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And as if the day wasn’t eventful enough, we enter the house so my sixteen-year-old son can meet his grandmother for the first time.
ChapterTwenty-Seven
Massi
“Come on, buddy, we have to leave in twenty.” I shake Seb’s shoulder and he grunts. “You wanted to come with me, so get your lazy ass up.”
Today, Sebastien is coming with me to the market for the first time. To my surprise he’s been working really hard, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys all of it. Sometimes I fear he’s motivated by his need to please me. To get my approval. Fuck, it’s shitty that he never got that from his stepfather.
It’s been four weeks since Frederick was arrested. I don’t know or care what the charges are, but it seems like evidence of foul play has been found to confirm he was instrumental inaccidentsat many restaurants, including the fire in mine.
I wake up at night sweating, images of Frederick threatening Gina and Mila causing me to panic. I don’t care as much about him burning down my first restaurant, but him stealing my family is something I can’t forget, or forgive.
From a few comments Sebastien has made here and there, life with that psycho was less than ideal. Warm and cold. Perfect and horrible. Unpredictable.
I’m tortured by the need to make it better for both of them. For her. To overcompensate for all they’ve been through. But resentment nags at me every time I want to make a move. Because despite it all, she chose to live with him. To raise my son with him.
One month ago, I became a father. I try to focus on that. Focus on the here and now and hesitantly on our future. Sebastien is a wonderful young man. He has my drive, talent and interest and luckily none of my temper. He’s kind and pragmatic, like his mother.
His mother. Blue continues to be the bane of my existence. I’m stuck in a weird spot between hating her and yearning for her. I wish she was gone, but then that would mean Seb would be gone, too.
I can’t stop thinking of her and hate that even more. Sebastien connects us forever. But there is no us. And forever is too long to hate her. Still, I don’t seem capable of moving past that burning feeling of blame and disappointment.
I hit the button on the blender and the sound finally gets Seb out of his room. His hair is messy, his eyes still half closed, but he dragged himself out of bed.
“No shower?” I ask and pour the smoothies into portable cups.
He takes his drink from me, groans in response and shuffles to the elevator. I pat his shoulder, feeling equally proud he’s doing it and sorry I didn’t let him sleep.
Two hours later we’re pulling to the curb at Casa Cassi. By the time we hit the market Sebastien woke up fully and enjoyed himself somewhat, but then he promptly fell asleep in the car on the way to the restaurant.
His head slid to my shoulder and I didn’t want to wake him up, enjoying the silent connection. How was it to hold him when he was a baby? The thought propels a wave of anger. Fuck.
I ruffle his hair to wake him up and we enter the kitchen through the back door.
“Let me make us a second breakfast to get some energy.” I pat his back.
“I’m having a coffee.” He looks at me with teenage contempt and I bite the inside of my mouth to stop myself from laughing.
“Good morning,” Lena greets us. “Let him have coffee, Massi, I doubt he’ll like the taste. Phillip is up front. Why don’t you get me an espresso too, Seb?”
I watch him leave, grinning. That seems to be the theme of the month. I either grin like an idiot, basking in the delight of this young man discovering life around me, or scowling, remembering his mother took away so many years with him. The pendulum is swinging, unable to level.
“Dad, look at this.” Sebastien runs back, his face full of excitement. Phillip follows on his heels, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
Sebastien waves a newspaper in his hands. He drops it on the counter in front of me, but I can’t make myself look there.
This is the first time he’s called me dad.
The feeling that stirs in me is warm and new and so intense that tears build behind my eyes.
I’m not sure if in his excitement he even realized what he said because he’s looking at me with expectation, tapping his finger on the paper. I realize Sebastien’s is not the only pair of eyes on me, so I look down.
It’s theSunday Times.
Chef Cassinetti Perfects the Art of Fine Dining.
Under Catira Radamesh’s byline, the article first gives an account of the day I cooked for her and then quotes several prominent New Yorkers praising my work. Lena cranes her neck to read. I only skim the words, unable to concentrate.
