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This was a whirlwind of feels for me. Your writing is just *chef's kiss*. You have such a gift for making me feel like I'm there, living in the world instead of just reading about a fictional place and people. Brava bella!

🖤🖤🖤

You Look Good: Chapter 13

Summary: Early July 2027 - Crossing all the streams

Word count: 13.5k

Rating: M (just for language)

A/N: Hello and all the apologies for the amount of time it took to get the chapter finished and out into the world. Fair warning: I did write most of the second half while under the effects of anesthesia so…if you notice a drop in quality. That's why.

Credit for this chapter goes to the Divine Miss Taylor Swift, and a little moment from Angel, Season 3.

(I am rapidly running out of Joe gifs that are appropriate for present-day chapters, so have this one of...I don't know, let's just say it's Giuliana.)

Giuliana’s thick bangs fall too far into her eyes when she looks up from her coloring book. She needs a haircut. The fringe doesn’t seem to bother her as she furrows her brow to study you. “What’s wrong, Mama?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say immediately. “Why?”

“You’re all…” her face wrinkles further and she wiggles in her chair. “Squirmy.”

You can’t help but smile as you place your hand on your leg and force it to stop bouncing. “Was I shaking the table?” She nods. “I’m sorry.”

“Is okay,” she shrugs her little shoulders and returns to the orange streaks she’s rubbing onto the picture of a cow in her book. After another moment, she looks up again and squints. “Blue spots? Or gween spots?”

You smile again. “What about purple spots?”

Giuls narrows her eyes in a look that gives you too clear of a picture of what she’ll be like when she’s a teenager and shakes her head. “Blue spots,” she says again. “Or gween?”

“Blue,” you decide with a nod.

She reaches for the blue crayon just as your phone buzzes on the table. You pick it up and pretend you don’t see her eye you before she surreptitiously swaps it for the green.

Just got here, Joe has texted, and your pulse spikes again with positively useless anxiety. Where are you?

You direct him to the patio of the restaurant and force yourself not to stand up to wait for him. You are looking for him, though, and you spot him before he spots you. There’s a part of you that relaxes because he’s going to try and hide it, but he seems a little nervous too.

He puts that away when his eyes find your table toward the back and the nerves you’d spied are replaced with a smile. You wait until he’s only a few feet away before you stand and hug him. He kisses your cheek, and you wish you could kiss him properly. But you don’t, and you tell yourself you wouldn’t anyway. Not in a crowded restaurant like this.

You swallow once and clear your throat before turning back to the table. Giuliana is already looking up, studying you and Joe with her large, curious eyes. “Giuliana,” you smile and point over your shoulder. “This is Joe; this is my friend that I told you about. Would you like to come say hello?”

She gets slowly off her chair and takes a few steps to seal herself to your right side. “Hi,” she says quietly.

Joe smiles and bends to be at her level. “Hi, Giuliana,” he says and holds out his hand. “It’s very nice to meet you—your mummy’s told me so much about you.” Giuliana looks at him for a long moment before she puts her hand in his for a handshake. “Is it alright if I join you two for lunch?”

She nods again and looks up at you. “Is that okay, Mama?”

You bite your smile back and nod. “Yeah, I think so.”

Giuliana is uncharacteristically quiet during lunch, but she’s polite when she answers any questions she’s asked and she eats most of the fruit that comes with her grilled cheese sandwich, so you can’t really expect too much more than that.

“You talk funny,” she says suddenly, not looking up from chasing a blueberry around her plate with her fork.

“Giuliana Therese,” her full name is off your lips before you can stop yourself. “That is not a kind thing to say.”

“Not bad,” she gives you a look like it’s your fault for misunderstanding her. “Just funny.”

“It’s alright,” Joe says with a quiet laugh. “She’s not wrong.” He turns to look at your daughter, still smiling. “But you know, when I first met your mum, she was the one who talked funny.”

Her brow folds in confusion as she shakes her head. “Mama doesn’t talk funny.”

“Well, when I met her,” he counters easily, “we were in England and everyone there sounds like me.”

“Where’s that?”

“England?” he repeats, waiting for her to nod before he continues. “It’s all the way on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Why did you go there, Mama?”

“I went there to go to school,” you answer, pleasantly surprised that she’s decided she wants to continue a conversation.

“Why did you have to go so far away for school?”

“I didn’t have to,” you correct her gently, trying not to think how very much she sounds like her grandfather. “I wanted to. I wanted to live in London for a while.”

“Did you do plays there?”

You smile again. “I sure did. And so did Joe.”

She looks from you to Joe. “What kinda plays?”

“Oh, all kinds,” he says. “Straight plays and short films and musicals.”

“Like Sweeney Todd?” she asks, her eyes lighting up.

“Uh—” Joe’s face spasms in confusion. “Have you—have you seen Sweeney Todd?”

“Uh-huh!” she nods happily and holds up two fingers. “Two times!”

He glances your way, prompting you to shrug. “I had free tickets last summer,” you admit. “Didn’t have a sitter. I didn’t expect it to turn into her favorite show.”

A thought blossoms on Giuliana’s face and she hops up from her chair to come around to your side of the table. “Mama, did you bring that thing?” she asks, dropping her voice into a loud whisper as she pulls herself onto your lap.

You push your chair back to accommodate her presence, reach behind you for your backpack, and open the zipper. She reaches in and pulls out the Magic 8 Ball that’s painted to look like a baseball and, after another moment’s contemplation, holds it out to Joe. “This is for you,” she says.

You smile again and kiss the top of her head. “She wanted to bring you something from her room,” you explain as Joe accepts Giuliana’s gift. You don’t know where she got the idea or why it planted itself so deeply in her mind, but as soon as you told her you had someone you’d like her to meet, she was determined to bring a gift.

Part of you considered texting him to let him know this was coming ahead of time to ensure he reacted the right way—but the other part of you wanted to see what would happen if you didn’t. It wasn’t a test. It was curiosity.

Mostly.

Joe takes the ball carefully from her hands and looks at it with just the right amount of reverence to make your heart and guts twist together. “Thank you so much,” he says, looking up at her again. “You know, I have really been needing one of these.”

“You have?” she asks, squirming on your lap.

“Mmhmm,” he nods and turns it slowly in his hands. “Now, I’ve not seen one that looks quite so special before,” he continues, sounding serious. “Do I have to do anything different to make it work?”

Shyness forgotten, Giuls hops down from your lap and into his like he’s an old friend. “You just shake it,” she says, taking it back to give it a good shake with both hands before she stops. “Oh. And ask a question.”

“What should I ask?”

“Iunno,” she shrugs and looks back at you. “What should we ask, Mama?”

You lean forward and rest your chin on the heel of your hand. “How about…will we get to see Joe again later today?”

She nods once more and gives it a shake and then holds it back out to Joe. “You do it.”

He grins and does as she asks. You wish you had your phone out to take a photo of the two of them with their heads together, studying the Magic 8 Ball’s response.

“What’s the verdict?”

He looks up again and meets your eyes. “It is decidedly so.”

“That means ‘yes’,” Giuliana chirps helpfully.

Originally, the plan had been for Joe to join you and Giuls at the children’s museum, but a last-minute, rescheduled photoshoot rearranges things and turns it back into a girls' day.

And that's fine. You let your little girl pull you through the museum, dictating where you spend most of the afternoon. You follow the path of The Very Hungry Caterpillar in the immersive—and beautiful—Eric Carle exhibit, spend too much time splashing each other at the waterworks corner, and are unable to convince Giuliana to visit any exhibit other than Music All Around You. Which is, to your dismay, exactly what you thought it would be—a whole space devoted to teaching music and percussion to toddlers and preschoolers by showing them how to make the most noise with everything they can reach in their homes.

While Giuls is rocking out in a drum circle of mixing bowls and pots and pans with a dozen other children her age, you fire off a quick text to your mother apologizing for the six months you spent thinking you could be a drummer after a field trip to see Stomp on Broadway.

She forgives you and replies with a dozen laughing emojis when you send her a photo of what appears to be Giuliana’s new favorite thing.

“When do we see Joe again, Mama?” Giuliana asks while you’re picking your way through a bag of grapes together on a bench in the park near your apartment.

Surprised by the question, your mouth opens once and then closes again. “I’m not sure, sweetie.”

“The ball said today,” she reminds you with a meaningful look.

“I know,” you promise with a nod. “But he’s working, so we’ll just have to see how long he’ll be.” You pause and resist the urge to untangle the grape stems for her, allowing her the space to do it herself and be frustrated. “Did you…like Joe?”

Giuliana doesn’t look up from her fight for another grape but nods. “He’s a nice friend.”

You can’t help but smile again. “He is,” you agree. “He’s a very nice friend.”

The text comes not long after that when you’re cleaning some unknown stickiness from her hands with a baby wipe while she complains about the smell. “Smells like medicine,” she says of the overly powdery smell of the wipes and then gives an exaggerated gag.

“Just go like this,” you instruct, waving your hands back and forth like you’re drying your nails. “It’ll go away.”

You reach for your phone and find a message waiting for you with an address and a promise that he’s nearly finished. To your surprise, the address is only a few blocks from the park—even closer to your apartment.

You send back a thumbs up and then look down at Giuliana. “Are you up for one more stop today, little lady?”

She looks up with a thoughtful pout. “Can you carry me?”

You fight the urge to sigh tiredly. You do not in any way, shape, or form miss the days of wrangling a stroller around the city—not even for the added cargo space for your purse and whatever else you needed to stash beneath the seat—but every so often your back lets out a little whine of nostalgia for the days when you could just scoop her up and buckle her in without a second thought.

But it is only a few blocks, and she has been walking all day and you can imagine her little legs are starting to get tired. You nod and bend down to hoist her up onto your shoulders. This is the only way it works, because she’s too big to carry around on your hip for too long, and she tends to clasp her hands together directly in front of your windpipe and strangle you if you try to let her ride on your back.

You’re expecting an empty loft or some cool gallery space to have been the site of Joe’s photoshoot, and you’re surprised when the directions to the address he sent lead you to a little café with a sign in the window that advertises the best cappuccino in the borough.

A PA and a thick-necked security guard are standing at the door, and both give you a wary eye as you approach. “Sorry ma’am,” the PA clips with a tight grip on her clipboard, seemingly unaware that her use of the word ‘ma’am’ makes you want to grit your teeth. “Café’s closed.”

“They’re with me,” Joe’s voice calls from within the chaos just inside the door.

You can’t see him for all the lights, umbrella diffusers, and people milling around, but he must have said the magic words because they part to let you pass without a word. With hands holding tight to Giuliana’s ankles you step into the café and after a quick survey of all the hubbub of photographers and stylists and managers and assistants, you decide to stay exactly where you are and let him come to you.

He does only a moment later. Ducking under two people rolling up a huge spool of dove gray backdrop paper, he offers them both a quick apology before he turns back and greets you with a smile. “The two loveliest ladies in the city come to see me,” he says cheerfully. “How’d I get so lucky?”

“Hi Joe,” Giuls greets from atop your shoulders. “I do drums now.”

His eyebrows lift in surprise. “Drums?” he repeats as he slyly reaches one hand to lace his fingers with yours.

“Uh-huh!” you can feel her nodding, bobbing a little on your shoulders.

You squeeze his fingers back. “I’ll tell you all about it in excruciating detail later,” you promise quietly with a smile.

“Was this something you learned at the museum?” Joe asks, keeping his attention on her.

“Yep!”

“What else did you learn?”

“All about water,” she begins without a hint of her earlier shyness. “And making stuff float. And then we saw a big, huge caterpillar—”

Like both of her parents, Giuliana talks more with her hands than she does with her mouth sometimes, and in throwing her arms out to show Joe the size of that very hungry caterpillar, she nearly pitches herself off your shoulders. You put your hands up to steady her. “Easy, baby girl.”

Joe laughs quietly. “It sounds like such a fun time; I am so sorry to have missed it,” he says and then releases your hand to hold both of his out to her. “But may I help you down?”

“Yes please,” she says politely, holding her arms out for Joe to slide her off your shoulders and set her safely back down on the floor so she’s standing between the two of you. She looks up. “Mama, I’m thirsty.”

“Uh,” you frown. “I think my water bottle’s empty, babe. We’ll get a drink when we get home, okay?”

Her full lips pout further. “But I’m thirsty now.”

“I’m sure there’s a million bottles of water around here,” Joe interjects quietly. “Actually, there was someone earlier driving me absolutely mental trying to anticipate my every need and—” his expression lifts as he points to someone behind you. “Sidney,” he calls a moment before a thin young man about your height with olive skin and exceptionally tailored clothing appears at your side, looking expectant.

“How can I help, Mr. Quinn?”

“For the fourth time, mate, ‘Joe’ is just fine,” he says, not losing his patient smile.

“Not according to my boss,” Sidney responds without missing a beat.

“Right,” Joe nods. “Not overriding that, I guess. Uh, anyway, d’you think we can get this little lady a bottle of water?” he asks, gently resting his hand atop Giuliana’s head.

“Of course!” Sidney brightens and bends to be at her level. “We have six different kinds,” he says with a kind smile. “Would you like to come pick for yourself?”

Giuliana hesitates for a moment and looks up at you. “Safe friend?”

You smile and nod. “Safe friend,” you assure her. “Thank you for checking.”

She takes Sidney’s outstretched hand, heading back toward the kitchen, chattering about her preference for bubbles or no bubbles. Joe waits until they’ve slipped behind a C-stand before he gently pulls your chin to the right so he can drop a soft, sweet kiss on your lips. “Hi,” he says quietly as he pulls away.

“Hi,” you echo with a little laugh. “You know you’re kissing me at work, right?”

“Don’t care,” he shakes his head and brushes his lips over yours again. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

You hum, amused, and shake your head. “You’re cute,” you mutter before glancing down at his outfit. Dark blue suit, crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. “And this is a nice color on you,” you decide with an appreciative nod. “Do you get to keep this?”

“I do, actually,” he says, stepping back to pull on one side of the suit’s jacket, admiring the cut and color for himself. “Quite spiffy, isn’t it?”

“Mmhmm,” you agree with a nod. “You look all kinds of polished.”

“And you look all kinds of…sleepy,” he says after a moment of studying your face.

You offer a wry grin. “Ding-ding. You are correct.”

“Too sleepy for me to come over later?”

Your face wrinkles in thought. “Maybe?” You tilt your head to the side. “How much later? I thought you were almost done.”

“I am here,” he says with an unfortunately regretful tone to his voice. “But I got roped into a Zoom thing and then Sam sounds desperate to talk to me, so I was just going to go back to the hotel and get all that sorted so I didn’t bother you with it.”

You give him an exaggerated pout, gently pulling the sides of his jacket together. “Must be awful having so many people wanting a piece of you all the time.”

He smirks, but you can see the tips of his ears turn just a shade pinker than they were a moment ago. “Well. So long as you keep wanting a piece of me—”

“Oh, if there’s more than one piece on the table, I’ll happily take more,” you tease. “But I think I’m probably going to be asleep ten minutes after she is tonight,” you admit. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry,” he shakes his head. “I wasn’t supposed to have any of this shit today so, I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” you nod. “Shame on you. You’ll just have to make it up to us.”

“What if,” he reaches for your hands again. “I come over tomorrow morning and make you breakfast?”

You lift your brow. “Been a minute since you did that.” Mornings spent with Joe have been few and far between. Usually, they involve hurriedly getting dressed, quick, distracted kisses, and trying not to miss trains or call times.

“I know. Does Giuliana like French toast?”

Your mouth almost waters at the mention. “Nana’s recipe?” you ask hopefully. “With the oranges?”

“That’s what I was thinking,” he smiles.

“Yeah,” you nod again. “She’ll love that.”

Sidney returns Giuliana to you with a bottle of fizzy, raspberry-flavored water that she’s happy to share with you. “This drink tickles,” she declares, wrinkling her nose after she’s swallowed another gulp.

“That’s how you know it’s the good stuff,” Joe quips as you lift her onto your hip for a proper farewell.

“Are you coming to our house?” she asks, her head tilting to one side with curiosity.

“I am,” he nods. “But not tonight. I’ll be there in the morning, is that alright with you?”

She considers it. “I guess.”

You snort and shake your head. “Let’s say goodbye,” you instruct her gently. “We’ve gotta let Joe get back to work.”

They wave to one another, and you manage to lean in and steal a kiss on the cheek while he gives your hand one last squeeze before you make your way out of the little shop and back into the late afternoon.

***

It’s the smell of cinnamon that wakes you first the next morning. Cinnamon and citrus. At the same time familiar and surprising.

Your eyes are still closed while the rest of your senses begin to check in. Smell first. Then sound.

The rise and fall of voices trying to be quiet.

You open your eyes then and sit up, your arm automatically sweeping across the bed where Giuliana had crawled in beside you around midnight. Now, the bed was empty but for Cloud Dog stuffed beneath the other pillow, and before your pulse can spike with concern, you realize you know the voices in the other room.

Giuliana’s.

And Joe’s.

Shoving your glasses onto your face, you throw back the covers and grab your robe from the back of the closet door before you shuffle sleepily out into the main room of the apartment.

“So, then Nani and Bubbles are fighting—” Giuliana is saying as you round the corner to the kitchen.

“And Bubbles is the…care worker?” Joe asked, switching his focus from the thick slices of bread he’s cutting to check in with her.

“Uh-huh,” she nods, pushing back her messy hair, and then frowns. “But not really. But you don’t know that yet.” She takes a breath, ready to continue, before she notices your arrival and smiles. “Hi, Mama.”

“Hi,” you echo, amused as you cross the small room to kiss the top of her head.

“Joe’s here,” she says tilting her head back to smile at you.

“I can see that,” you laugh quietly before you move to the counter and kiss his scruffy cheek. “And you’ve been hearing all about…”

“Lilo & Stitch,” Joe answers with a grin. “I had no idea what I’d been missing.”

“Oh, it’s a good one,” you nod and then inhale again. “Did you make coffee?”

“I did,” he looks over his shoulder to the full pot.

“Ugh, you’re the best,” you commend, squeezing his arm as you move past him to pour yourself a cup.

“Mama, Joe is making French toast,” Giuls informs you as you sit on the stool beside her. The word comes out as Fwench, making you grin while she pushes her hair back again.

“It smells delicious,” you say with a nod and then pet her head absently. “Can I fix your ponytail, baby? I don’t want you getting syrup in your hair.”

With a sigh that makes it seem like you’ve just asked if you could pull her teeth out, Giuliana nods and lets you pull the hair band from her dark curls. She jumps right back into the plot of Lilo & Stitch while you run your fingers through her hair, grateful when you don’t find any knots you can’t easily untangle. Slices of battered bread sizzle on the stovetop and by the time she’s ready to move onto the opening sequence of Stitch Has a Glitch, Joe has set plates of golden brown slices of French toast in front of each of you.

It’s an effort to keep from moaning when you take your first bite. It’s just as delicious as you remember—perfectly spiced and sweetened with just the right amount of orange to zing pleasantly around your mouth. You can’t help but recall the first time you’d had it—at Joe’s mother’s house for Easter brunch the second year you’d lived in London. A table set with eggs and sausages and thick slices of brioche bread dipped in this heavenly batter. Nana and Grendad trading loving jabs in between bites. Anna begging her son and stepsons to behave for you, their guest. “Thank you,” you say quietly when Joe offers to refill your coffee before getting himself seconds. “This is lovely.”

Because it is. The food, the coffee, Giuliana’s near-immediate acceptance of him as a new friend, him being there at all—all of it. It’s lovely. And if you thought about it too long, your chest was going to start hurting.

“Speaking of lovely,” he grabs his phone from the counter and swipes through a few things before he hands it to you.

You take it, frowning in confusion as you look down, surprised to find you’re looking at a picture of yourself. From yesterday—a moment caught by one of the photographers at the café shoot. They’d snapped the shutter just as you were tugging on Joe’s jacket, teasing him about his busy schedule. His cheeks are pink and he’s smiling at whatever you were saying. And even though you thought you’d been a mess by the end of your afternoon with Giuls, it doesn’t look it here. You look relaxed and happy and like you did in so many of the candid photos that were taken of you and Joe over the years.

He reaches over and pushes his finger across the screen, sliding through two more shots before he stops again. This is a tighter cropped shot, of Giuliana reaching her arms out for Joe’s assistance off your shoulders. His face is blurred in the background, but you can still make out his smile. And hers is bright and entirely in focus. The sight of it brings an unexpected lump to your throat.

There’s one final shot of you holding Giuls on your hip when it was time to leave. Both of you holding up matching hands to wave goodbye to Joe, looking shockingly alike, even to your eyes. You hum with amusement—sometimes you forget that you really did give birth to a tiny clone.

“Can I have those?” you ask quietly, handing him his phone back.

Joe grins and nods. “I’ll get them to send the higher-res files to you if you’d like.”

“I’d like.”

“Joe, do you have more work today?” Giuliana asks, struggling to get a fully loaded fork into her mouth.

“Unfortunately, I do,” he says, sounding regretful.

You reach over and un-spear two of the three bites of French toast she was trying to eat at the same time, getting your fingers sticky with syrup in the process. “One piece at a time, please,” you remind her, handing her fork back before licking the tips of your fingers.

“More pictures work?” she asks, her head tilting to one side before she resumes eating.

“Not pictures,” Joe shakes his head. “Movie work today.” He smiles, looking amused as he hands her the tea towel she reaches for before he looks back at you. “Which reminds me,” he coughs quietly. “Would you want to come visit?”

You blink. “What—on set?” You can’t think of many things more chaotic than trying to keep track of your three-year-old in a place as bustling and crazy as a film set.

“Not when it’s busy,” he says, sounding like he’s reading your mind. “After. I promise it won’t be the usual madhouse.”

You reach over and give Giuls’ ponytail a playful tug, pulling her attention away from her sticky plate and back to you. “We’ve got to go find Nonno a birthday gift,” you start, reminding yourself of the item lingering on your to-do list since May. “But after that, do you want to see a film set?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a place where they make movies,” you explain, getting up from your seat to run the corner of a dishtowel under the faucet so you can wipe her face. “We can go where Joe’s making his movie.”

“Okay,” she agrees cheerfully. “Can we get Nonno a puppy?”

“Absolutely not!” you say with a laugh.

She waits until you’ve cleaned her face before she tries again. “Can we get me a puppy?”

Joe laughs with you this time while you shake your head. “Again, I say: absolutely not! What about Archie?” you ask, motioning to the cat surveying the room from the top of the refrigerator. “What would he think?”

Giuliana looks up at Archie and then back at you. “Archie wants a friend.”

You can’t help but snort as you watch her climb down from her stool. “Go and brush your teeth, please.” You instruct before you point to Joe. “And what do you say?”

She grins up at him. “Thanks for the toast.”

“You’re very welcome.”

You wait until she’s down the hall and you can hear water running before you pierce the last few pieces of her breakfast on your fork and stuff them in your mouth. “And hey,” you say thickly after you’ve almost swallowed all of it. “That cannot be the first time you’ve heard the plot of Lilo & Stitch. We’re the same age—you must have seen it growing up.”

Joe laughs again. “Of course I have,” he scoffs. “But what did you want me to say to your child, ‘Don’t bother kid, I’ve seen that one’?” He shakes his head. “I want her to like me, you monster.”

You try to hide your smile in your coffee. “She does like you,” you assure him, holding the cup in front of your lips for another sip.

Despite Giuliana suggesting it three more times throughout the day, you do not end up ruining your relationship with your mother by buying your father a puppy for his upcoming birthday.

Instead, you find a bronze olive wreath statue for his bookshelf at the shop where you buy gifts for the other Greek historian in your life. It’s right across the way from the fancy olive oil place, so you pop in and grab a bottle of the good stuff to accompany your gift.

When you tell her she can pick out her own gift for Nonno, Giuliana decides on the most hideous Hawaiian shirt you’ve ever seen from a street vendor. You happily hand over your cash, knowing your father will be delighted and wear it with pride no matter how ugly it is.

And it is so ugly.

The gifts are wrapped and placed safely in the hall closet where Archie won’t be tempted to destroy them. Giuliana is polishing off the last of her dino nuggets when your phone pings with a text from Joe. Another address—though this one, you recognize.

“Can you do me a favor and close your eyes?” you ask Giuls when the cab is about a block away from its destination.

“Why?”

“Because where we’re going is a surprise,” you tell her patiently.

She only gives you a look. “A surprise with shots?”

You smile and shake your head. That’s what you get for not thoroughly preparing her for a doctor’s visit. “No baby. This is a good surprise, I promise.”

It takes some doing to get her out of the car with her hands over her eyes, but you’re pretty sure she doesn’t peek, if only because of the way she gasps with delight when you’re inside and tell her she’s allowed to look.

You’ve never been to Yankee Stadium when it’s empty—or nearly empty, as is the case today. It’s startling how much bigger everything feels with the unfilled stands and empty field.

Someone meets you at the door to let you in—another PA, you assume, from her clipboard and three cell phones—and herds you and Giuliana along to a ramp that takes you down lower, beneath the first level, to a long cool hallway. There are grips and other crew rolling cameras and other equipment past you, on their way to the trucks outside.

“Mama, is this allowed?” Giuls asks in a loud whisper, holding tight to your hand.

The PA looks over her shoulder and offers a smile. “Only for special guests,” she says with a wink. “And Mr. Quinn says you are a very special guest.”

Giuliana looks up, surprised, and points to herself. “I am?”

“Uh-huh,” she nods once and turns back to face forward, leading you around a corner to where a film crew had just been.

You can hear him before you see him. The familiar cadence of Joe’s voice echoes off the concrete walls the moment before someone moves out of the way and you see him handing a white pinstriped baseball uniform to someone, offering all the effusive thank yous and apologies that his British upbringing demanded.

When he resumes his conversation, you catch sight of the man he was speaking with—a man a few inches taller and twice as broad with arms that are much bigger in person than they appear on TV.

To avoid her getting trampled in the commotion, you scoop Giuliana up onto your hip and wave when Joe notices you. He waves you over with a smile.

“Hi, Joe!” Giuliana chirps like she’s greeting one of her friends at daycare.

“Hi,” he repeats. “Did you have fun with your mum today?”

She lets out a most dramatic sigh and slumps theatrically against your shoulder. “We had to go to so many stores.”

“Three,” you correct with a laugh. “We had to go to three stores. Someone has decided on a touch of the drama.”

Joe’s grin widens. “Can’t imagine where she got that from,” he says and then clears his throat. “Gerrit,” he says, turning to the man to his right. “These are the lovely ladies I was telling you about.” He introduces you first and then Giuliana, who has started to realize who is about to shake her hand.

“Oh, this is Giuliana,” he says with a broad smile. “Hi,” his tone is friendly and light as he bends a little to be at eye level. “I’m Gerrit Cole, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Her eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. “The real one?”

He laughs. “The real one,” he assures her. “I heard from your friend Joe that you are a big baseball fan.”

She beams, shyness at meeting strangers miraculously forgotten. “The biggest.”

“I think she’s seen every game you’ve played since she was born,” you add, unable to keep from smiling at the wide-eyed reverence on your daughter’s face.

Gerrit laughs again. “That is a big fan!”

“When are there games again?” she asks, tilting her head to one side. “When does baseball come back?”

He takes the question in stride with an apologetic shake of his head. “Not as soon as I’d like,” he says. “But in the meantime, would you like a tour?”

You blink. “For real?” He nods and you look at Giuliana. “Do you want to go see the field?”

You’re not sure how it’s possible, but her eyes get even bigger. “Really?”

Her question is met by another good-natured laugh. “Well, nobody’s using it right now,” he reminds her. “Seems like a good time to let the biggest baseball fan check it out.”

Giuliana gets to do more than just look at the field up close. She gets to visit the locker room and the dugout, try on batting helmets that are ridiculously large for her head, and have every question she’s ever had about the game and the team answered by her favorite player.

And she has a lot of questions.

“Do you hafta hit a ball to run bases?” she asks as he’s leading the three of you out of the dugout.

Gerrit turns back to her with a grin. “During a game? Yeah, I think that’s a big rule. But right now?” He looks around as if checking to see that the brilliantly lit stadium is empty. “I think you could get away with it right now. But,” he glances up to you and Joe, before he asks, “Do you want to hit a ball?”

“Yes,” she says immediately as if she’s been waiting for someone to ask her that her whole short life.

“Uh, she’s never actually, um—” you cough, unable to help the immediate spike of parental panic at the idea of a professional pitcher throwing something at your child. “She’s still too little for t-ball.”

He nods again, still smiling. “What if she’s got a little help?” he asks. “Joe can pitch, and I’ll be her spotter.”

“Pleeeease Mama?” Giuls turns to you with her lip ready to pout, her hands already clasped in prayer.

“She won’t get hurt,” Joe assures you, squeezing your hand. “I promise.”

Your heart is still high in your throat, still not loving the idea, but you nod hesitantly. Joe would never do anything to put her in harm’s way, you remind yourself as the three of them charge out onto the field together. And you know Gerrit has at least one child—possibly two—you have to trust he knows what he’s doing.

And he does.

He lets her hold the bat and stands behind her, covering her hands with his while Joe does some unnecessary stretching of his arms and shoulders on his way to the pitcher’s mound. “No concussions, please!” you call after him. “Or other brain or bodily injury. I have to send her back to her father in one piece.”

But you didn’t need to worry. Not only is Joe a much better pitcher than you would have ever given him credit for, but Gerrit knows how to swing, even with a little girl standing between him and the bat.

The first pitch is a swing and a miss, and your heart unclenches just a little bit when you hear Giuliana’s laugh. “Wow that was fast,” she cries as Gerrit tosses the ball back to Joe.

“We’ll be faster next time,” he promises her, stepping up and around her again. “Ready?”

“Ready ready,” she declares.

On the next pitch, the bat connects with a satisfying crack you’ve only ever heard in the movies. The ball sails far into the outfield—much farther than Joe is willing to chase it. You can’t help but cheer, delighted when Gerrit picks her up and takes her on a jog around the bases, setting her down after third so she can race by herself back to home plate.

“Mama did you see?!” she squeals, rushing over to where you’re still standing by the dugout.

“I did!” you cry, scooping her back up. “You hit it so far!”

“Can I run the bases again?” she asks, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Okay,” you laugh, letting her down. “Just be careful.”

She’s rounding second by the time Joe makes it over to stand by you. “Told you she wouldn’t get hurt,” he says with a broad smile.

You shake your head. “I can’t believe you did this,” you admit.

He winces slightly. “Too much?”

You laugh. “Oh my God; way too much,” you assure him. “This is more than they give Make-a-Wish kids.” You want to scold him, but the joy on Giuls’ face is too bright and too much for you to go through with it. “But it’s pretty amazing,” you relent. “I can guarantee she’s never going to forget it.”

“Then it was worth it,” he shrugs like all this was nothing. “All these connections have to be good for something, don’t they?”

You look from him back to the field where Gerrit and Giuliana are playing a comically unsuccessful game of catch. “I am a little disappointed though,” you say carefully, biting your lip as you glance back at him.

“Disappointed?” he repeats. “With what?”

“Well, I thought when you asked us to come to set…and set was here, at Yankee Stadium…that you might still be in costume.”

“Alright, takin’ the piss are we?”

“Not in the slightest!” you exclaim, reaching over to give his side a pinch, watching as he tries not to look at you. “This is purely for selfish reasons,” you add. “I bet you look real good in baseball pants, is all I’m saying.”

“That’s enough out of you,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“Oh my God, are you blushing?” You giggle, pinching him again when his cheeks turn a brighter pink. “You are!” you exclaim. “I didn’t think I could do that anymore.”

He’s fighting a smile, still bright pink when he intercepts a third attempt to poke his side. He grabs hold of your hand and easily overpowers you to stand behind you, his arms folded across your chest, half in a body lock and half in a hug. You’re still watching Giuliana having the time of her life when you feel him press a kiss to your temple.

I love you. The thought occurs to you as simply as remembering to add milk to the grocery list. Oh. I still love you. Of course I do.

You lean back against him a little more and bring your hands up to hold onto his forearms. You don’t need to say anything right now, you decide. It’s enough just to hold the words on your tongue and feel their sweetness before you swallow them back down.

***

Idly, as you stab a cold penne noodle with your fork and glance between your father and Joe on opposite sides of the picnic table, you wonder how many times you can decide this was a bad idea now that it’s too late to do anything about it.

The yard behind your parents’ house is full of friends and family and neighbors who’ve shown up at every function since you were a baby. Your mother is chatting with Abe and Ruth from next door while she pushes Giuliana on the tire swing and somewhere, someone must have decided that there needed to be music because suddenly Harry Styles is playing from a small Bluetooth speaker on the deck.

So far, you’ve wished for a reset button or a time machine or perhaps a tool to rip a hole in the fabric of the universe so that you could escape at least three times that afternoon.

All three had been because of your mother, though. Her barely concealed irritation that you’d brought Joe along had her muttering under her breath, pointedly avoiding him, and offering only the iciest of responses to anything he tried to say.

You thought you’d be okay once she let Giuls pull her over to the swing. But then the conversation at the table had turned to your work and you found yourself once again wondering if there was some way to slip into an alternate universe where you’d been born into another family entirely.

“Well, it’s not like she’s volunteering at a community theatre,” Joe was saying when you tuned back in. God love him. Trying so hard. “It is Broadway—that’s quite an accomplishment.”

“Don’t bother,” you say under your breath, even as your father begins to speak.

“Accomplishment, sure,” he shrugs. “Very impressive but how much they pay you?” he asks, jabbing his fork toward you. “$75,000? 80? In this city?”

You inhale steadily. You will not fight with your father on his birthday. “If you already know, why are you asking?” You will not fight with your father on his birthday.

“È criminale,” he shakes his head.

“No,” you counter tiredly. “Non è criminale. È molto, molto normale.”

“Normale,” he scoffs and then looks at Joe. “When they pay you how much for your last movie?”

“Do not answer that,” you warn, pointing in his direction.

Joe looks like he’s at least figured out that nothing he says is going to be right and offers a tight smile. Visibly keeping his mouth shut.

“I don’t understand,” your father sighs. “Why you don’t work in the movies, baby?”

“I don’t know, Pop,” you shrug, officially at the end of your patience. “Maybe because when I got out of school, ‘The Movies’ weren’t hiring.”

“Well, it’s a long time since you were in school, bambi—”

“You’re right,” you cut him off. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Tomorrow morning, first thing, I’ll go down to the career store and pick out something that will make you happy.”

“Who says I’m not happy with you?” he asks, sounding immediately affronted. “I’m very happy. But I don’t have just you to worry about anymore—”

“I know,” you sigh and stand up as you hear the back gate squeak open. “I’m going to go see who else is here.”

He cocks his head toward the street, listening. “Sounds like Diana,” he says with a shrug as a few other neighbors move toward the table.

You take Joe’s hand and pull him up with you. “Well, come on, Movie Star,” you mutter. “You can meet Mrs. Down the Street.”

Diana from three doors down is always happy to see you and today is no different. She hugs you, then Joe, pinches your cheeks, then his. “What is her real last name?” Joe asks when she spots your father and takes off to stamp a bright red kiss on his head.

You blink. “I have no earthly idea,” you admit after a moment, letting out a quiet laugh. “She’s been Diana Down the Street my whole life. I didn’t even realize it was a nickname until I was in middle school.”

“Daddy!”

Joe’s mouth is open, about to respond, when Giuliana’s voice interrupts him. You both turn to see her running across the lawn. You grab her and scoop her up. “What was that, baby girl?”

She points over your shoulder to the driveway. “Daddy’s here,” she says, breathless from her run.

You frown, already shaking your head. “No, sweetie. Daddy’s not here—”

“Yah-huh,” she insists.

“Giuls, Daddy is—” You turn as you’re speaking, following her pointed finger, expecting to see someone who bears a passing resemblance to Sal. “In the driveway,” you finish your sentence because there is no one in the driveway except your ex-boyfriend. “Daddy is in the driveway because of course,” you nod and set her down when she starts to squirm. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

Joe moves to stand closer to you as you both watch Giuliana run to be swept up in a big hug by her father. “That’s Sal?” he asks, glancing sideways at you.

You inhale again. “That’s Sal.”

“Did you know he was coming?”

“Nope,” you shake your head once.

Joe allows for a thoughtful pause. “He’s…exceptionally handsome.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Am I supposed to be helping?”

“I have a new friend,” Giuls is saying as Sal makes his way through the parked cars to reach the gate, bringing your back-and-forth with Joe to an end.

“Do you?” he asks good-naturedly.

You suck in another breath and go to open the gate for him, welcoming them both back into the yard. “Hey stranger,” you say evenly, accepting the kiss he gives your cheek. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Sal looks confused for a moment. “Your…mom told me to stop over while I was in town,” he says, making it sound more like a question. “I’ve been helping your dad with a thing. Sorry, I assumed she told you.”

“No,” you shake your head trying not to grind your teeth. “She didn’t mention it.”

He winces briefly. “I can go, if—”

“No, no,” you repeat yourself. “Don’t be silly.”

“Daddyyyy,” Giuliana squirms in his arms and reaches over to pull his chin in her direction. “I have. A new. Fwend.” she says emphatically.

“Right,” he nods. “You do.” Sal glances over your shoulder and then looks back at your daughter. “Is this your new friend?” he asks with a smile.

Now officially having wished for a way to escape this day five times, you clear your throat and motion from one to the other. “Sal, this is Joe Quinn. Joe, this is Salvatore Makris, Giuliana’s father.”

They shake hands, both smiling politely and exchange nice-to-meet-yous while you look back toward the gathering and spot your mother scurrying into the house. “Birthday boy is over there,” you say, pointing out your dad to Sal. “If you all will excuse me, I have to go find my mom.”

“Can I come?” Giuliana asks.

“No, babe,” you shake your head. “You take care of Joe and your dad for me,” you suggest. “Make sure nobody gets into trouble.”

They both look mildly offended as you turn away and head toward the house. You find your mother in the same place you always find her—in the kitchen, at the sink with the window that looks out onto the deck.

You lean in the doorway and cross your arms over your chest. “So…Sal’s here.”

Her hands keep moving under the running water. “Is he?” she asks, her voice light. “Lovely.”

You wait another moment before you purse your lips. “Couldn’t have…let me know? That you were inviting my ex-boyfriend to the same party I was bringing my new boyfriend?”

She looks up from rinsing the soap from her hands. “Oh, I thought I had.”

“You did not.”

“And anyway, my darling, I hardly even think of him as your ex-boyfriend anymore,” she scoffed like you’d said something ridiculous. “He’s been helping your father with his latest translation,” she shrugged. “I honestly didn’t think it would be a problem for you.”

You sigh as she shuts off the water. “I didn’t say it was a problem—”

“But had you told me you were having trouble juggling your men, of course, I wouldn’t have—”

“For the love of fuck, Ma, I am not having trouble juggling my men—”

“Happy to hear that,” she interrupts you and pats your cheek with the dish towel she’s just dried her hands on. “Could you grab another bag of ice from the chest freezer before you’re back outside? Thank you, love.” She only gets a step away before she looks back and points in your direction. “And watch your language, would ya? I raised a lady, not a stevedore.”

You force a tight smile and nod and wait until she’s gone before you close yourself in the pantry and drop your forehead against the wall of canned goods, fighting the urge to scream.

Despite its rocky start, the party actually isn’t that bad. As expected the eyesore of a Hawaiian shirt that Giuliana picked out is your father’s favorite gift.

No one treats Joe like they have any idea who he is or what kind of work he does.

And he and Sal keep their wary looks to a minimum.

After an afternoon of food, excitement, and running around, being kissed and hugged by everyone in the neighborhood, Giuls crashes hard into a nap after everyone has sung Happy Birthday. She doesn’t even get two bites into her cake before she almost face-plants into the frosting.

You lay her down on the brass-frame daybed in the room that used to be yours and consider curling up beside her and opting out of the world for the next hour. But guilt wins out and you admit that it would be cruel to leave Joe to fend for himself.

Cautious of how sound carries in your parents’ house, you creep silently down the stairs, not wanting your clomping feet to wake your child after only a five-minute sleep. You stop on the third-to-last step, though, when you hear voices from the dining room on the other side of the wall.

“Have you seen my daughter?”

Your mother, you clock instantly. And with the edge in her voice, you can only assume she’s talking to—

“Uh, no,” Joe says. “I think she’s still upstairs with Giuliana.”

“Ah.”

There’s a pause so long you think one or both of them might have left the room, but then Joe speaks again. “I can go get her if—”

“No,” she clips. “Actually, you’re who I wanted to talk to.”

You know you should move, cough, or make some kind of noise to interrupt whatever she’s about to say. But your feet don’t seem to want to cooperate, and instead of doing anything helpful, you sink down to sit on the stairs and listen. Just like you used to when your parents were discussing things that were none of your business after they thought you’d gone to bed.

“Um,” Joe clears his throat. “Alright.”

“I don’t much like you, Joe,” she says plainly.

“I—uh—yes, I’d picked up on that,” he replies.

“And it’s not just the English thing,” she goes on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Though that doesn’t help your case, if I’m being honest.”

“No, can’t imagine it would.”

“But more than not liking you, I don’t trust you.”

Get up, half of your brain is hissing. Get up and shut this down right now.

But you feel frozen in place, trying to guess what’s going to be said next.

“I understand—”

“No, I don’t think you do understand,” she cuts him off. “You didn’t just break my girl’s heart, you know. I lost five years with my daughter because she was too in love with you to remember to come home—”

You close your eyes and press the tips of your fingers to the space between your eyebrows.

“—And when I finally got her back, she wasn’t herself anymore, do you understand that? She hardly got out of bed for a month after she’d come home. Took her more than a year to tell me all that happened. She didn’t even want to work anymore,” she goes on and on the stairs, you squeeze your eyes shut tighter. “Couldn’t bring herself to go to an audition—I assume because everything reminded her of what all she’d left in London.”

None of what she’s saying is untrue. That’s part of what’s keeping you stuck to the stairs. You had returned home a shell of the girl who’d left. You hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of working on stage or in front of a camera again for much longer than you were able to afford. You hadn’t been lying when you told Joe he’d blown your life up. And your mother isn’t lying now as she explains the fallout.

Joe coughs again. “I don’t…think I can properly articulate how much I regret what I did back then,” he says quietly. “I didn’t expect I’d ever get a chance to apologize to her—or you—for the way I hurt her. I’m sure you don’t believe me, but I do know how lucky I am to have her let me back into her life.”

“Well, of course she did,” your mother says sharply. “She’s been in love with you every day for fifteen years whether she’ll admit it or not. Which brings me to the rest of my problem.”

“The…rest? Of your problem?”

“It’s not just that I don’t like you, or that I don’t trust you, Joe,” she says, sounding as though she’s choosing her words carefully. “It’s that I can’t trust her when you’re around.”

You sit up straight with a frown. She’s gone off-script from what you could have guessed she was going to say.

“I’m—I’m sorry?”

“The fact that she took you back at all; that she introduced you to her daughter? That she brought you here thinking all’s forgiven because you give her your big cow eyes and tell her you’re sorry?” she lets out a short huff of a laugh without an ounce of humor in it. And suddenly she sounds tired. Much older. “She’s got a dangerously large blind spot where you’re concerned. And I wish I could trust her to make the right choices for herself and that little girl but—”

She stops herself. Joe waits a moment before he speaks. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I don’t—I don’t know what you want me to do.” Another pause. “What is it you’re afraid of?” he asks. “That I’ll hurt her again? That I’ll—”

“I’m afraid that you’ll ask her to come back to London with you,” she says, and the words all come out in a rush.

“What?”

You almost say the word out loud at the same time Joe does, giving your position away. That’s what she’s afraid of?

“I’m afraid that when you finish whatever business you’ve got here,” she says, more slowly this time. “That you’ll ask her to go back to London with you. And more than that,” she pauses again. “I’m afraid that she’ll say yes. Trust me, I wish I was just afraid that you’ll hurt her again—but I’m worried you won’t. I’m worried she’ll pick being with you over what’s best for her and what’s best for Giuliana and…And I’ll just never get either of them back this time.”

There’s another long, heavy silence from the other side of the wall.

“You don’t…” It’s his turn to pause. “I get that I have a long way to go to make you see that you can trust me with your daughter. But you should be able to trust her.” From the side of the house, you hear the storm door squeal open and slam shut. “She’s not nineteen anymore,” he goes on after a moment. “She’s got a whole life here that I have no intention of asking her to give up just for me.

“If you need to hear me tell you that I won’t ask her to come to London with me—then yes, alright, I can promise I won’t. I—I know you don’t believe me,” he says. “But things are different this time.”

In the stairwell, your head feels swimmy with confusion. What does he mean by that? And why does the thought of what’s going to happen at the end of the summer make you want to throw up every time it crosses your mind?

And what is going to happen when it’s time for him to go home? If he’s not planning to ask you to come with him—and you wouldn’t go, you tell yourself. Of course, you wouldn’t—then what’s the plan?

“I certainly hope that’s true,” your mother says finally. Her tone is a little softer than before. The lemon wedge has lost some of its bitterness after all that.

Before anyone can say anything else, and still before you’re able to make yourself move, the sound of thwacking flip-flops crosses the kitchen linoleum and skids to a halt in the dining room. “Auntie Bridie,” the sound of a breathless child clears the bog of tension that had filled the room.

“Yes, my darling?”

“Are there any more croquet hammers?”

She laughs. “Mallets, you mean?”

“Yeah,” the kid—you’re pretty sure it’s the neighbor’s son, Marco—replies. “Ma says I have to let Sean play and there’s not enough.”

“Oh, I’m sure there are a few more we can rustle up,” your mother says kindly. “Can’t have anyone being left out, can we?”

It’s a few more moments before the side door opens and closes again. But before you can get up and pretend you weren’t eavesdropping Joe comes around the corner and stops abruptly.

You know you both look equally guilty, but he speaks first. “How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it,” you say, because there’s no point in lying. And now that she’s gone, the anger you’ve been swallowing back comes to the surface. “She had no right to talk to you like that.”

“Yank—”

“No, she didn’t,” you say, standing up finally. “If she’s mad at me—which she is—then she can tell me herself. She doesn’t have to take it out on you.”

“It’s fine…”

“And what the fuck even was that? She can’t trust me? Make me out to be some kind of blind moron,” you grumble, taking the hand he offers so you can descend the last three steps. “Who loses all semblance of rationality just because—”

You have more to say, more to bitch about, but Joe silences you with a sweet, firm kiss. “It’s okay,” he says when he lets you go. “I get why you are,” he adds. “But I’m not upset.”

“Well, you should be,” you state petulantly. “You should have told her to fuck off.”

He cracks half a smile and shakes his head. “I might have,” he says, sounding as though he’d considered it. “If she’d said anything I didn’t deserve.”

You open your mouth to respond, and then close it again. Maybe he’s right—maybe it was best to let your mother exorcise her anger the first chance she got rather than letting it continue to build. But there’s that other part of the conversation you overheard. The part about everyone else deciding if New York or London was the best place for you and Giuliana to be.

“Come on,” he says before you can figure out how—or if—you’re going to bring that part up. He squeezes your hand. “I slipped the DJ a fiver to play some Taylor Swift for you.”

You can’t help but snort quietly. “The DJ is a twelve-year-old girl I used to babysit,” you remind him with a smile. “You might have overpaid on that bribe.”

If you were worried about your mother’s stormy mood steamrolling over the rest of the afternoon, you didn’t need to be. By the time you and Joe return to the yard, she has pulled your father over the driveway to join a few other couples as they dance among the dandelions poking through the cracks in the concrete.

It’s unclear whose idea it is to join the little dance floor, but once you’re there it’s easier to push everything that had just happened with Joe and your mother out of your mind. You thread your fingers with his and let him wrap his arm around your waist, falling into an easy, swaying kind of dance as one upbeat Taylor song ends and the next begins. DJ Leela, Anita’s daughter who is at least a foot taller than the last time you saw her, has decided to earn her five-dollar bribe.

You can’t help but giggle, knowing he’s probably not paying attention to the lyrics when the chorus comes around.

—But you should see your faces

I’m tellin’ him to floor it through the fences

No, I’m not comin’ to my senses

“What’s so funny?” Joe asks, pulling back slightly to look at your face.

You smile and shake your head. “Nothing,” you say simply. “I just missed dancing with you.”

His hand flattens over the small of your back, pulling you in just a little closer. “I missed doing everything with you.”

Your chin lands on his shoulder and for just a second, it feels like you can breathe again. The song is nearly over by the time you’re seized by a thought and pull back again. “Remember when we all went to Claire’s sister’s wedding and there was that—”

“Disgusting Chardonnay?” Joe finishes with a laugh. His face wrinkles at the memory. “God, yes. It was horrible. It was like drinking melted butter.”

“Not that that stopped us,” you consider with a tilt of your head and another chuckle. “We all got so wasted her stepdad had to drive us to the train station—”

“He was so mad…”

“He was so mad.”

“Wait—” his brow crinkles. “Was that when Jamie got sick—”

“And threw up every time the doors opened.” You almost cackle, remembering how Henry’s little brother was just conscious enough to lean out of the train at each stop and vomit before his brother pulled him back inside. “So gross.” You pause again and let your eyes trail from his face and down his neck to the open top buttons of his shirt. “I think that was the last time I saw you in a tie, Mr. Quinn.”

“Likely,” he shrugs. “The neck’s got to be free.”

“Whore.”

“Oh, are you complaining?” he teases. “Should I cover up? Have some shame?”

“You?” you laugh. “Shame? Never.”

You only meet Joe’s eyes for a moment before his gaze drops to your lips and then back again. “I would really like to kiss you right now.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m not going to,” he continues. “Because your parents are right there, and at least fifty percent of them hate me and told me so today. But you should know that I fully intend to kiss you the next chance I have.”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, biting back a smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“I hope so,” His eyes betray a wicked sparkle the second before his grip on your back tightens. “Dipping you.”

It’s all the warning you get before he drops you back into a quick dip, making you squeal in surprise and delight.

You think you’ve come close to having put in enough face time with your parents by the time Giuliana wakes from her nap. Things are winding down in the backyard—your mother is sending people home with paper plates full of dinner, and plastic-wrapped slices of cake, telling everyone that they have to take some so she won’t eat all that’s left over.

On the far side of the lawn, your father is watching his friends assembling the beginnings of what you know will become a bonfire—even though no one in this neighborhood is supposed to have them. If you wait long enough, Carmine will break out the harmonica. Someone will bring your father his ukulele. Peter will croon the best of Frank or Dean in between retellings of the same university stories you’ve heard a million times.

And inside, Salvatore is washing dishes.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you mutter when you pass the kitchen and catch him at the sink.

He looks over his shoulder with a half-smile. “What?”

“You are not seriously washing my parents’ dishes right now,” you state, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary as you step up beside him at the sink.

“Eh,” he shrugs. “Many hands and all that. Plus, I’d rather be in here than waiting for one of those old men to light himself on fire.”

“One of these days,” you sigh, shaking your head as you reach for a dish towel.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as you pick up a glass from the drying rack and begin to wipe out the clinging drops of water. “Feeling guilty, are we?”

“Dude, my mother already openly favors you over me,” you retort. “I need to scrounge whatever points I can get.”

“Fair enough,” he relents.

The two of you fall into an easy, companionable silence while he washes, and you dry and put things away. He’s just started in on the pans and dishes your mother had left to soak all afternoon when he speaks again.

“You okay?”

“Me?” You ask dumbly while Sal reminds you with a glance around the kitchen that he couldn’t be talking to anyone else. “Uh, yeah,” you say after a moment. “I’m…”

“About to lie and say you’re fine?” he guesses, reaching for the scraper in the sponge basket.

“Yyyup,” you let the ‘p’ pop like a bubble before you set the dish you’d just picked up back into the rack.

“This have anything to do with your mom inviting me over and not telling you about it?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Amazingly enough, that’s not the worst thing that’s happened today.” Your shoulders drop down with a heavy sigh. “I mean, she did lie to my face all, ‘Oh, I thought I told you’, which isn’t cool. But then she cornered Joe and unloaded like, twelve years of rage she’s been sitting on—”

“Heard about that,” he says grimly.

“What?” you look over at him. “When? Did she tell you she was planning on—”

“She didn’t tell me anything,” he cuts you off, holding up a hand. “But she wasn’t exactly hiding her glare.”

“And…?”

“And I felt bad,” he shrugs. “So, I happened to mention that she wasn’t exactly my biggest fan when we first got together either.”

You blink. “You said this to Joe?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Like, half an hour ago,” he shrugs again. “When you were getting Giuls up.” He waits a moment. “It was a five-minute conversation, alright?” he laughs quietly. “We weren’t comparing notes or anything.”

“No, I didn’t—”

“I just felt bad for him.”

��I appreciate that,” you say, because you do. You run your hands over your face with another heavy exhale. “This whole day has just felt like…that moment at the end of Ghostbusters? You know? When they cross all the streams?”

“And they blow up the Marshmallow Man?”

“Yeah. Except I feel like I’m the Marshmallow Man.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “He’s a decent guy,” he says, sounding as though he’s almost talked himself out of admitting it. “Your ma’ll come around eventually.”

“Mmm, I don’t know about that,” you counter. “She is from Belfast, you know. Hating people forever is a national pastime there.”

That comfortable silence descends again, broken only by the sound of the cabinets you open and close while you put the dishes away.

“Y’know, I get it now,” he says quietly.

“You get what?” you ask, not looking up, assuming he’s going to say something else about the afternoon or the dishes he’s nearly finished scrubbing.

“Why this didn’t work out. You and me.” You open your mouth, wanting to say something, but nothing comes out, and instead, you feel your brow crinkle in confusion. He looks over at you, that same half-smile looks just a little sadder than it had a moment ago. “All the time we were together,” he goes on, “I never saw you smile the way you have been today.”

It's hard to breathe. Like someone had hold of your heart and slowly began to press their sharpened nails against it, one at a time. “Sal, I—”

“No, no,” he shakes his head as if you’d said anything useful or helpful at all. “I don’t say that to make you—” He pulls his hands from the soapy water and dries them on the towel you’ve let fall to the counter. “I’m not mad or…” he shakes his head. “I’m relieved.”

You blink. “Relieved?”

It’s impossible to look at him in the golden light and not remember the day he told you he was leaving. The day he was offered—and accepted—his tenure track at Temple and told you he wasn’t asking you to come with him.

What? You had asked, too confused to be hurt in the moment. What do you mean? What’s wrong?

He had looked at you then with the most profound resignation and small, sad smile. I am, he had said softly, finally unearthing that ugly, painful truth you’d tried so hard to bury for so long. Wrong. For you.

“I’d always wondered if it was me,” he goes on, bringing you back to this golden afternoon. This sad smile. “If it was something I did—or didn’t do. If I’d loved you more or better or—”

“Oh my God, Sal,” you’re shaking your head as you reach for his hands. “No. That was never the problem. I mean, no one had ever—” You stop yourself and start again. “You were never the problem.”

His shoulder moves in a small shrug, like any of this is casual. “Just wasn’t him.”

You swallow hard and feel all that guilt come rushing back. All the times you’d wondered what was wrong with you. All the times you’d kissed him and touched him and told yourself this is good, this is enough. Over and over until you almost believed it. And how horrible you’d felt when you realized he didn’t believe it either. “It’s not like I was waiting for him to come back,” you say softly. “I never thought of you as a kind of…placeholder or anything.”

“No, I know that,” he says, running his thumb along the back of your hand, resting on the lip of the counter. “I know you tried to love me as much as I loved you.”

Again, that sharp ache in your chest. That piece of glass embedded in your heart is always going to be there, waiting for you to move or breathe in just the right way to dig in again and remind you of its presence. “It always felt like a mistake,” you admit quietly. “Like I was getting away with something. Like, there was just no way that someone like you wanted someone like me, and at some point, you would—” You cut yourself off, wondering if saying any of this out loud is doing more harm than good. “You’re so good, Sal,” you say finally, and your voice is thick and clinging to the back of your throat. “You’ve always deserved so much better than me.”

His dark eyes sparkled for just a second before he blinked, and his throat bobbed with a hard swallow. “You know, it’s funny, my mom said almost that exact thing—”

Your jaw drops a fraction of an inch before you let out a single shocked laugh. “Asshole,” you mutter, unable to keep a straight face. You feel like you could start crying again when Sal’s face splits into a real, bright smile, laughing at his own joke. “I do love you, you know,” you say once the laughter fades a little.

“I know,” he says with a slight nod.

“I mean, how could I not?” you add when a glance out the window allows you to spot your daughter unsuccessfully trying to blow bubbles from a plastic wand with Joe at the picnic table. You look back at Sal. “As far as souvenirs of a relationship go?”

He follows your gaze and smiles again. “She’s as good as it gets, isn’t she?”

“The best.”

Before he can say anything to that, you wrap your arms around him and tuck your head under his chin. It takes a moment for him to return your hug, but his arms cross over your back, holding you close. After what feels like a long time, you feel him tuck his chin to kiss the top of your head. “I love you too, kiddo,” he says quietly into your hair.

Somehow it feels like a promise and a goodbye at the same time.

***

You’re worried that Giuliana’s nap will mess up her bedtime, but one lavender bath and one reading of Where the Wild Things Are and she’s fast asleep for the second time that day.

Joe is holding two open beers when you return to the living room. He’s studying the photo frames that decorate the top of the entertainment center. He hands you a bottle as you come to stand next to him and pay a quick visit to all these captured memories.

He picks one up from the back row and smiles after a moment. You peer over his shoulder to find he’s looking at a black-and-white photo of you when you were hugely pregnant a few years ago. Richie must have taken it since you’re in a theatre—though for the life of you, you can’t remember which one—sitting near the pit with your swollen feet crossed and resting on an empty music stand. A script was open, full of your scribbled notes in the margins, and balanced on your belly. If that kid doesn’t come out singin’ show tunes, I’ll eat my hat, the vocal director had been fond of saying throughout rehearsals while you had to get more and more creative about finding comfortable places to sit.

“You look so happy,” he says, still smiling as he sets it down again.

“I was happy,” you assure him. “I loved being pregnant—it was the only time in my life I was allowed to be fat.”

He laughs quietly while you take his hand and bring him back to sit with you on the couch, wondering as you do if the same elephant has just wandered into the room for him as it did for you.

“And you were…okay?” he asks finally, assuring you that it had. “I mean, you didn’t have any—”

“Complications?” you wait for him to nod before you shake your head. “No, they—uh—they were good about keeping a close eye on me the whole time. The doctors, I mean. I was worried there’d be some kind of…” you shake your head a second time before you shrug. “But no. Totally normal, healthy pregnancy to produce a totally healthy, normal baby.”

“Except for the baseball thing,” he jokes lightly.

“Except for the baseball thing,” you agree. “Which does make me wonder sometimes if she’s actually mine.” A thoughtful silence inflates in the space between you before you hear yourself ask before you can decide if it’s even something you want to bring up. “Do you ever think about—” You stop yourself and shake your head. “Never mind. That’s a stupid question.”

“No, it’s not,” he argues gently. “And…yeah, I do. Sometimes.” He waits until you glance up from the clump of Archie’s fur stuck to the couch that you’ve been studying. “Moreso, lately, if I’m being honest.”

You swallow hard and nod slowly before you let a wry smile tug at the edge of your lips. “We really would’ve fucked that kid up, wouldn’t we?”

Joe’s scoff falls easily into a laugh. “Oh yeah,” he nods before taking a sip of his beer. “Somethin’ awful.”

You giggle, even though the truth of what you’re talking about without talking about isn’t something you ever thought you’d laugh at. “He would’ve been a twelve-year-old serial killer or something—”

“Or worse. One of those insufferable baby Tories—”

You gasp dramatically. “A seventh-grade Christian fundamentalist.”

“Stop, stop,” Joe waves a hand at you. “Too horrible to think about.” He drinks again and then lets his head fall to one side with a contemplative shrug after a long moment. “Would’ve been cute though.”

“Oh, adorable,” you agree without hesitation.

“But so fucked up.”

“Sooo fucked up.”

Neither of you says anything more on the topic, and Joe doesn’t protest when you find the remotes and find something schmaltzy and black and white to watch while you cuddle into his side and feel his arm fall easily around your shoulders.

So fucked up, you think with an internal roll of your eyes. Unlike us—the picture of mental health.

Especially when it comes to each other.

Especially when you were twenty-two.

---

I love you. I keese you. I would love to know what you think!

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