them away’ and will want to play with them.
“By the way, you’re cute when you’re jealous.”
I scowl at him, and he chuckles and gives me a kiss. This easy affection is new. Ever since our date, he’s been finding reasons to touch me. Small kisses. Holding my hand. I don’t know what to make of it. It’s easier to reconcile the fact we’ve slept together, because sex can be emotionless. I’m sure it is for Enzo. These little touches, the constant need to be in contact with me, don’t feel emotionless.
