Page 108 of Good as Gold
In the kitchen, I pack my shoulder bag for the school day. I add my water bottle and then a snack, courtesy of Matteo. After I’d told him what the pregnancy books say about nutrition, he’d sent me a case of kale chips and mixed nuts.
That was unexpected, and a little pushy. But it turns out that kale chips taste better than they sound, so I’m not too annoyed.
We talk occasionally, and I try to keep things light. I give him updates about the baby’s development. But I don’t pry into his feelings, because I want him to take his time deciding on how involved he is. I don’t want to push.
He always conveys an undercurrent of worry about me and the baby, though. When I happened to mention that I’d lost a winter glove, the UPS guy showed up two days later with a new pair.
It was sweet, but it made me wonder if Matteo thinks I made it to age thirty-five without knowing how to take care of myself.
The irony! Last month he sent me a selfie from the top of a mountain, and I’ve never seen a more frightening photo in my life. He was standing on a peak so high that I almost got a nosebleed looking at it.
Matteo has a dangerous job. I don’t think I realized it before he told me all about his friend’s death. Recently I did some googling and learned that forty people die every year in skiing and snowboarding accidents.
And it’s literally his job to tackle the wooliest slopes in Colorado.
It’s terrifying. I’m not sleeping well.
Although my pregnancy might be to blame for that. I’m past the midpoint, but there’s still a long way to go. And I’m showing now, so I get a lot of questions from well-meaning acquaintances.
This past Sunday, an elderly man at church said, “I didn’t realize you’d remarried.”
I never know what to say to comments like that. “I didn’t,” was all I managed to come up with. It was awkward.
Even people I know well are a mixed bag. A high school friend assumed I’d had a one-night stand with my ex. “That’s a thing people do,” she’d said, as if I wanted her blessing.
The worst reaction, though, came from my father. When I told him I was pregnant, he went ballistic, demanding to know who “did this to me.”
Honestly, it was unexpected. I knew my father had certain backwards viewpoints, but I hadn’t realized how bad they could be. He hadn’t believed that the pregnancy had been my choice.
But he’ll come around eventually. I’m his favorite child. And anger is his default reaction to everything. “It’s how he shows love,” I’d joked to Nash.
“He must love me a lot, then,” Nash had quipped.
If it weren’t for repeated sunny updates from the obstetrician and a trove of new sonogram pictures on my fridge, I’d probably be depressed about it.
At seven o’clock, I put on my boots, my coat, and my new gloves. (Thank you, Matteo.) I head for the coffee shop, but pause at the door to see who’s behind the counter. I’m avoiding Zara, because I know she has an inkling that this is Matteo’s baby under my ill-fitting coat. And I’m not ready to discuss that with her.
It’s Roddy at the counter, though, so I go inside for my muffin and half caf.
He serves it up with a smile and says, “Take care in the parking lot, okay? I put down some salt this morning, but it might still be icy.”
“Thanks, but these boots have a really good tread,” I tell him. I’m secretly wondering if he’s giving everyone this same advice, or if he’s reserved it just for the disheveled pregnant lady. He gives me a friendly wave, and I head back outside into the gloom.
I pull up short as I approach my car. There’s a strange man leaning over the open hood.
“Excuse me?” I sputter. “That’s my car!”
He turns around, and I notice he’s wearing a coverall that saysMarker Motors, and he’s holding a screwdriver. “I’ll just be a minute, ma’am. Would you mind unlocking the car so I can make sure this bulb is good to go?”
“Wait.” It’s hard to make sense of what’s happening. “My headlight went out yesterday. And you just… fixed it?”
He frowns at me. “The work order said it was a yellow Wrangler. There’s only one in the lot, ma’am.”
“Whose work order?” I demand.
He plucks a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Mr. Matteo Rossi. Front passenger’s side headlamp.”
My mouth falls open. I’d mentioned the burned-out headlight to Matteo offhandedly—when I was trying not to blurt out how much I miss him.
