Page 32 of Prosecco with My Professor
The food is fine, unevenly warmed and heavy, but also very nostalgic. Shonda’s macaroni and cheese is probably the favorite and goes quickly.
There’s another loud whistle, and the same professor from earlier is standing at one of the tables. “There is an American tradition we’d like to encourage, which is to go around the room and share what we are all thankful for. You don’t have to speak, but you are welcome to if you’d like. I’d like to start by saying I’m thankful for the professors and students at our host university who helped us, not only today, but over all the years the exchange program has been running.”
He lifts his glass, and we all toast and drink. One by one, we go around the room. Most of the students stand up and speak, and sometimes it’s irreverent and followed by laughter—“I’m thankful for two a.m. Kebabs.” Sometimes, it’s heartwarming and makes the mom in me tear up—“I’m thankful for the technology to FaceTime with my family.” And sometimes it’s inside jokes that make us three outsiders exchange amused glances.
We get to our table. One of Abelie’s friends starts. “I’m grateful for the legal drinking age in Italy,” he says with a grin. Everyone groans.
Abelie is next. “I am thankful for my new friends who invited me today.”
Then Santo. He stands and rests a hand on Abelie’s shoulder. “I am grateful for the best ex-stepdaughter I’ll ever have.” He looks at Abelie. “You are my family, and always will be.”
She smiles, her eyes wet as she leans her cheek on his hand. He kisses the top of her head before sitting down.
My turn. I stand with my glass. “Well, my kids aren’t here, so I don’t have to suck up to them.” There’s a chuckle around the room. “I’m thankful for the opportunity to get an education like the one I’m getting now. It’s not often that people have to start their lives over in their forties, but having new friends,” I lift my glass to Shonda, “and, uh…” I turn to Santo. How to describe Santo? “New neighbors,” I finally settle on, “is really helpful.”
When I sit, Santo and Shonda clink glasses with me. Neighbor feels so inadequate, but there isn’t really a better way to describe him. Santo’s gaze catches mine and holds. My heart thumps faster and I can’t look away.
Laughter interrupts us, though, and I blink. Santo turns away, sipping his wine. We listen to the rest of the thankfulness, and the lead professor says, “Okay, now that everyone’s been thankful, there’s pie.”
The volume increases while many of the room gets up to help themselves to the dozens of pies on the far table. We stay seated, though.
“You know,” Abelie says, turning to Santo with one hand on her hip. “Fifty-seven is not that old. You still have time to marry and divorce and gain more ex-stepdaughters Maybe they’d be older ones, so that you don’t have to go through terrible teenage years again.” Her tone is light and teasing and Santo laughs.
“Well, I would have to get married first, and I think those days are done for.”
I bite the corner of my lip to hide my frown. That’s sad. Santo is successful and attractive and the night he took me home, he was certainly charming.
Abelie pouts. “Are you saying I will never have the opportunity to introduce someone as my ex-stepfather’s new stepchild?” She catches me following the conversation and winks. I look away, cheeks hot.
Am I going to have stepchildren someday? I love the relationship Santo has with Abelie; loving but still paternalistic. Over the past month, I’ve thought about sex with new men—well, let’s be honest, mostly sex with Santo—but would I ever want to get married again?
16
Emma
The weekafter Thanksgiving is our tenth week in the MBA program, and while I’m enjoying life in Rome, I’ve made new friends, and I am not getting catcalled nearly as often, academically, it’s not going well. I thought that I would have figured this thing out a bit more and would have worked out the kinks of being a full-time student now that we’re into my second semester, but alas, this is just how I am as a student.
This week was especially hectic because I wrote down that an assignment for my Organizational Behavior class was due “next Friday,” but I had jotted it in the margin of my notes from the week of orientation, so I got my Fridays mixed up. It was due today, not next Friday. Frazzled, I asked for an extension from my professor, and they gave me until Monday, thank god. That means that this weekend I can buckle down and work on it.
I’m leaving my last class of the day, mapping out my path home and how I’m going to swing by a local delicatessen to grab dinner for later when my phone vibrates in my bag. While taking the steps down to street level from the school’s exit, I scramble to find it. I’m glad I did because when I pull it out, it’s Hattie’s face gazing out at me from the screen. My kids have my schedule, so hopefully she knows I’m just out of class.
“Hey, Hattie!” I answer.
“Mom, where are you?” She sounds out of breath—from excitement, I hope, and not anything bad.
“Just leaving the university and heading home. Where are you?” My middle child is in college in Houston, so I assume she’s between classes or having lunch.
“I’m in Rome!” she shouts.
I nearly drop my phone. “What? Where?”
“I’m at a cafe. I’ll send you my location. Meet me here?”
“Of course.”
The message comes in, directing me to a small cafe in the opposite direction of my apartment, closer toward the Vatican, but that’s fine. Hattie’shere. I have so many questions.
How did she get here? What is she doing? Why is she surprising me?
