Page 22 of Luca

“Oh, I just assumed… Mimmo?—”

“Domenico is my nephew. His mother, Luna, is my sister.”

I continue to watch as he strokes his five o’clock shadow, my eyes roaming over his full, lips, until it hits me how quiet the restaurant has become. My gaze flicks up to meet his eyes, and I’m met with a delicious grin and a saucy wink. The whole world could be burning down around me, but all I can see is him. Until, without warning, a big blinking neon sign appears in the center of my mind’s eye.

DANGER.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jillian

Swipingmy fingertips through the soft curls of my toddler’s hair, I gaze down at him as he sleeps. “It was a big day, huh, little man?” He was out within minutes of buckling him into his car seat. Nothing like a full tummy, the dimly lit car, and the low rumble of our SUV as we drove home to lull him to sleep.

Pulling the door closed behind me, I stop to peek in at my wild man. He also had a great evening. You would’ve thought he and Mimmo had been lifelong friends. I laugh, recalling their conversations about kindergarten, the school bus, and why we should be able to eat spaghetti and cannoli every day.

Strolling to his bedside, I watch as Caleb’s light brown locks dance with each exhale. He goes full steam from sun up to sun down, but thankfully, when he’s asleep, there’s no waking him. I wince at the memories of long ago, recalling how relieved I was that he stayed tucked away in his bed as Myla and I cried.

I reach down to pull his blanket up over his chest and shake my head.That shirt. I doubt Caleb remembers anything concrete about his dad. He was so young when he left us. Buthe’s practically worn this old shirt of Dillon’s to bed every day since. For a while, I believed it was because it still held his father’s scent. But that’s long gone. Now, it’s merely his way of clinging on to whatever vestige of Dillon he can. Myla sleeps with a stuffed dog we gave her when she was small. And Caleb has this.

After checking on my sweet girl, I change into a pair of sweatpants and an old shirt in order to attack the disaster that is my kitchen. You’d think after the day I’ve had I’d just want to crawl into bed. But I don’t want to wake to the mess tomorrow. It’ll be even harder to scrub off at that point. And truth be told, belly full of pasta or not, I left Luigi’s invigorated tonight.

I push up my shirt sleeves and retrieve the bucket Mom had used earlier. Filling it with warm soapy water, I reach for a kitchen sponge and start scrubbing down the kitchen tile covered in store bought spaghetti sauce. I really should stick to heating up meals in the microwave. The first step to improving something is admitting your shortcomings. And cooking is no doubt one of them.

When we’d gotten married eight years ago, my husband didn’t give me a hard time about my lack of culinary skills. But, then again, we were new parents. So, I think he decided to cut me a break. Plus, being in the military, he wasn’t home much. He probably figured it was best to pick his battles and allow us to either dine with my mother or eat out.

I can manage simple meals of soup and sandwiches. A basic breakfast. It’s usually more complex meals that give me pause. I scrub harder at a spot of sauce that’s hardened to cement on the marble backsplash and hang my head in shame.Spaghetti isn’t complex, Jillian.

The horrified look on Caleb’s face when Mom admitted she was heading to play bridge and I’d be making the spaghetti should’ve offended me. But it’s obviously warranted. Thankheavens she helps out as often as she does. My mother has always made everything look so easy.

She and my dad divorced when I was about Myla’s age. There wasn’t anything particularly scandalous to cause their breakup. She just chalked it up to “growing apart.” I laugh.I grew up and he didn’t, she’d said. My father remarried within a year of their divorce and moved across the country to Portland, Oregon to be with his new bride. He’d met her online and instead of returning to Hanover with his tail between his legs, he married her a few short months after meeting her in person. He’s lived there ever since.

My father didn’t return for my wedding, nor the birth of my children. My mom tried to rationalize that he likely wasn’t making enough money to travel, but I knew better. He’d rarely sent birthday cards, Christmas cards, or gifts after he’d left. And phone calls became few and far between. I tried not to let it bother me. But, after a while, I simply had to acknowledge a relationship with me and my brother wasn’t important enough for him to try harder than he did. I know it’s his loss and all that rot, but when you’re a young girl and trying to learn the ways of the world, this sends a big message.

My father’s neglect had a much bigger impact on my older brother, Roger. He took it really hard. His grades dropped, he stopped participating in sports, and withdrew from everyone around him. Initially I thought my brother was angry. Then I feared it was depression. Now, it’s a crutch. It’s so much easier to play the victim than to move past your hurt and try to make something of yourself in spite of it.

I stop scrubbing long enough to analyze my statement. Am I doing the same? Trying to keep people out? I don’t have many close friends. And I honestly haven’t considered dating again. But I don’t think I’m making excuses or being a martyr.

My situation with my father was only one piece of the puzzle. Losing Dillon had a greater impact. My priority has to be the welfare of my children. Not to mention, as a working single mother to three young kids, who has the time?

Pouring out the dirty contents from the bucket, I refill it with clean warm water and return to give the stove top and counters another rinse.Almost there.I love this kitchen. Even if it goes to waste most days. At least my mother utilizes it some. Even if it’s to pamper that dog with poached chicken. I giggle.I bet she doesn’t poach chicken for Roger.

Part of me worries about my mother’s plan to kick Roger out once she returns from her cruise. What if he simply repeats the cycle? Hooks up with some unsuspecting female online who’s looking for love, only for her to match with a guy that would rather live in his mother’s basement than create a life for himself. One could say it’d be her own fault for not picking up on his shortcomings early, but I did the very same thing.

I hadn’t dated much in high school. My self-esteem after my parents’ divorce was tattered. The few boys who’d asked me out made it painfully clear before the night was over what their intentions were. So, I poured my focus into nursing school.

I met Dillon at my nursing graduation ceremony. He was the brother of a classmate, and he instantly made me feel special. Desired. Our connection was hot and heavy, kindled by the fact he was only going to be in town for a short while. Knowing his time was limited, and he’d be moving to Fort Campbell, Kentucky with the Army added a fevered pitch to our romance. I’ve often questioned whether this was deliberate on his part. Like he was trying to soak up as much intimacy as he could before leaving or if it was genuinely love at first sight.

Not that it truly mattered. It wasn’t long after he left that I discovered I was pregnant, and our lives were forever changed.

I never doubted Dillon loved me. Or the kids. Marrying me may not have been his first choice, but he honored his commitments at home and abroad. I never had the sense he had other women. Besides, for all intents and purposes,Iwas his mistress.Hisfirst love was the military.

And then there was us.

But I knew this from the get-go and respected his devotion to his country and his battle buddies. There were times I couldn’t help but question whether he’d prefer to stay on base instead of coming home when the time was afforded him. While he seemed happy to see us when he was able to return, the exuberance didn’t last long.

He was never abusive or neglectful. Only distant. But he’d never been much of a talker. Any letters or emails home were short and sweet. I thought that was simply his personality.

We’d never lived on base housing until the end. I’d only just begun working as a nurse when I discovered I was pregnant. So, after much discussion, I chose to stay behind with my mother. She had plenty of room, and it was a relief to have the extra pair of hands with a new baby.

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