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11
It’s hard maintaining one’s dignity in pajama pants covered with pizza-scarfing unicorns. It’s even harder when you have six feet five inches of fury tailing you, looking like a supermodel. An extremely pissed-off supermodel.
Kate had wisely shuffled Sofia away from the door as soon as she glimpsed who was there, leaving me to step outside. Now that I had to have this conversation, I wasn’t doing it within the supersonic hearing of my four-year-old. Nor was I about to leave her alone with her unbeknownst daddy while I put on something that wasn’t covered in cartoon characters.
And so, I left the house in my fantasy wear, an old pink sweater, plus a ratty parka to guard against the wind while Xavier used the sidewalk as his own personal runway.
You have to pick your battles, is what I’m saying.
Xavier made it exactly two blocks before he picked his.
“Francesca, stop.”
I shook my head. “I need breakfast. Pioneer Works actually has a decent café in the back. They make a really good matcha latte.”
“I don’t give a fuck about matcha lattes, Ces. Who the hell was that? Did I imagine I was talking to my own baby picture back there?”
I sighed and finally stopped on the corner, ignoring the looks of a few passersby walking their dogs or likely on their way to Fairview Market at the end of the pier.
“Xavi, I will explain everything, I promise. But first, can I get some breakfast? And maybe take us somewhere so we aren’t discussing the fact that my daughter has your eyes in the middle of the street?”
Maybe it was the simple admission or the fact that I was acknowledging out loud what we both knew, but Xavier opened his mouth and nothing came out. Much like last night, when he was telling me about Lucy, he looked vulnerable. Scared, even.
Welcome to parenthood, buster.Terror had been my constant companion since that second line appeared on the pregnancy test five years ago. She was a persistent bitch too.
“Come on,” I said gently. “It’s cold. I’ll buy you a hot drink, and then we can talk.”
I was stalling, but it appeared to work. He followed me another few blocks to the café inside the local art gallery I had mentioned, then waited silently while I chitchatted with the baristas. I ordered us both matcha lattes and a couple of the locally made scones, then guided Xavier back out to Van Brunt and on toward the river’s edge.
We sipped our drinks and ate our pastries while we walked. Even Xavier couldn’t sniff at their buttery goodness. But the second we arrived at the tiny park on the Hudson, populated by only a few dog walkers braving the frigid December drizzle, he exploded.
“How could you fucking do this to me?”
I finished my latte and tossed it in a nearby trashcan, focusing on anything but him. “You’re going to need to be more specific than that.”
His glare was machete-sharp when I finally looked up.
“Now is not the time to play games. That little girl—”
“Sofia,” I interrupted. “She has a name. It’s Sofia Elizabeth Zola, after her great-grandmother and then my favorite book character.”
“Sofia.”
He said the word slowly, like he was tasting each syllable. I tried and failed to ignore the tension gripping every inch of my body. God, we were only at her name, and I was already about to implode.
“It’s pretty,” he said.
Well, it was something.
Xavier swallowed thickly and pulled at his scarf. “So…Sofia. She’s…how old?”
“She just turned four.”
“And she was born…”
“December third.”
“Which means she was conceived…”
