Page 8 of Bingeworthy
It’s one of the things we talked about in the car. In the wake of everything that happened, Rocco gave up alcohol in solidarity with Matthew. Another thing that is making my respect for him spike. Respect and…other things.
“I know that!” She hands him a filled glass. “Here’s your virgin.”
Mom, I want to say. Phrasing, please!
Rocco thanks her. I watch the two of them exchange a look. And then, in the second before Mom walks away with her tray of drinks, she throws Rocco a subtle wink.
No. This can’t be right.
I know I didn’t see what I saw, because my mother doesn’t flirt with anyone but my dad.
Wednesday night is always fun, second only to Christmas Eve, in my estimation. Tonight, we pop popcorn in our jammies around the fire and watch The Sound of Music. To my surprise, Rocco stays for the entire thing.
One by one, people begin heading off to bed. Soon, it’s just Rocco and me on the sofa with the middle child, Elizabeth, age four.
She curls up with her head resting on my leg. By the time the nuns have removed the distributor wires from the Nazis’ cars, Elizabeth’s mouth is drooping and her eyes are closed.
I nudge Rocco. “She’s passed out,” I whisper.
“Should we put her to bed?”
I shake my head. “When the movie’s over,” I say. “I don’t want her to wake up and think she’s missing anything. She can stay here and make my leg go to sleep.”
“You’re a good aunt,” he says, barely above a whisper. That warm feeling comes back.
The truth is, I’d like to continue to sit here with him, if only to play house for a bit longer.
When the movie ends, Rocco clicks off the screen and begins tidying up the family room while I put Elizabeth to bed. My childhood bedroom is still decorated in canary yellow with the same boy band posters on the walls.
Elizabeth struggles, but only a little when I tuck her under the old patchwork quilt. She lets out a slight whine and mumbles out some dreamy gibberish. I pet her hair, and she calms down, puffing out her chubby pink cheeks, then pops a thumb in her mouth.
Something darkens the doorway behind me. I turn and find Rocco standing there, watching us.
“She still asleep?” Rocco asks. “Need any help?”
“Elizabeth’s all good,” I say. “Thanks.”
He nods.
I close the door behind me and find it strange that Rocco lingers this way, his gaze illuminated by the hallway nightlight. “She always fights sleep when everyone’s together.”
He nods in understanding.
“Well, it’s a pretty damn special family,” he says.
“I guess it is, as annoying as it can be. I hope you didn’t feel obligated to stay so late.”
He shakes his head. “No. Not at all. In fact, I wish…”
I wait, but he doesn’t finish that sentence. “What do you wish, Rocco?”
He waits a beat, then crosses his arms over his sweatered chest. “Nothing. Feeling sappy because of the holiday. I’d better go get some sleep before I say something I regret. Have a good night.”
We exchange an awkward hug, and then he leaves.
I peer through the back window, watching him trudge up the back terrace stairs to his house.
I could stay here and stare at Rocco’s house, trying to decipher the mystery of this man. Sleep demands I head the other way, out the back door, across the pool deck, and into the tiny guest house, as the touch of his sweater against my cheek remains with me.
