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I can’t explain the innate draw we have to each other. The comfort between us is just natural.
And Isabella’s given into the comfort too, as evidenced by the hand on my arm and her open rapport with me. A far cry from the woman who was trying to keep me from my son just a bit over a week ago.
We haven’t spoken about what happens after today. I haven’t wanted to push her since she seemed to shut down the idea we could try again, for real this time, that night in the desert. She’ll have to come to me with her feelings because she knows where I stand.
I want to show up for Leo. And I want to show up for her. If that means being amicable co-parents, I’ll do that.
If that means being parents who love each other, then I’ll do that too.
It’s not a question in my mind that I love Isabella. For all her stubbornness, she’s got a heart of gold. I loved her after our month together five years ago and have held onto that love, trying to compare it to any other feeling I felt.
That love has returned tenfold. It’s hard not to love someone who has given you a child and such an amazing one at that.
We walk up to the gate, Leo still nagging Isabella to answer his question.
She places her hand on the latch and looks at me, her expression serious. “You ready?”
“I think so,” I say. We have our story straight this time. We were together, had our child, I got famous, things didn’t work out, we remained close, then priorities changed and now we’re married. Don’t know how we’ll play off the “divorce” but that’s a problem for tomorrow.
Leo bounces on my hip. “I’m ready!”
Isabella grins and grabs his leg tenderly. “I know you are.” Her smile softens. “Leo, honey, why don’t you start calling Rex ‘Papa’? That is…” She looks at me. “If that’s alright with you.”
I’m shocked. “Uh…”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Leo says excitedly. “Can I? Can I please?”
I’m at a loss for words. It is a scary step, one I’d like to take, but still intimidating. Moreover, I can’t believe Isabella has suggested it. I’ve felt as though I’m earning my keep in her eyes. “Papa” seemed like something that has to be earned. And while I am doing everything in my power to show her what a standup man I can be for our son, I’m surprised I deserve it already.
“Yeah, of course,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “You can… you can call me that.”
Leo loops his arms around my neck and buries himself closer. “Papa…” he says, trying it on for size.
My face tightens. No crying. Not today.
Isabella finally opens the gate, smiling at me. “Come on.”
I follow her, walking on air. Not sure I’ll ever come down.
Barbecue was a misnomer for this shindig. When I think of a barbecue, I imagine the host standing at the grill with brewskis and bros, while everyone else languishes on lawn chairs or dips their feet in the pool and kids run around playing games of tag.
This is a full-on party. There’s catering and décor. The pool has a waterslide and people are dressed in what looks to be their Sunday best, not barbecue wear.
Thankfully, Isabella planned my outfit for me. A preppy ass polo and khakis. Not me at all, but I don’t mind looking the part if it makes her happy.
We’re greeted by the hosts, Fiona and Lindsay Dawson. Lindsay is a dude and you know when you meet a dude with a name usually assigned to a woman that they’re rich as hell. Having grown up middle class, I still am not used to being in the same tax brackets as people who go golfing not just on the weekend, but whenever they please.
They are immediately charmed by Leo (who isn’t?) and send him off to play with the other prospective students, leaving Isabella and me to make the rounds together.
No one seems to be staring, which is good. We’re just the Delgados. Some of the women swoon at the story I crafted for Headmistress Rockwell about the last name decision while their husbands glower. Every time I tell it, Isabella leans in a bit closer.
We end up settling in with an Asian couple, the Yangs. We sit together on a pair of lounge chairs by the pool so we can watch Leo and they can watch their daughter, Viola.
“Have you signed your letter of intent yet?” Akira, the mother, asks, wicking her raven plait of hair over her shoulder.
“No,” Isabella says. “To be honest, we’ve been busy and just haven’t gotten around to it.”
Andrew sniffs. “Well, we’re not sure we’re going to.”
