Chapter 22
I don’t havea lot of time to think about the fact that Santo still wants to give me an orgasm. He was right—I have a lot going on. I’ve been swamped with my schoolwork and, not that there’s a great time to miss almost a week of school, but having been sick right near the end of the term means everything is crammed in at the last moment.
For Christmas, I go home to Texas. In the divorce, we decided to sell the house, and I was renting a place before I came to Europe, so now I rent an Airbnb for the week, and the kids fly back home. On Christmas morning, when I throw Pillsbury canned biscuits into the oven and watch some videos for my classes, the house is deceptively quiet. Long gone are the days of early morning furors of opening presents and playing with toys.
Parker comes down the stairs first. Growing up, they’d been the quietest of my three kids, and now that they are in college out west, they are really coming out of their shell…at least, I can’t keep track of all their new friends’ names and the photos on Instagram make it seem like Parker is having a great time.
“You’re studying,” they observe once they’ve poured a cup of coffee and sat next to me. I wrap my arm around their shoulders, and they snuggle in closer, a warmth spreading through me I’ve been missing.
“Yes, well, falling ill and being unconscious for nearly a week is pretty detrimental to my coursework.”
We fall silent as I click the link to an external source and read a case study on the Keynes Multiplier for my Macro Economics class.
The front door opens and Hattie bounds through, running gear on and drenched in sweat. It’s a warm Austin Christmas this year, and while we debated celebrating elsewhere since we were renting a house, it was ultimately decided that we would stay in Austin. I wanted Bruce to be close enough to come celebrate but not stay in the same house or hotel as me.
“Merry Christmas,” Hattie says, kissing my cheek and ruffling Parker’s pompadour. Parker swats at her until she ducks out of reach on the other side of the kitchen island. She opens the fridge, pulling out some fruit and a sports drink while Parker settles back in at my side.
A few minutes later, which my children both spend scrolling on their phones and snacking on sliced melons, my phone buzzes next to my laptop. There’s a new message on WhatsApp from an unknown number.
Tessa gave me your number. It didn’t feel right having hers and not yours. Also didn’t feel right not wishing you a merry Christmas. Do Americans have eating contests with this holiday too? – Santo
I smile. Tessa had told me she’d given Santo my number when she’d left town, but this is the first time he’s used it. I save his number on my phone, where WhatsApp automatically gives it his full name.
Emma
No eating contests for this one. We cover a different deadly sin. Thanksgiving was gluttony, Christmas is greed. I spent way too much on Christmas presents this year. Call it post-divorce guilt.
Santo
How very not-Catholic of you. Our neighbor, the Vatican, would pray for your soul.
Emma
What are you doing for Christmas?
Instead of responding via text, Santo sends me a picture of Zola with a red bow on her head, the kind that has a sticky back so you can attach it to things. She is Not Amused.
“Who’s Santo Offredi?” Parker asks, peering over my shoulder. I quickly flip the phone face down.
“Just a friend,” I say.
“Wait,” Hattie calls from where she’s leaned against the counter. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“I don’t know,” I say with mock exasperation. “Maybe I mentioned him before?” Whatever Hattie is about to say gets interrupted by the timer on the oven. Saved by the biscuits. “Your dad will be here in a few minutes. Can someone go wake Gabby up?” My oldest was out late last night catching up with her high school friends. Now that they are old enough to drink (legally), I expect she won’t be trying to hide her hangovers anymore.
“Gabby!” Parker shouts from right next to my ear.
“Hey. Get your ass off the stool.”
Parker takes two steps away from me before they shout again. It is a small house—two bedrooms we’re sharing between the four of us—but still.
Hattie snaps her fingers. “I met him!”
“Who?” I ask while opening the oven. The biscuits are nice and golden brown, but the bacon still needs a few minutes.
“Santo Offredi. Your professor.”
Oh god. How on earth did she meet him? Parker’s head whips around like a dog scenting fresh blood. Behind them, the door opens, and Gabby stumbles out, sleepy-eyed.
“Who’s Mom’s professor?” she mumbles, making her way over to the coffee machine.
“Maybe if you weren’t so hungover, you’d know,” Parker taunts, putting their palm on their sister’s face and shoving.
“Oh sure, I’m the troublemaker because I’m twenty-one now. We’ve all seen the party pics, Parker!”
This resolves into the two of them bickering, and then the doorbell rings and two seconds later Bruce is walking in. The kids greet their father, who’s going to take them to visit his family this evening.
“Emma.” He kisses me on the cheek. “Smells amazing.”
“Thank you. Biscuits are done. Hattie, can you get the condiments out?”
“I want to make the moose snot!” Gabby calls out.
“Too slow,” Hattie retorts from the open fridge.
Moose snot is a family tradition, one I don’t even remember the source of. It’s butter and honey mixed in a whipped bouquet of fat and sweet. It’s a treat we only have on Christmas Day. The stick of butter has been out on the counter since I got up this morning, so it’s perfect for mixing with the honey.
“He’s cute,” Hattie says.
“Who is?” Parker asks.
“Mom’s professor.”
“What? Let me see.
Hattie smacks their hand away from her phone. “You have your own phone.”
“Enough,” I tell them, but they ignore me.
“Who is this?” Bruce stands by Hattie’s shoulder and leans over. This, Hattie allows. “Him?” Bruce’s eyebrows rise to the stratosphere. “Your neighbor?”
“YOUR NEIGHBOR!” Hattie shrieks. “You live next to him?”
“Oh, Mom’s blushing,” Parker comments.
“Someone’s got a crush,” Hattie sing-songs.
“You should ask him out, Mom,” Gabby adds. She’s already pouring herself a second mug of coffee, so she’s looking much more awake now.
“Maybe he’s already asked her out,” Bruce says, narrowed eyes on me.
“He’s like, Patrick-Dempsey level hot. Like, stern brunch daddy hot,” Hattie adds.
I don’t want to know how she knows that phrase, which I only know from romance novels. But, uh… I should text that comment to my friends. Jade would be so proud, and also, it’s accurate.
“Is he Italian?” Parker asks.
“Are you dating him?” Hattie persists.
“I’m not. Yes, he’s Italian, but no, we are not dating.” Technically, the truth. No dates have been had. Nor will they be had, for that matter. Santo might want to make my toes curl, but I’m pretty sure it’s in the name of science. Or statistics. Whatever.
My kids throw up a chorus that’s a mix of complaints and encouragement, and I never would have considered that they would have so many opinions on a guy they’d never meet. Or on my sex life. Maybe all the work Bruce and I do to be friendly to each other and demonstrate a healthy relationship is paying off.
“Are you dating him?” Bruce asks me quietly.
I hold his gaze, doing my best to look as honest as possible. “No, I’m really not.”
“Okay,” he says, raising his voice and clapping his hands. “That’s enough. Your mother is not dating her professor and joking about it is how rumors start. If a rumor went around that a professor was sleeping with his student that could cost him his job, so let’s not make a joke out of these kinds of things.”
Ouch. True, but also a stark reminder that we should not be doing…whatever we’re going to do.
But even as I think that, and as my kids get plates out and I pull the bacon out of the oven, a flutter of anticipation settles into my stomach.
Santo wants to do this regardless of the ramifications. He wants to go down on me that badly.
It’s just one time, that’s all. One time and I’ll know what it feels like to be desired like that.
One and done.