“Sure, if you are. Torres is a good guy. Should fit right in with your team.”
“Yeah.” I don’t want to talk about this anymore, but Luke’s still yammering. It takes me a second to realize what he said. “Wait, did you say Kinsey is pregnant?”
“Sure did. She’s just gone three months, so ...”
“She’s been in the family way for the whole time your idiot co-workers were placing bets.”
“Ah, better to let the kids have their fun.”
I let loose a chuckle. “Congrats, Almeida.” We chit-chat about families some more, and just as we’re winding down, I find the words I need. “Could you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Could you watch out for Abby? I know I don’t have to ask but I’m asking anyway.” Redundant as it might sound, it’s important that he knows my feelings in this area and that I have an interest that needs to be acknowledged. It might be the only way I can say she’s mine without speaking the words.
Because, despite everything that’s happened and knowing that she doesn’t want me, I am still all in with this woman.
Abby Sullivan is mine in every way that matters.
“She’s safe with me, Roman. I promise.”
We close it out and I return to dinner, desperate to get my mind off Abby, who will no longer be on my crew. Or in my life, at this rate. I’m trying and failing to view it as a blessing when Chiara crashes into the kitchen like a bull and yells at me. “What the hell are you doing?”
I raise the spatula in my free hand. “What does it look like? Smashing the fucking patriarchy.”
She takes the tool from me and examines my handiwork, chicken breasts flash-frying in the skillet. “You’re supposed to be resting, though I appreciate you pushing through in order to keep me free from chains. Isn’t this why we have the next generation?”
“She’s on her computer, looking at wedding stuff.” Of course, I told Tori that Lena should be allowed to wear pants but my daughter is being more mature than me and taking it on the chin.
Chiara makes a face. “Sit down, I’ll do this.”
I do as she says and wait.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Finally, she asks, “So, what am I doing?” She prods one chicken breast with the spatula, as if she’s never used one. This would not surprise me.
“Turn them over in about a minute.”
She screws up her mouth. “Are we having visitors tonight?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, all your crew have dropped by in the last week. Everyone but Abby. She okay?”
“Fine, as far as I know.” Moving on, figuring it out. Good for her. “Turn them now.”
She does, splashing oil all over the stovetop. Deliberate, of course, so I’ll never seek her help again.
“Uh, don’t flatten them. Let them sit for a bit.”
She puts the spatula down on the counter, though there’s a spoon rest right fucking there. Jesus, I am grouchy tonight.
She turns to face me. “What happened with Abby?”
“Nothing. Literally nothing.”
“Ro-Ro, come on, this is me. You think I don’t know when your heart is broken?”
She hasn’t called me Ro-Ro since we were kids. I rub my mouth as if it can change the words about to leave my lips and shape them into something that won’t feel like broken glass in my throat.
“She called it quits. Said it would be too stressful worrying about me, so best not to let us go any further. And y’know, she’s right. I don’t want to worry about her, either.”
A very playground response. Like I’m going to stop worrying about her because we’re no longer … whatever we were to each other.
“She saved your ass, then told that same ass to take a hike?”
“I think it scared her. She lost her mom on the job and what happened to me brought it all back. I suppose I should be flattered she’s worried about the prospect of losing me …”
“But you’re not.”
Needing action, I stand and pick up the spatula. “I don’t believe it’s her reason, or her only reason. I think she’s trying to let me down gently. She said it was just a fling for her. Which is fine.”
“Roman, as usual, you are 100% wrong. I saw how she looked at you and your spicy meatballs.”
That earns a snort from me.
“Do I need to hurt her?”
“Thanks for being my personal pit bull, but you can stand down.”
“Need to hurt who?” Lena has just walked in.
“Abby,” Chiara says at the same time I say, “Nobody.”
Lena looks concerned. “Why would you want to hurt Abby?”
I shake my head imperceptibly at my sister.
She ignores me because she thinks children should never be shielded from the truth. “She told your dad she doesn’t want to see him anymore. As a boyfriend.”
Lena blinks. “Oh. Is it okay if I talk to her?”
“You want to talk to Abby?”
“We’ve been texting about Big Brother. And I sent her some photos of the dresses Mom wants at the wedding. She gave me her opinion and I told Mom I wanted to wear something else. Like this.” She shows me a picture on her iPad. It looks like a satin two-piece pantsuit in the same color as Tori’s wedding theme. Unfortunately I’m acutely aware of this theme and other details like the size of the centerpieces and the composition of the various floral arrangements because my daughter has talked of nothing else for the last two weeks.
Meanwhile, Abby’s been lending an ear to my girl? I’m so confused. My heart aches at the notion that my daughter is getting all this love and support from someone I care about deeply but who doesn’t feel the same way.
“What did your mom say?”
“She said yes!” Her joy evaporates. “But if you don’t want me to talk to Abby anymore …”
“No, that’s fine,” I answer quickly. “Fragolina, you can talk to who you want. As long as I know who they are.”
“So does Abby ask about your dad?” Chiara winks at me.
“She asked if his injuries were healing. I said not fast enough because he’s always here.” She assesses me for a moment. “Dad, do you need a hug?”
A lump the size of a meatball forms in my throat. “Yeah, I do.”
She wraps herself around me and gives me the best hug I’ve ever received. I kiss the top of her head and let myself be healed a fraction by the warmth of my daughter’s love.
I draw back to face her. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
She smiles, fully aware of her power over me. Her phone buzzes in her hand, and she wanders into the other room to respond.
When I catch Chiara’s eye, I find her looking a little softer than her usual.
Using the spatula, I set the flash-fried chicken breasts to one side. A few knobs of butter in the pan, then some Marsala, thyme, and mushrooms. It’s harder than you’d think to do this one-handed.
Ever helpful, Chiara pours more wine for herself. “Why did you stay married to Tori for so long?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Just tell me.”