Chapter 9
CHAPTER
NINE
Axel
Tonight was a big F.
I fling myself onto my bed. I’m bored out of my mind, and it’s not even ten o’clock.
Maybe I should have given Enzo my details and seen what he was so desperate to talk about.
Everyone says that hockey schedules are brutal, but I super wish that I had a game tonight.
I open the WhatsApp group chat.
ME: Anyone want to watch the new fantasy series? I’m in Room 624.
FINN: Nerd.
NOAH: He’s teasing you. We’re busy. ;)
FINN: [Egg plant emoji.]
TROY: Wrong text thread, Finn. Sorry, bro. I don’t feel like getting a headache tonight.
ME: I’ll explain everything!
TROY: That’s what I mean.
Fuck.
I stare at my phone.
I get a series of people teasing me for having the taste of a nerdy fourteen-year-old and I try not to take it personally.
I can watch it by myself.
It’s cool.
The doorbell rings, and I jump off the bed eagerly.
I won’t be alone after all. Someone is here.
I peek through the peephole, and it’s… Enzo.
I stiffen.
I could just not open the door.
But maybe he wants to watch something with me. I smile. I-I guess we could do that. My chest flutters like I’m nervous, and my throat goes dry. I’m probably dehydrated from the bar.
Hydration is important, and whiskey doesn’t count.
I swing open the door. “Hi Enzo.”
And then I see there’s someone holding his hand.
Someone small.
Enzo has a toddler? That can’t be right.
Is Enzo… babysitting? But that doesn’t make sense. He’s twenty-eight, not a thirteen-year-old girl helping her next-door neighbors.
Is that his child?
He has Enzo’s olive skin and has the same uncertain look Enzo gets.
Something revolting curdles in my gut. I didn’t know Enzo was even dating anyone. But children generally come from something more serious than dating. Like from sleeping with someone. That ugly sensation crawls over my chest.
I don’t want to think about my ex-best friend making babies with someone.
“You brought a child?” I sneer.
Enzo’s face falls, but he squares his shoulders. “Yes, I did.”
He marches into my hotel room, even though I don’t want him there. He scans the room, like he’s assessing it for danger.
“I didn’t invite you in,” I say.
“I didn’t ask for an invitation.”
How did I never notice before how strange Enzo is? Clearly, I had horrible taste in friends when I was in college.
“You can’t just barge inside,” I say.
“You can’t ignore your family.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Okay, that comment was seriously weird, even for Enzo. “I have a good relationship with my family.”
I don’t see my parents often. They live in a suburb of Pittsburgh, and my brother is stationed in Japan, but everything is fine. No drama.
“I rented a place for everyone at Christmas in Vermont. It was awesome.”
Enzo rolls his eyes. “Children count too.”
My gaze falls on the toddler staring at me. His eyes are blue-green.
An idea occurs to me.
An idea that has to be wrong.
But a chill moves through me anyway, as does a faint memory.
“How is your sister doing?” I ask.
Enzo turns a sickly pale shade. “You don’t know?”
“About what?”
The icky sensation in my belly is stronger. Because I can actually think of a reason why Enzo would be here with a toddler. But it’s not a reason I want to have happened.
“Gaby died ten days ago,” Enzo says, his voice flat. “I-I thought you knew. I e-mailed you. And texted you.”
“I, uh, might have blocked you…”
And though I didn’t physically slap him, though I know my fingers are on my side like they’ve always been, it feels like I’ve slapped him all the same.
“Oh.” Enzo frowns. “That still doesn’t excuse your behavior.”
“I’m sorry Gaby died,” I say, and my gaze flicks again to the toddler hiding behind Enzo’s leg. “Is that…?”
Enzo gives me an ugly smile, entirely different from the guy I met when I was eighteen, the guy I used to explore Boston with, the guy who was my best friend, the first real one I’d ever had besides my brother, the guy I thought would never stop speaking to me one day.
“Meet Luca,” Enzo says.
I shift my weight from leg to leg.
Because he still hasn’t addressed what I think he might address, and I’m too scared to say the words myself. Because they’re absurd. But Gaby asked me once for a sample, and I didn’t even have to think. Gaby is—was, oh, fuck—Enzo’s sister, and I would have done anything for him.
But when I texted her to ask if she’d gotten pregnant, she said it hadn’t worked.
And when I’d texted her to ask if she wanted to try again, perhaps using IVF, she’d never responded.
I’d assumed she’d changed her mind.
The toddler presses against Enzo’s leg, half-hiding. He peeks out at me with those blue-green eyes—my eyes, oh God—then buries his face in Enzo’s thigh.
Does he look like me?
I mean, he looks like a toddler. He has dark hair, like me, but Enzo has dark hair. Gaby has—shit, had—dark hair. Mine is from that vague Irish/German combination, and Enzo is Italian, which means his skin is a nice olive tint instead of freckled.
I don’t want to ask Enzo, in case he thinks I’m more ridiculous and narcissistic than he already does. But still…
“Is he yours?” I ask.
He grimaces. “I’m his parent now.”
Right.
“But…” He swallows hard and grimaces. “You are too.”
I step back and collide with the sofa. In the next moment, I am falling, falling, falling, staring at Enzo, and—holy Mordor—my kid.