Chapter 11 Marco
Marco
The rooftop is my space. Always has been.
Up here I can breathe. No cameras except the perimeter ones. No staff hovering. Just the planters with the cherry tomatoes climbing their cages, the rosemary gone woody and wild, a few late-season strawberries, and Isotta’s lemon tree in one corner.
Two summers ago I installed a small pizza oven and raised the railings an extra foot past code because forty-two inches wasn’t enough in my opinion.
Up here Ben can run without me losing my mind about stairs or sharp corners or falls.
And tonight, Jess is here.
Which shouldn’t feel different.
But it does.
She’s leaning over the planter box with Ben, both of them examining the rosemary like it holds state secrets. The evening light catches in Jess’s hair, and I remember wrapping my fist around those waves...
I look away. Focus on the dough.
“Daddy, can we make pizza?” Ben asks, running over with Frederick tucked under her arm.
“That’s the plan, piccola.”
“Can Jess help?”
I glance at Jess. She’s watching me with those warm brown eyes that see too much.
Waiting for permission.
Like she needs it.
Like this isn’t already her routine as much as mine.
“Of course she can.”
Jess crosses to the outdoor counter where I’ve set up the mise en place. Flour. Yeast. Salt. Water. Oil. Everything measured and ready because that’s how you control outcomes.
You prep.
You plan.
You eliminate variables.
“This is beautiful,” Jess says, running her fingers over the marble countertop. Not touching the ingredients. Just appreciating the setup.
I’m stupidly pleased by that.
“It’s functional,” I reply.
“It’s both,” she insists.
Ben climbs onto the step stool I keep out here. Her face barely clears the counter. She’s vibrating with excitement. “Can I touch the flour?”
“After we wash hands.”
The three of us move to the outdoor sink.
I watch Jess guide Ben through proper technique.
Soap between fingers. Under nails. Twenty seconds of scrubbing.
The same ritual I learned in culinary school.
The same one I’ve been drilling into Ben since she could reach a faucet.
The same one Ben in turn taught Jess, with “Frederick” acting as the mouthpiece.
With Jess watching, Ben doesn’t complain. Doesn’t rush. Just copies every move like it’s a game instead of hygiene protocol.
We dry off. Return to the counter.
I’m measuring flour into the bowl when Jess says: “What if we did Messy Hour first?”
I pause. “Messy what?”
“Messy Hour. Where we make a mess on purpose.” She’s smiling. Not mocking. Just bright. “Didn’t you have Messy Hour when you were a kid?”
“Uh, no,” I reply.
“It comes before the actual cooking,” she explains. “So Ben knows that it’s okay to make a mess. Then we clean up and do it right. So no meltdowns if we get it wrong, because she already knows it’s easy to clean.”
Every instinct I have rejects this.
Mess equals loss of control. Mess equals variables I can’t predict. Mess equals the exact opposite of everything that keeps Ben’s world stable.
Also, I run restaurants. Professional kitchens where chaos has to be contained or people get hurt.
Or fired.
But Ben is looking at me with those huge eyes. Hopeful. And Jess is watching with something that looks like a challenge mixed with understanding.
She knows I want to say no. She’s giving me space to choose.
Fuck it.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “But we’re keeping the good dough separate.”
Jess’s smile could power the city. “Deal.”
She pulls out a separate bowl. Dumps in flour without measuring. Hands Ben the bag. “Go ahead, sweetie. Pour some in.”
Ben pours. Too much. Way too much. A cloud rises and she gasps.
I’m about to intervene when Jess does the hand squeeze. “One, two, three. Now breathe. Smell the flour. What does it smell like?”
“Like...” Ben thinks. “Like bread that isn’t cooked yet.”
“Exactly. Now blow on it. Gentle.”
Ben blows. Flour puffs into the air. She giggles.
That sound. Christ.
When did she stop giggling?
“See?” Jess says. “Mess can be fun. Frederick thinks so too.”
The plush snail is propped against the mixing bowl. Observing.
I’m standing here with my arms crossed trying to figure out how Jess turned my structured pizza night into anxiety management therapy.
She’s brilliant. Annoying. And I want to bend her over this counter and make her forget every rule we signed.
Instead I grab the yeast. “Let’s proof this. Ben, you want to see the bubbles?”
“Yes!”
I add warm water to a small bowl. Sprinkle in yeast and sugar. We wait. Ben is practically vibrating again.
“Count the bubbles,” I tell her. “How many can you find?”
“One, two, three...” She’s leaning so close her nose almost touches the bowl. “Four, five, six, seven...”
Jess moves beside me. Close enough that her shoulder brushes my arm. She smells like lavender. The scent invokes a memory that hits hard.
Her apartment.
Her skin.
Her sounds.
I shift away. Add olive oil to the good dough.
“How come the bubbles happen?” Ben asks.
“The yeast is eating the sugar,” I explain. “And breathing out air. That’s what makes the bubbles.”
“Yeast breathes?”
“Everything breathes, piccola. Even pizza. Especially pizza.”
Jess laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that makes me want to hear it again. “Especially pizza. I love that.”
We knead together. I show Ben how to fold and press. How to feel when the dough is ready. Jess picks it up fast. Her hands work the dough with surprising competence.
“You’ve done this before,” I observe.
“YouTube university. I watched like ten videos last night.” She glances at me. “Wanted to be useful.”
Useful. Like she hasn’t already turned my daughter’s anxiety into something manageable. Like she hasn’t made mornings easier and bedtime smoother and every damn hour of every day better since she started.
The dough tears under my hands. I’m pressing too hard.
Ben notices. “Daddy, you ripped it.”
“It’s fine. We’ll fix it.”
“Hand squeeze?” she offers.
I look at her. Five years old and trying to help me regulate.
Fuck me.
“Yeah, piccola. Good idea.”
I take her small hand. Do the one-two-three. Breathe with her. The dough can wait.
When we’re done, Jess has already pinched the tear closed. “All better. See? Even professionals make mistakes.”
“I’m not a professional anymore. I just yell at them now.”
“You’re Ben’s professional,” Jess says softly.
Something in my chest cracks.
And so I am.
The dough rises. We shape it. Ben wants to toss it into the air like she’s seen on TV. I explain that takes years of practice. She pouts. Jess suggests we do hand tosses together.
So now I’m standing behind Ben, guiding her hands while Jess counts. “One, two, three, toss!”
The dough rises a foot but then flops onto her hand. Ben dissolves into giggles.
We try again. And again. By the fourth attempt she’s getting the motion. Not the height. But the joy is there.
The oven is hot. I slide the shaped dough onto the peel. Let Ben sprinkle sauce with a spoon. She’s methodical about it. Spreading in circles from the center out.
“Like Daddy taught me,” she announces.
Pride hits me unexpectedly. “That’s right.”
Jess is cutting mozzarella. I’m watching her hands. Those fingers that felt so good wrapped around me. That mouth that tasted like sin and lavender and home.
I turn back to the oven before I do something stupid.
The pizza bakes. We watch through the glass door. Ben is pressed against my leg. Jess is beside her. Close enough that I could touch. I could pull her against me... show her exactly what I’ve been thinking about since that night.
Instead I explain Maillard reaction. Gluten structure. Why high heat matters.
“You can see pizza growing!” Ben shouts suddenly. She’s pointing at the crust puffing up.
“You can see pizza growing,” Jess repeats, delighted. “Ben, that’s perfect.”
“Plants grow but you can’t see it. But pizza grows and you can!” Ben is bouncing now. “Frederick, look! Pizza growing!”
She grabs the plush and runs to show it the pizza. “Now look at the plants!” She carries Frederick over to the herb planters next.
Jess watches her go. “She’s incredible.”
“She is.”
“You’re doing a good job with her.”
The words land heavy. Because I’m not. Not really. I’m just surviving. Keeping routines. Building walls. Pretending structure equals parenting.
Jess is the one doing the good job.
“I was wrong,” I admit. “About Messy Hour.”
“Were you?”
“Yeah. I thought it would make things harder. But she needed it. And you know what? We didn’t even have to remake the pizzas. Everything was fine the first time.”
“That’s true. And even if the pizzas were ruined, to be honest, we all need mess sometimes.” Jess is looking at the city now. At the buildings glowing in the dusk. “Order matters. But so does disorder. They balance each other.”
I know she’s not just talking about flour.
The door to the stairwell opens.
Ethan’s head appears. “Yo. Hope I’m not interrupting.”
Ben runs over. “Uncle Ethan! We made pizza! You can see it growing!”
He grins. Ruffles her curls. “That right? Sounds pretty cool.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Promised this one a first-aid kit.” He pulls a small kit from his jacket. Department swag from some union raffle. “Figured I’d drop it off.”
Ben takes it reverently. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, kiddo.” He glances between me and Jess. Assessing. “Smells good up here. You got an extra slice?”
“One,” I say. Making it clear he’s not staying long.
He catches the tone. Smirks. “One’s all I need.”
We pull the pizza from the oven. I cut slices. Hand Ethan his. He leans against the railing and eats while Ben explains yeast breathing.
And then Jess is braiding Ben’s hair. When did that happen? She’s sitting on the step stool now with Ben between her knees, those competent fingers working through the curls. Making something beautiful from disorder.
Ethan finishes his slice. Wipes his hands on a napkin. “This was great. But I’m out. Got another shift tonight.”
“Thanks for the kit,” Ben says.
“Anytime, kiddo.” He pauses at the door. Looks at me. “Good seeing you settled.”
There’s weight in those words. Approval maybe. Or warning. With Ethan it’s hard to tell.
He leaves.
The four of us are back. Me, Jess, Ben, and Frederick. Eating pizza on the rooftop as the city continues to light up around us.
Soon Ben is yawning. The crash is coming. Sugar and excitement wearing off.
“Bath time soon,” I announce.
“Aww. But I’m not tired.”
I smile. “You’re about to be.”
Jess helps clean up. We box the leftover pizza. Wash the bowls. Stack everything neatly. Order returns.
But something has shifted.
Something I can’t quite name.
When we’re done, Jess tucks a note into Ben’s lunchbox for tomorrow. The small gesture Rosa does now because I stopped having the bandwidth two years ago.
“What does it say?” I ask.
I assume it’s something along the lines of the usual notes Rosa writes: “You’re braver than you think.”
Jess glances up. Hesitates. Then shows me.
Keep growing brave, like pizza dough. You’re rising every day. - Jess & Frederick
Something in my chest cracks. It’s all I can do to control my quivering chin.
“That’s... good,” I manage.
“Rosa mentioned she does them, too. I thought maybe...” Jess trails off. “I can stop if it’s too much.”
“No. Don’t stop.” The words come out rougher than I intend. But I mean them.
This woman is taking over my house one ritual at a time.
And the terrifying part is I want her to.
“I was wrong,” I say again. Because apparently I need to say it twice.
“About what?”
“Mess. Control. All of it.” I’m looking at the planter boxes. At Isotta’s lemon tree still alive on the roof. “I thought if I kept everything structured, Ben would be okay. But she needed someone to show her that mess can be safe, too.”
Jess is quiet for a moment. Then she says, “Order matters to me as well. Just of a different kind. I get why you need control. But you can’t schedule joy.”
She’s right.
Fuck.
Completely right.
“You’re good at this,” I tell her.
She seems confused. “At what?”
“Seeing what people need. Even when they themselves can’t see it.”
She looks away. But I see the blush climbing her neck. The same flush I remember from her apartment. From when I made her fall apart under my hands.
Christ I want her.
I want to back her against this fucking counter. Taste that beautiful neck. Make her forget every boundary we drew.
But Ben is still here, talking to Frederick near one of the planters.
And Ethan just left.
Every reason this is a bad idea is still valid.
So instead I pick up the empty pizza box. “Let’s get her inside.”
We move downstairs. Ben is between us, chattering about yeast and bubbles and pizza growing, less animatedly than before maybe, but her joy is still palpable.
For the first time in two years I’m not just surviving the evening. I’m actually living it. Maybe even... enjoying it?
And that scares the hell out of me.
Because joy feels like betrayal. Feels like forgetting. Feels like admitting that life goes on even when you don’t want it to.
But watching Jess guide Ben through bath time, and listening to them laugh over bubbles and brave breaths, and seeing my daughter relaxed instead of rigid...
Maybe joy isn’t betrayal after all.
Maybe it’s just what happens when you finally stop fighting the thing you need.
I don’t know if that makes me a better father or the worst kind of bastard.