Love.
As in, I’m falling in love with number ninety.
Or maybe…I’ve already fallen.
“My mom called me again today,” he says as he quietly opens a container of food that my nose tells me—my stomach rumbles again—is from Nonna’s. “Chicken parm,” he says, naming the entrée I haven’t been able to get enough of lately. “But I also have ziti, if that sounds better.”
I pause, considering.
“Or we can go half and half,” he offers.
Oh, that’s an excellent idea.
He grins before I can give voice to that. “Half and half it is.” He passes me the chicken parmesan, opens up the ziti and starts eating.
“Your mom called?” I ask.
A nod. Then he exhales. “Yeah. She’s getting divorced again.”
I reach over, settle my hand on his knee. “Why do I think it’s more complicated than that?”
“Because she cheated on her soon-to-be-ex-husband with my dad.”
My mouth falls open.
“Yup,” he mutters, setting the food aside. “It’s not my problem, I know that. Hell, I barely talk to them as it is.”
I’ve seen that.
They call or text, but he doesn’t often pick up.
And based on the very few and very short conversations—their voices shrill and loud and angry—I don’t blame him.
“Do they visit?”
“God, no,” he says quickly. “And I don’t want them to. I’ll stop by once or twice a season when a game is close enough and the timing works out. But we don’t do holidays together or birthdays or anything that normal families do.” He sighs, picks up the pasta again. “Honestly, I stopped calling them years ago now, and they only reach out when something’s wrong or they’re upset or they want to bitch about each other.” He groans. “God, I can only imagine what’s going to happen now with them back together.”
“Do you think,” I say carefully, “that you should block them?”
“I’ve thought about it. So many times. But…”
“Guilt,” I finish for him.
“Lame, huh?” he jokes halfheartedly.
“Pretty much. But I only say that because I’m in the same boat.”
“What do you mean?”
“My dad isn’t blocked in my phone.” I sigh. “It seems too final, somehow. Like saying goodbye to something I’m not ready for. That’s lame. My dad flitted in and out of my life so many times I have a hard time trusting people. He rarely paid child support, which meant Mom had to work two or three jobs sometimes. And I honestly think that contributed to her death—not enough sleep, not enough good food, health insurance that wasn’t consistent and doctor’s appointments that were few and far between. If we weren’t struggling so much, I think she would have had time to go to the doctor sooner and maybe they would have caught the cancer earlier.” My voice breaks. “Maybe she would have still been here.”
“Aw, baby,” he says.
“Sorry.” I wave a hand in front of my face, blink back the tears. “I wasn’t trying to hijack the conversation.”
“I know.” He touches my cheek. “And you aren’t.”
“But—”
