Page 34 of Prosecco with My Professor
“You know what they say, Mom?” Hattie grins mischievously. At my quizzical look, she responds, “There’s an app for that.”
“Ha, I’m sure there is. It’s one mistake, and it’s not a huge one, so I’ll be okay.”
I go back to reading, and Hattie flips open one of my nearby notebooks, thumbing through my handwritten notes. Most of the students in my classes take notes on their laptops. I did sometimes if, say, I forgot a pen—where do they all go? I swear I restock every week—and was tired of having to ask my neighbor to borrow one. But all too often, I’d find myself browsing the internet or chatting with my friends, so I tried to take handwritten notes more often so I’d be less distracted.
Even now, reading about how perceived oversight by management changes worker production, I want to look up statistics of how much of manufacturing has been automated, but that would probably lead me down a rabbit hole to shrimp procreation or something equally irrelevant.
How did shrimp have sex? Or did they lay eggs? I’ve seen female crawfish carrying egg cases under their tails; is that how it works for shrimp too?
I close my textbook. Shrimp sex. I definitely need to call it a night.
17
Santo
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 justheardof 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.
