Chapter 17
Saturday morning,when I exit my apartment, I’m not alone in the hallway. Emma’s door is open, and she stands in the doorway talking to an American man. He’s wearing jeans, a collared shirt, and sneakers, holding a bouquet.
My eyes dart from the flowers to Emma to the man and back to the flowers, and something curdles inside me. “Good morning,” I call in Italian.
“Santo, hi,” Emma says, her gaze darting between us. She said the man who harassed her on the street was a local, so I don’t think this is him. Plus, I doubt a degenerate catcaller would show up with flowers.
I take a few steps to join them. Emma didn’t call me Professor Offredi; she called me Santo. Is that a signal of some kind? I offer him my hand. “Santo Offredi, a neighbor.”
The man takes my hand. “Bruce Chance.”
“The ex?” I frown.
His eyebrows raise, and his mouth turns down. Surprised that I’ve heard of you? Oh, I haven’t just heard of you.
I could lean forward and tell this man that I’ve tasted his ex-wife. That I know I could do a better job of satisfying her in one night than he’d done in years if she gave me the chance.
I glance at Emma, and she looks more worried than anything. I don’t want to cause problems for her—especially given that this man is here to win her back.
What an idiot. I would say he has no chance, but do I really know Emma that well? Women go back to worse men all the time, and maybe I have an overinflated idea of how wonderful Emma is, but I get the impression that she doesn’t think so highly of herself.
Someone should remedy that. The woman needs more support in her life if she thinks going back to him is a good idea.
I’m still shaking his hand, and it’s been long enough that his gaze has shifted from cautious friendliness to concern. “What brings you to our city, Bruce?” I tighten my hand a bit because it feels good, a purely selfish act, nothing to do with how this man left Emma.
“I brought our daughter for a visit,” he says.
“And you brought flowers,” I add.
“Yes.” He holds them up. “Perhaps we should get these in some water, darling.” He firms his grip on my hand even more and gives it a shake, ending the standoff.
“Yes, okay, come in. Santo, I’ll see you later.”
Bruce smirks as I let go. “You deserve better,” I say in Italian, knowing neither of them will understand. I say goodbye and leave them; the door slams, echoing down the stairs as I jog down.
I’m not an idiot. Flowers, history, three kids. A lot of reasons to try to make their marriage work again.
Anger bubbles up. What if Emma leaves the program? Leaves Italy? She came here to prove that she could do it without him, that she could have her own successes.
If she goes back to him, what is the likelihood that all of that will wash away?
A part of me is bitter too. While I am still friendly with Bell’s mother, there was never a moment where I wondered if I should go back to her. It was not a disastrous divorce, like my first one, the kind where you end up hating each other and destroying everything good, but the kind of divorce where both sides realized there was no passion left.
And here Emma has a husband who’s still got feelings for her, who is, maybe even as I think this, wooing her back.
They are not constructive thoughts, and I am reading a lot into a chance encounter in the hallway, but the thoughts exist regardless.
This puts me in a sour mood for the rest of the day. I run errands in the morning, then return to the apartment to change into my football uniform for the afternoon match. I ruminate in a stew of anger, worry, and a bit of sadness. Even Vincente comments on it Sunday afternoon over lunch. Emma has had all weekend with another man, and I am unreasonably cranky about it.
I don’t see Emma or her ex at all until that evening. She’s returning to her apartment at the same time I come back from dinner. Bruce is nowhere to be found, and neither is her daughter.
I get to the lobby door first and hold it open for her.
“Hi,” she says as she passes, her eyes bouncing back and forth between mine.
Once we hit the stairs, I ask, “Did you have a good time with your daughter?”
Emma’s face lights up. Prosecco, I think.
“It was so good! We ate way too much”—she pats her stomach—“and walked a lot.”
“And Bruce?” We reach the top of the stairs.
“He was there.”
A wonderfully ambiguous statement. I know I don’t have any right to ask Emma about this, but I do anyway, because I’m a weak man who can’t help it. “He brings you flowers, flies in from the States. I think he had intentions, no?” We’ve arrived at Emma’s door, and I lean against the wall next to it, crossing my arms.
“Santo—” A door slams upstairs, and Emma glances up. Stepping back, she gestures me into her apartment, and I follow. “He did have intentions,” she admits after shutting the door.
My heart jumps. She looks hesitant, wary even.
“I have no right to this, I know. But he does not deserve you.”
Emma raises her eyebrows. “You don’t know me that well, Santo. We had one night together, and it wasn’t that good.” She laughs, but it’s the sad kind. “That was my fault, I know.”
“It wasn’t your fault. So you have hang-ups. Lots of people do.”
“You don’t know my history, Santo. You don’t know what my sex life has been like, you don’t know the things that I enjoy, you don’t know…” She hesitates, biting her lip. “You don’t know a lot about me. It’s pretty presumptuous to think I deserve some idealistic life.”
“Don’t say that!” I snap at her, anger rising. “Don’t talk about deserve or not. Think about what you want in life, and ask yourself if Bruce can give it to you.”
“God, Santo.” She drops her hands. “I didn’t even say I was going to consider it.”
“You’re not? You have a history and kids together.”
“Are you trying to convince me to be with him or not?” She throws her hands out in exasperation.
I don’t know what I’m trying to do. “I just want to make sure you know that you have options.”
“I have options? Oh, really? What exactly are my options here? I don’t have men banging on my door who want to have sex with me.”
She could, I think, but bite my tongue. She’s so much sexier than she gives herself credit for. If she went out to meet someone…
My hands clench, and my jaw tightens. There are enough men like Bruce out there, like the ones catcalling her on the street. I may not be the son my father expected or the husband my ex-wives wanted, but if I know one fucking thing, it’s how to please a woman.
“If you ever think about going back to Bruce,” I grit out. “Tell me.”
“And what, exactly, will you do?” She crosses her arms and cocks her hip as if presenting me with a challenge.
“I’ll show you exactly how good it can be myself.”