Page 58 of Prosecco with My Professor
“He left. Hold on.” I try to rise to sit and grunt in pain. Zola yowls in displeasure and hops off my chest.
“What about Emma?” Chiara asks.
“I’ll figure something out. See you soon.” I hang up. I have a series of concerned messages from Emma and instead of answering, I call her and explain the situation.
“Of course,” she says. “I’ll be right over.”
I lay back and wait for the women to arrive. Zola tries to climb back onto my chest, but I brush her off. I’m not in the mood for a cuddle and I’ll just have to push her off again soon.
Like father, like son.I can’t believe he’d fucking say that. I’m a professor, for fuck’s sake, not some egomaniacal import magnate with two children, one that he completely ignores and hides.
But I have an unprofessional relationship with Emma. I took her home, I kissed her, I’ve made her come on my tongue. It’s not the same, but is it really that different?
I’m pretty riled up by the time the women arrive. “Two house calls in as many months to this building. Stop trying to pay my bills, Santo,” Chiara teases, but I just grunt at her. Emma hasn’t said a word, but I can sense her moving around the apartment.
Chiara asks me a bunch of questions—did I stretch? What, exactly, did the pop feel like? Could I sit up?—and I am very aware of Emma hovering behind the couch. It reminds me of my mother hovering over my father when he was in one of his moods, and makes me even more irritated. My jaw is aching.
“How’s your pain on a sca?—”
“Emma,” I interupt. “Can I have some privacy? Please?”
“Of course,” Emma says, her voice quiet. A moment later, the door clicks closed.
Chiara stays quiet while she checks my vitals and tests the muscles in my lower back. She hums while she works, her fingers poking and prodding sore muscles. Then she makes me sit up and tests my reflexes. “No nerve damage,” she comments, before rising to her feet and walking over to my kitchen to wash her hands. “Scale of one to ten,” she asks me in Italian this time. “How bad is the pain?”
I have enough hubris to know that there is worse pain in the world, I’ve just never experienced it, not having the proper anatomy (or desire) for childbirth and never allowing my ex-wife close enough to kick me in the balls when she was in a peak of rage. I settle on six.
“You’ve got a lumbar strain. Some of your muscles have spasmed, which is causing the pain. You need to rest and ice your lower back. Since you sent my assistant away, and perhaps she wouldn’t be able to handle the language barrier anyway, I’m going to go get this prescription filled.” Chiara eyes me in disappointment, and I think it’s quite the feat to get that sort of disapproval from someone who’s at least two decades younger than me. “You helped her a lot when she was sick. Why can’t she return the favor?”
“This isn’t couples counseling,” I bite out. I’m being an ass. I know it. Chiara knows it. Emma, from her apartment two doors down, definitely knows it.
“Someone is being a grumpy ass,” Chiara reprimands like she’s inside my head. “I’m getting your prescription. Consider this a time out and think about what you’ve done.”
She departs, but instead of doing anything productive, I get lost in thoughts about my father until I fall asleep.
29
Santo
Of course,the moment I wake up, I feel like a shit for being so awful to Emma. However, it takes me until the next evening to feel like I can hobble over to her apartment and properly apologize. Fortunately, I have a bottle of Prosecco on hand; an apology gift.
At my knock, Emma opens the door and, despite the twinge in my lower back, I straighten and try not to grimace when I say hello.
Emma’s eyes are full of sympathy. “How are you?”
“I have been better. Here, this is for you. I am sorry for the way I behaved. I should not have yelled and taken out my anger on you.” I hold out the bottle of Prosecco, and her eyes soften even further. Am I ever going to think about Prosecco without thinking of her?
Emma takes the bottle. “Come in. I think we should talk.”
I gingerly step inside, and she closes the door behind me. She’s been working on her couch, notebooks and papers spread over the low table. There’s already a glass of wine next to her laptop.
The fridge door closes, the bottle I gave her set to chill, and Emma leans against her little kitchen counter. “Why were you so upset at me?”
I rake a hand through my hair. “Vincente—Professor Romano, I mean, was upset with me for not telling him you lived in my building.”
Her eyes widen. “You hadn’t told him?”
“No.” I look out the tall window and study the view of the building directly next door. All I can see is brick—very different from my view.
