CHAPTER 20
PIETRO
Being a sort-of genius had its advantages, especially during exam season. It was useful, for example, to have the kind of brain that could absorb an unreasonable amount of information quickly, because for the past few days my attention had been split between studying for my International Trade Policy exam, getting ready to go home for Christmas, and trying to find a way to convince Emily to come with me without sounding like a man on the verge of proposing marriage.
Unfortunately, even a high IQ had its limits. Concentrating on tariff structures was not easy when all I could think about was Emily Hart and the increasingly dangerous possibility that I wanted every future Christmas of my life to involve her.
By the time I stepped out of class, phone already in hand, I had a text from my father.
Call me.
That was never a relaxing instruction.
I called him immediately.
He answered on the second ring.
“So,” he said, without bothering with a greeting, “I went to Gianni today to pick up your mother’s Christmas present.”
I frowned slightly as I started down the stone steps outside the building. “I see.”
“And apparently,” he continued, his tone indicating he was enjoying himself far too much, “he was just about to call you.”
I stopped walking.
“The custom engagement ring you ordered,” my father said, “will be ready in time for Christmas.”
For one rare and inconvenient second, I had no answer at all.
Around me, students passed by in clusters, laughing too loudly, half frozen in the December air, unaware that my father had just reached into my life and pulled one of its most private intentions straight into the open.
Finally I croaked, “You had no business knowing that.”
“No,” he agreed. “And yet I do.”
I started walking again, slower now. “How?”
“He asked a question about timing. I answered it. Then he made the mistake of looking pleased with himself, so naturally I became curious.”
“That is not curiosity. That is interference.”
“That is fatherhood.”
I let out a breath through my nose. “I was not aware those were synonyms.”
“With sons like mine, they are.”
Despite myself, the corner of my mouth moved.
The ring.
I ordered it weeks ago, before Chicago, before Seattle. I had not examined the impulse too closely. I only knew I wanted it ready, the possibility in my hands when the moment came, because I was already certain there would be no one else.
My father was silent, then asked, much more quietly, “You decided.”
It was not a question.
“I did.”
