Page 65 of Prosecco with My Professor
There’s a moment of quiet, and when I look back at my phone, Sara’s on the screen, her eyes scanning the area right below the camera. She’s in her house in Austin, daylight filtering in through the window next to her. Her daughter is back in school, and Sara and Chris have spent their time in the US to be close to Zoe.
The view switches to Jade. “What do you know about Santo outside of class, Emma?”
I think for a minute. “There’s a bio on the school’s website, which I’ve read. He’s divorced twice. He used to be in the tech industry.”
“What about his dad?” Jade prompts.
I bite my lip. Santo told me about his dad in confidence, and I don’t think I should tell them about the affair. It’s too private and unrelated—it was his father who had the affair, not Santo.
“Not much,” I admit.
“Emma, pick up your phone and google Franco Offredi.”
I do, swiping up to relegate Jade’s face to a tiny portion of the screen. The search results show me a variety of pictures through time of a man that has the same nose as Santo, same sharp gaze and coloring. Santo’s father is broader, and when I see pictures of the two of them together I can see that their build is quite different.
My friends and I are quiet as we read for a few minutes. There’s a helpful article about the height of Franco’s company, Offredi Importazioni Globali, or OIG. There was the Italian economic miracle in the late sixties, where post-war Italy experienced an economic boom—and OIG, which imported everything from televisions to railroad supplies, rode the wave, eventually diversifying and expanding to become one of the largest companies in Italy, and Franco one of the richest men.
When I read his estimated net worth, I can’t help the “oh shit,” that falls from my mouth.
“Oh, shit is right,” Jade remarks. “Santo is rich.”
“Just because his dad was rich doesn’t mean he is,” Tessa points out. “While generational wealth is a big thing, this article says upon his death, most of his wealth was in the business. And Santo’s CV on the school’s website doesn’t mention the company at all.”
We keep reading and digging, going down a rabbit hole, until I smell something burning.
“Oh shit,” I say again. I rush to the stovetop, where my dinner is smoking. Flipping the burner off, I peer into the pan. I forgot to set a timer, and now my quinoa and chicken are burned. Damn it. The smoke detector hasn’t gone off yet, thank god, so I rush to the window to fling it open and let in the nippy January air.
This is the problem with one-dish meals. If you screw it up, then you are back to square one.
“You okay there, Emma?” Tessa asks, sounding amused. She’s a skilled cook and I’d bet she’s never burnt a meal in her life.
“Fine,” I grumble, inspecting the pan. I poke at it with my spatula. The bottom is burned, but it was supposed to be tonight’s dinner and leftovers. I think the top is salvageable, so I might get one plate out of it.
“Castel Gandolfo looks beautiful,” Sara says wistfully.
That perks me up. “I know, I Googled it.” It’s a cute town on a lake surrounded by rolling hills. January isn’t the best time to visit, but it’s where many city folks—including, back in the day, the pope—spent their summers to get away from the stifling heat in the city. It’s only an hour or so away.
“It’ll be your own eat, pray, love journey,” Tessa quips. “Without the praying.”
Jade moans and pulls a When-Harry-Met-Sally-in-the-diner moment, her voice breathy and teasing. “Oh, god.”
We laugh. “Okay, blasphemer. How about eat, sleep, love?”
I rub my forehead. “Not going to lie, sleep sounds so good right now.”
After the conversation with Santo last night, I had a hard time focusing on my classwork. All last week, I gave myself more orgasms than I ever had in my life. I even pulled out my toy as soon as I got home today, but it only made me sad because I didn’t even know if Santo was around and Oliver wasn’t home to bark at me, either.
“I say go for it,” Jade announces.
“Color me surprised,” Tessa deadpans.
“What about his job? Her reputation at school?” Normally, I’m the one who’s the pessimist, but Sara’s always willing to take up the mantle for me.
They bicker back and forth for a bit—guess who says, “but sneaking around is so hot”?—until I interrupt them. “There is one other concern that I have.”
“Aside from the secrecy and the risks?”
“Yeah.” I fidget with the fringe on the throw blanket on the couch. “So, he’s definitely given me my best orgasm ever. I doubt I can return the favor. What if when we have sex, it’s not that great?”
