by Emilia Finn
“You what?” Mitchell explodes. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“Okay-love-you-bye.” At that, Abby drops out of the call, and with her, Troy.
“Did she just…?” My heart pounds with fast and heavy thuds. “Adoption? Abby?”
“She did,” Beck murmurs. “Abby is… she’s… she’s the baby. And now she’s…”
“Married,” Corey inserts. “Happy. Cute as hell with her commando protector.”
“But she’s…”
“Capable,” Nadia adds forcefully. “Smart. Badass. Owes me a candy bar, because I kept her secret for three whole days.”
“You knew?” Mitchell demands. “Nadia? You knew she was talking about adoption?”
“And that’s my stop,” she sniggers. “Okay-love-you-bye.”
“Nadia!” Mitchell doesn’t hang up, but he sure as shit chases his girl around their house. “Get back here, woman!”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Corey says to me over Nadia’s squeals in the background. “You like the chick, so tell her so.”
“She knows. She knew the moment we met.”
“But she has a problem with your job?”
“Yup. Firefighters are an absolute nope for her.”
“Well…” Uncharacteristically serious, Beck clears his throat. “You’re gonna have to convince her you’ve got your shit under control and that you won’t get hurt. Or…”
“Or you change every single tiny thing about yourself to fit the mold this woman wants in a man,” Corey says. “Of course, there’s a third option.”
“There is?”
“Yeah. You let her go and move on. There are plenty more fish in the sea, Nix.”
Not the third option I was hoping for.
Setting my beer on the shelf built into my shower, I flip the taps on and begin undressing. “Or I could just keep hammering away that I’m good at my job. The longer she knows me, the more she’ll trust that I’m coming home.”
“Good plan, bro.” Snorting, Corey exits the conversation and leaves just me and Beckett.
“Shut up,” I tell him before he speaks. “I can’t deal with you right now.”
Unoffended, he only chuckles. “Fine. So I won’t mention how hot the mom is. Noted. I’ll see you at the ballgame?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there. I’m doing nothing for the rest of tonight except lounging on my couch and watching movies. Tomorrow, I have to re-learn how to play baseball.”
It’s a brilliant plan, of course—except my phone pulls me out of bed at a little past midnight.
A fire. A destroyed home. But now, my brain makes me study the scene with fresh eyes; is this the same type of home Idalia once lived in? That woman being held at Mitch’s ambulance; are her tears the same as Idalia’s would have been that night? And when Axe walks through the door in search of occupants; is that the same as when they sent Brandon McGarren back in that night?
Fortunately for us, Axe comes back out.
Idalia
Playing with balls
I stand on one side of my kitchen island counter, in a dressing gown and fuzzy socks, while Max sits on the other side, dump truck pyjamas and hair spiking in a million directions. I have my morning coffee and bad breath, and Max has a bowl of sugary cereal—a treat, since it’s the weekend.
Despite it being the weekend, we still have work to do.
I hold up a sight card with the word ‘cat’ on it, as well as a picture of a cat, and enunciate every tiny syllable. “C-a-t. Can you say that, Max? C-a-t.”
He’s bed-rumpled, soft and warm after a long night’s rest, and though he sits and listens to me say his words, he only chews his food and remains silent.
“Bello. C-a-t. I need you to meet me halfway here. C-a-t. You can do it.”
He can do it. He can say it, and if he’d just start, I’m confident he can say anything. My child doesn’t have a learning disability. He’s smart, and he pays close attention to everything going on around him. Once he speaks again, I’m certain he’ll have fully formed sentences that will be far beyond anything any four-year-old should speak—the benefits of hearing Mom talk business all day long.
But first, he needs to start with just one word.
“D-o-g.” I flip to the next card and try again. “D-o-g. Can you say ‘dog’?”
He shakes his head—not a no, but an I’m not interested—and glances toward the wall of windows. In silence, he slides off his stool and turns to walk that way, but with a last thought, he grabs his sugary cereal first, then makes his way to the window, our viewing glass to the entirety of town.
He lives in his own little world, a world where no one has to speak, and yet everyone can understand him.
Sitting on the floor in the sunlight filtering through the glass, Max sets up his little picnic space and continues to eat. And I… drink more coffee.
“You go to school in the fall, bello. Big school, with big kids. They’ll all want to play with you.” Exhausted already, I sigh and drop my elbows onto the counter with a bang.
I hiss at the accidental pain I give myself, but that ache subsides instantly and makes way for my brain to obsess on my son. “Maximo? Mommy needs you to work hard and learn some words. It’s really important that you—”
He makes his clicking sound in the back of his throat. His lazy-man’s way of communicating without saying a damn thing.
Frustrated, I make my way around the counter and across the living room until sunlight cloaks me and makes me warmer than my gown could ever hope to. When I arrive at Max’s side, I glance down at his small setup—cereal, a cushion from the couch, and a single Hot Wheels car of orange and blue—but when Max isn’t looking at his things, but out the window, I follow his gaze and purse my lips at the sight of the park and dozens and dozens of cars finding their parking spaces.
Frowning, I lean back and glance toward the clock in the kitchen. “It’s barely eight. That’s a lot of people out there, huh?” I look back to the park and try to make sense of what I’m seeing. “Lots of people going to the same place. I wonder what that’s all about? Did Arlo say, bello? Did she say why the town would be meeting so early on a Saturday?”
He shrugs. That’s not an I don’t know. It’s a no.
“Well, we weren’t invited, so it’s probably best we don’t think too much about it.”
My body wants me to go back to the counter and drink more coffee. Or better yet, to bed, and steal a few more hours of slumber. But what I actually do is grunt and make my way to the floor to sit beside my son.
Stretching my legs straight and fixing my gown to cover them, I study the unusual commotion with too much curiosity. “Ya know, Maximo. If you say you want to go, as in, actually say it, then maybe we could get dressed and head out.”
He looks at me with a lifted brow and derision in his eyes, calling me out on my shit.
“Was that crappy of me?”
He nods, so I burst out laughing and go back to watching the growing crowd of cars.
“I’m sorry, baby. It’s just that I really, really want you to speak.” I look to him. “It’s really important to me that you say something soon. The world is already a horrible place, bello. People are mean, and society slows down for no one. There will be kids at school who don’t like anyone who is different, and there are parents who will—”
Judge me. That’s how that sentence was going to end. My truths laid out on a platter for anyone to see.
Jesus, I’m pushing my son to do something he doesn’t want to do, all because I don’t want to be judged as a shitty mom.
“I’m sorry, Maximo.” Scooting to the side, I grab my son and crush him under my arm. “I’m sorry if Mommy is too pushy about talking. It’s important you do, because the world will be so much harder for you if you don’t. But Mommy is sorry for her own motivations. I’m the reason you stopped.” I press a kiss to his moppy hair. “And now I’m trying to use emotional manipulation to help you start again.” Another kis
s to the top of his head. “That’s so shitty of me. We can go down if you like. No words necessary. We can get dressed and head down to the park to see what everyone is doing. Would you like to do that?”
He nods, gentle and sweet as he cuddles into my side.
“But we can only go for a couple hours,” I tell him. “Then Mommy has to come back here and do a little work.”
My phone vibrates in my gown pocket. The buzz, racing along my thigh, breaks my cuddle with my son and brings a sigh rolling through my chest.
The Oriane is my child now, almost as much as Maximo is. The staff here, my responsibility, the success of this place, paramount—or not only will my son and I be unable to eat, but so will dozens of other families who rely on my hotel to pay their salary.
Finally wrapping my fingers around the device, I pull it out and watch as Max goes back to eating and staring out at the park. Arlo’s name flashes on the screen and the dread that took up residence in my chest—dread that something bad had happened, or something needed my attention—loosens until I’m able to smile.
Hitting accept, I bring the phone to my ear. “Arlo? It’s Saturday. It’s your day off.”
“Come to the park today.”
There’s no hey! No good morning. And she sure as hell isn’t asking.
“Excuse me?”
Arlo snickers, and when I listen closer, I’m able to hear wind playing on her end of the call. Traffic. She’s driving. “Please come to the park today,” she tries again, only to end it on, “grumpy ass. Today’s a big day for this town, and as the owner of such a beautiful, prestigious new establishment in said town, I feel it would be important for you to make an appearance.”
“You do?”
“People are curious, Idalia. They’ve seen the renovations, they’ve heard about the new function rooms. They know you host weddings, but not everyone has one of those planned for this year. They want to see you, so yeah, I think you should come out.”
“So…” I look to Max and feel pangs of guilt. Going to the park was supposed to be a fun Mom-and-Max thing, but now it’s transforming into a work thing. “That navy blue suit, right? Blazer and heels?”
“Hell no. Wear some itty-bitty, ass-showing cutoffs and a tank top. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”
“What?” Scandalized, I look to Maximo once more and wonder if we’ll make it to the park at all. “Are you crazy?”
“Only on Tuesdays. Okay, I was kidding about the shorts, but definitely dress down. Jeans and a shirt will work just fine.”
“And look underdressed?” I balk. “No one will take me seriously if I’m there to represent the Oriane, but look like the owner of ‘Hotel’.”
“And if you turn up looking like Paris Hilton of the Hilton—”
“I know who Paris Hilton is!”
“You’ll be unapproachable,” she finishes with a laugh. “Snooty and unfriendly. It’s Saturday, Idalia. The weekend. You’re attending a charity ballgame, not a five-star dinner.”
“A charity ballgame?” That piques my interest. “Is that what’s happening down there today? Max and I were just wondering what’s bringing all those cars out.”
“I’m in one of those cars, and some yahoo in front of me needs a new muffler.” She mock-coughs and makes a big deal about someone who has, apparently, offended her. “And yep. This is a yearly thing, I heard. They raise funds and find a good cause each year to donate to. Last year, they used the money to install wheelchair ramps at the school.”
“Oh, well. That’s fantastic.”
“Right? This year, they’re donating to youth and at-risk teens, which I think is also really cool.”
“I agree. Super cool. But how do they propose to disburse those funds to teens? Are the organizers standing at the gates and handing cash to anyone nineteen and under?”
She snorts. “That’s one supercharged way to get kids in trouble. And no, I don’t know. I think maybe they’ll put the money into the youth center or something.”
“Is there a youth center in this town?”
“I don’t know! Geez. What are you, the IRS? Why the Italian Inquisition?”
“Spanish Inquisition, sciocco. It was the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Wait. Are you Spanish? I thought you said you were from Italy?”
“I’m about to burn you at the stake, Arlo. Fine, whatever. Youth center, charity ballgame. Got it. How do they raise money?”
“People pay to watch the game, and anyone can donate again when they’re inside. The people who organize this have folks walking around collecting cash. They wear an official lanyard, so you know it’s totes legit.”
“Totes legit.” I draw a deep breath and look to the ceiling. I swear to all that is holy, if my son’s first words are totes legit, or fleek, or yeet, I’m going to throw my phone through these floor-to-ceiling windows. “What are you wearing?”
“Wow, sexual harassment in the workplace.”
When I growl, Arlo only snickers. “I’m wearing cutoffs, boots, and an official lanyard. Totes legit.”
“You’re wearing the pink boots again?”
“Yep, they’re so comfy. But also, I feel like you skimmed over the lanyard. That makes me important as hell.”
“You don’t even know where the money is going! You’re collecting, but have no clue if there’s even a youth center in this town.”
“Lan. Yard. Lanyard!”
“You’re. Fired. You’re fired!”
“Pfft. I’ll see you soon. When you arrive, come to me and put your money in my basket. I wanna have the most at the end of the day.”
“Why? Is there a prize for the most raised?”
“Yeah, it’s called self-respect and bragging rights. And I have an in with the snooty owner of the Oriane. If I find out you’ve given my money to some other beggar, I’m gonna lose my mind.”
“Fired.”
“Love you too. See you soon. Bring money.”
And that is the end of that.
Arlo cuts our call, and when I come back to reality, I look down to find Max’s eyes plastered to my face. He looks worried, and when I think about it, it’s easy to figure out why.
“I didn’t really fire her, bello. Arlo is like a rash with no cure. She’s not going anywhere.”
With that, his worry dissipates, and his smile stretches his face.
He loves her. He loves his crazy, wild, harebrained nanny who may or may not be a terrible influence on him. Which is probably why she feels comfortable talking shit and pissing me off. She knows she has a job for as long as she has Maximo on side.
“There’s a ballgame,” I tell him. “I guess that means… baseball?” I look around my living room, like that’ll somehow answer my thoughts. “I figure that’s what they mean around here. Which is stupido, if you ask me. Baseball is a boring game, bello. Calcio would be so much better, wouldn’t it?”
He nods, but I feel he’s pandering to me now. Agreeing just to shut me up.
“Alright, well…” I shrug. “Finish your breakfast, then get dressed. Cars are already arriving at the park, so I guess we should start getting ready too.”
Hurriedly, Max snags his bowl and begins drinking the milk in deep, gulping chugs that end with a bubbling burp. Setting the bowl down and flashing a chocolaty grin, he pops to his feet and dashes out of the room.
“Alright, then. I guess we’re going to the park.”
At a little after nine, and three outfit changes for me—from jeans, to cutoffs, back to jeans, and a few longing glances toward my suits—I settle on casual chic: jeans that make my ass look fantastic, and a shirt I just so happen to own of a baseball player swinging a bat, but beneath that it says ‘touchdown’.
I’m the foreigner, and no doubt these people will assume I have no clue that baseball doesn’t have touchdowns—duh, that’s basketball—which I guess makes the shirt a double winner. It’s an icebreaker, a way to let people know I know what sport we’re watching today, and on top o
f that, it looks good and accentuates my jeans.
All in all, it’s the best I can come up with that isn’t a suit, and right now, I’m glad I found something so I won’t stand out so much.
I stand in my bathroom with a curling iron warming my hair. I’m leaving it down today, but adding a little bounce to give it a little body and texture. I’ve applied mascara, eyeshadow, and a little bronzer to detract from my too-pale look. Red lipstick, since it makes me feel badass. And though I constantly gaze toward my heels, I settle on a pair of Converse and search my drawers for the socks that don’t show.
But I have to find the exact right pair, or risk having them chewed by my shoe three steps into our trek to the park.
“Mom?”
“Yeah, bello?” I study Max’s reflection in my mirror as he steps into the bathroom in jeans and a shirt that is inside-out.
But then I freeze.
Stunned.
Terrified.
I drop my curling iron and spin to my son. “Did you just say ‘mom’?” I yank him to my chest and ruin all of my makeup when tears stream from my eyes. “Maximo? Did you just say ‘mom’? Oh my gosh.”
Blubbering, I pull back and try to see him through my tears. “You said it, right? I didn’t make that up? Say it again so I can be sure?”
“Mom.”
“Oh god!” I howl. Undignified, loud and crazy-lady sobbing. “You said ‘mom’! Oh no.” A thought hits me. “Was it because of my emotional manipulation? Did you say it because of my abuse? Because I don’t want that, honey. I want you to want to say it. Do it for you, bello. Do it because you want to, not because I want you to.”
“Mom?”
“Now say ‘I love you’.” I’m a terrible person. “Maximo, I love you. Now can you say it back?”
He shakes his head, and my happy tears turn to those of heartbreak. “Please, Maximo? I love you.”
Stepping forward, he hugs me, to let me know he loves me back. But he doesn’t say the words.
“Say ‘mom’ again?” I pushed too far; unable to appreciate the gift he gave me, instead, immediately asking for more. “Can you say ‘mom’, Maximo? Please, can you say it?”