Page 46 of Prosecco with My Professor
“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 onearthdid 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’mthe 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.
