Page 59 of Forbidden Property
It’s just a completely different side of him. When I hold our son, he gurgles and wrinkles up his face in this really specific way that looks just like Renzo when he scowls. I try not to think about their resemblance. His eyes flutter open and he starts smacking his lips together excitedly in anticipation of latching on.
Hm, he’s greedy.I can’t imagine how much he’s going to eat if he gets to be as big as his father.Ugh.I move my shirt aside and free my leaky nipple so our baby can latch on and feed. His crying subsides once he smells the delicious milk. It still hurts like hell when he latches on since I’m new to this and so is he, but I only wince a little bit this time before the flow of milk starts.
“Look at him,” Renzo says with a chuckle. “He’s letting it spill everywhere. I’ll get one of the towels.”
He searches on the shelves for one of the towels and when he turns to hand it to me with a smile, I feel a strange flutter that I haven’t felt between the two of us for a while.
“Thanks.”
“Did you get some sleep at least?” he asks, stifling a yawn as he watches me feed without outright gawking at my boob. We’renot shy around each other, and he hasn’t made a move on me, he’s just curious about the entire process. I can’t blame him. Having a new baby is… weird.
“Not much, honestly,” I reply. “It’s weird. I’m a mom. I should feel like a totally different person but… I don’t.”
“Good,” Renzo says. “I don’t want you to feel different. I want you to feel happy.”
I stroke our baby’s head and give him a little kiss while he continues to feed. I love having this precious time with him.With both of them.If I keep looking at Roman, I don’t have to keep looking at Renzo.
“I like the name you chose,” he says in a low voice. It shouldn’t make my heart do a backflip to get Renzo’s approval, but I can’t help but want him to think I chose the right name for our boy.
“Roman Lorenzo Samuels,” he says, practicing our baby’s name. “Although, Roman Taviani would have sounded just as good.”
“Thanks.”
“Can I get you anything? Ice for your nipples after?”
“A glass of water might be nice,” I say sleepily, kissing our son’s head again. “And the ice.”
“Got it,” Renzo says. “Anything you need.”
Roman Lorenzo Turns 8 weeks old
We’ve had our son for eight weeks. His skin tone has darkened up a little bit and his full head of hair has a little bald patch at the back that I cover up with a wide variety of cute baby-sized Carhartt beanies. I am not the one who gave Amazon permissionto deliver adorable baby hats within 24 hours of my impulse-buying…
Renzo works during the day, but he comes home at six p.m. every night, rolls up his sleeves and prepares dinner. I get a chance to hop into the shower while he cooks and watches Roman. When I get out of the shower, I feel like a person instead of a human milk machine and vomit receptacle. I get Roman out of the crib once I have my matching tan-colored Nike sweatsuit on and my hair out of my face in a pair of cornrows along the side of my head.
I can smell the parmesan and pasta the second I walk into the kitchen holding our baby. Roman kicks out his legs excitedly as if he knows there’s some delicious food about to pop off.
“Is that cashew de peewee?”
“Cacio de pepe,” Renzo corrects me for what must be the seventh time. He makes this pasta dish pretty often.
“I can’t say all those words.”
“If you want, I will pay for Roman to have Italian lessons.”
Renzo saying all that surprises me. We’ve been doing this just friends thing pretty well for the past eight weeks. He sleeps on the couch and keeps house like he’s in the military so I can’t even complain about him staying up on the couch. He does shifts with the baby and even after working all day, he cooks dinner.
Friendship is working out great for us honestly.
“Does he need Italian lessons?” I ask, genuine about the question. When we blew up the contract, we never discussed how Roman would be raised outside of Renzo stating that he would leave all decisions up to me as the sole custodial parent. He’s giving me the choice here, but making an offer I didn’t expect.
“If he ever wants to know the Italian side of his family.”
“Does the Italian side of his family want to know him?” I ask Renzo.
His face softens and then sadness that I swear I’ve never seen on him before colors his face. It’s this mixture of shame and regret that I would have never associated with Renzo if I hadn’t seen him myself. I almost want to pinch myself to double check if this is really him.
“I will do whatever you want, Geralynn. But if you will allow me, I want to know our son.”
