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I can tell he wants to say more, but he’s not going to spill it. I have wondered over the years what it would be like for him to be my friend. I wonder if he could get over the blow it would take to his professionalism, to what he thinks his duty is.
He made it very clear when I hired him that that is just not how things work.
I don’t think it would be fair to him, and I think that he probably only feels the need to encourage me because he knows I don’t have a group of friends to hang out with.
So maybe I should focus on that and give the guy a break.
“Oh, hi.” Sunny looks like a deer caught in headlights, crouched by the basket of action figures in the boys’ playroom.
“Hi,” I say, not really knowing how to go about . . . any of this.
Am I asking for too much? Wanting to talk about my parental trauma one day into our supposed friendship?
“You’re home early. I was just cleaning up here, and—oh god, what is it? What happened?”
He stands fast enough that I think he should be dizzy and hurries over to me where I am—very humiliatingly—losing my shit.
Why?
Because him calling this place home was just one too many emotional things.
I cover my tear-stained face with my hands and will the sobs to at least slow down.
“S-s-sorry,” I stutter, and lower my hands to shake the tension and emotion out through my arms. “God, I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Stop,” he snaps. “Take a deep breath with me. In . . . and out.” I mimic him and it does help, but only a little. He has to realize I’m not going to stop crying anytime soon, though. “Let’s go down and get you some tea.”
He grabs me by the shoulders and directs me back to the staircase, down to the kitchen, and pulls out a stool by the island. The fact that he’s so gentle, so sweet, and is helping me without any type of explanation only sets me off again.
I’ve never in my life been so angry at my tear ducts.
Sunny rounds the island, but Angelo steps in his way.
“Angelo, can I just—”
“What can I get you?” My chef interrupts Sunny. He glances at me and frowns, clearly worried, and who would blame him? I’m a fucking mess.
“I can make us some tea, you don’t have to—”
Angelo cuts off any protest by spinning on his heel and grabbing the kettle to start filling it up, and Sunny throws his hands in the air and groans.
“You’re impossible,” he mutters darkly, but his face is serene and inviting when he turns to look at me again—sitting there, still sobbing despite my urgency to just stop it already.
“You just keep breathing in and out, okay?”
I nod and really do try, but I clearly have very little control over my face, because Sunny seems to give up on something and comes over to me again.
The warmth of his arm around my shoulder helps, but it also seems to open the door of my emotions another few inches.
“God—I want—c-can’t stop.” I finally manage to get out something that makes some sense.
“You don’t have to stop,” Sunny murmurs, still so kind. “Let it all out.”
And for the next indiscernible amount of time, I do.
Eventually two cups of tea appear in front of us, and I manage to get out a stuttering thank you to Angelo.
“You’re all right, kid,” he says kindly, with that deep New Yorker accent that feels like home.
