Page 109 of Good as Gold
I miss him a little less right now, though. What the heck is he doing?
“Ma’am, if we can test the light, you could be on your way.”
“Right,” I grumble. Then I stomp over to the Jeep and get in.
When I hit the lights, they both work brilliantly.
CHAPTER41
MATTEO
MARCH
My phone rings while I’m standing in my kitchen watching my dinner revolve slowly in the microwave.
Instead of answering it, I look away. I’m exhausted from another long day on the mountain. Seven days a week—weather permitting—I spend six to eight hours riding some of the best terrain in the world. It’s a dream job. But I might as well work in a sweatshop for all the joy I take from it now.
I know my lack of gratitude is a problem. I just don’t know how to solve it.
On the fridge is a photo I took about two years ago. It’s Sean and Cara and Lissa standing together. I found the picture on my phone, and I had a print made at the drugstore. Seeing it reminds me of why I get up every day and go back to the mountain.
They look so happy, and it helps me to see that. It really does.
The microwave dings, and I slide the cooked meal onto a tray and carry it to the sofa. I bring my phone along. I notice that my caller—Rory—left a voicemail.
I sit down, eyeing the phone. Not hitting Play.
Instead, I pluck my laptop off the coffee table and open it up. The browser window is where I left it on Leila’s baby registry. I start to scroll.
I wouldn’t have thought to look for this if it weren’t for our new employee, Jeffrey. He and his wife welcomed their baby last month, and Cara had directed me to their baby registry so that we could pick out a gift together.
After that, I googled Leila’s name and found her wishlist, too. Now it’s my main form of entertainment. Even if I’m two thousand miles away, it’s a small sliver of insight into her excitement. I peruse the sleepers and the baby bottles and wonder how she’s doing.
She’s a little frustrated with me. After I had her car fixed, she made a point to tell me that if she needed my help, she’d ask for it. And it gutted me. I can feel the distance growing between us like a gaping wound.
I can admit that hiring a mechanic without asking makes me seem overbearing. But when I saw Leila in November, she’d said she wasscared. I can’t stand the thought of her all alone and feeling nervous. Swapping out a headlight seemed like a simple way to ease her stress.
At least when I scroll the baby registry, she can’t accuse me of overstepping. You don’t make a registry if you don’t want anyone to peruse these things, right?
Although some of the items on the list are inscrutable. While I wait for my dinner to cool, I read the product description for a fleece swaddle with a velcro closure. Given the photos, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to wrap the baby into it—the same way you’d wrap a burrito.
But I’m not exactly sure why. And the product listing doesn’t say. It’s moments like this when I wonder if there’s some daddy gene I’m missing. Maybe other men look at the burrito thing and understand.
I take a bite of chicken cordon bleu and move on to the next item on the registry. It’s the same kind of frontpack that Zara has for Micah. It comes in three colors. Leila needs the navy blue one. She also needs a set of glass bottles in various sizes, plus a bottle sterilizer.
I picture her feeding a baby in her arms, the same way she did with my nephew on the sofa. And I feel a little calmer than I did a few minutes ago.
The new voicemail on my phone nags at me. I might as well get it over with. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.
I hit Play, and right away I can tell that Rory is drunk and emotional. He’s probably brooding in his living room the same way I am right now.
Matteo. God. Leila did it. She went and did it. She’s pregnant.
I’m thinking you probably already know this. She probably told you herself. Thanks for the fucking warning. I had to hear it last week from Andy down at the barbershop. He heard it from his aunt who heard it at her book club.
Nobody knows who the father is. She won’t say. It’s not me, in case you’re wondering. I always told her I wasn’t ready for kids. It’s not a good time. Next year will be better. I said that a lot.
I kept putting it off. Maybe you’ll think I’m an idiot. But it’s true—it was never a good time. I let her think that money was the problem, but it wasn’t really. Fuck. I never had a dad. No idea how to be one.
