“And if it doesn’t work the first time, I’d like two more tries. If it doesn’t work after three tries, we can move to the divorce phase.” She looked upset as she poked at her pasta.
“You don’t think it’s going to work?”
Her shoulders rose. “Hard to say. Women who have PCOS like I do have reduced odds of conceiving.”
“Well, that’s because they’ve never tried it with a Moretti.” I thumped my chest. “The men in my family have very strong genes.”
“Oh, good Lord.” She rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t have anything to do with your genes, Enzo. It has to do with my eggs. But I don’t really want to talk about that now.”
“Suit yourself.”
She took a breath and met my eyes. “I’d like to give it three tries. If you’re okay with it.”
I shrugged. “I’m fine with it. I can jerk off three times.”
“Can you not say it like that?” She wrinkled her nose.
“That’s what it is, right? Why not call a spade a spade?”
“I prefer providing a sample. You will provide a sample three times.”
“If it makes you feel better,” I said. “But it’s exactly the same—”
“If it does work,” she went on, interrupting me, “we should probably at least stay married until it’s born. That means we’re potentially committing to being married for up to a year or more. Maybe fifteen months.”
“I was assuming that would be the case,” I said. “I think anything less is suspicious anyway.”
She took another drink of her wine. “Should we discuss phase three? The breakup and divorce?”
“Already trying to get rid of me?”
“The way I see it, there are two possible scenarios.”
“Go ahead. What are they?”
“First, if I don’t get pregnant, we can just blame that.”
I shook my head. “No way. Makes me an asshole, remember?”
She touched her chest. “I’ll take the blame. Look, I can’t explain this fully, but infertility is really hard on women. It affects them in ways people who’ve never been there can’t understand. But trust me when I say that it could have a detrimental effect on a marriage, especially one that was too rash and ill-advised in the first place.”
What choice did I have but to believe her? “Okay.”
“The second scenario is more complicated. If there is a baby.”
I set down my fork and took a big drink of water. “Yeah, I agree. If I hadn’t passed out last night, the thought of it would have kept me up.”
“This is the most serious part of this, because it’s the part that’s real, and the part that’s actually forever.”
“Right.” My throat was doing something weird, and the water wasn’t going down smoothly. I coughed into my elbow.
Bianca put her fork down, adjusted her glasses, and placed her hands in her lap. Her expression was concerned. “I want you to take some time to think about this, Enzo. This isn’t like a sperm donor situation. Because of our ‘marriage’”—she made quote marks in the air again—“people will know you’re the baby’s father. Like I said before, I won’t ask anything of you, but if you want to co-parent with me, you can. We could work out custody and visitation arrangements. On the flip side, if you want to walk away completely, you can.”
Anger boiled up inside me, and I glared at her. “Fuck that. I’m not an asshole, Bianca. If I father a child, I’ll be its father. I’m not a man who walks away from my responsibilities.”
“Okay.”
“And I told you. I’ve always wanted kids,” I went on heatedly, as if she’d insinuated otherwise.
“I get that, but I just want you to take some time to think about whether or not you’re ready for one at this point in your life, and with these circumstances. You will be a single dad.”
I looked her right in the eye. “I know. I said I was up for this, and I meant it.” It was the truth. Not that I wasn’t nervous, but I did want kids. And I didn’t want to be an old man before I became a father. A kid deserved a dad who could run the bases with him, wrestle and play catch, teach him to swim and fish and ride a bike, coach his teams. So wasn’t this the best possible way to go?
“Okay. So this is the last thing I’m going to say on this topic.” Bianca took a breath. “I know you want to run your own company. But are you sure this is the only way to get it?”
“Of course I’m sure. That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“What about starting your own company? Not taking over your father’s.”
My eyes widened. “Starting over from scratch? Fuck that. This is my birthright, Bianca. I’m the oldest Moretti son, and I deserve this, just like the previous five generations of oldest sons. I’m just as worthy as the rest of them. I can prove it.”
“I believe you,” she said quietly, and somehow I felt like she did.
“Good. Then it’s settled.” Without saying anything further, I ate the rest of my pasta, served myself some more, and finished that too. Then I grabbed a piece of bread and mopped up the sauce left in the bottom of the bowl.
When I finally looked up, I saw Bianca sopping up sauce with bread just like I had, then licking her fingers. Her appetite was sexy.
While she didn’t know I was watching, I covertly studied her profile and wondered what a child of ours would look like. Would they get her straight red hair or my thick brown waves? My dark eyes or her baby blues? Her alabaster skin or my olive complexion? Her petite stature or my height? Would it be a boy or a girl? Chubby or small? Sweet-natured or temperamental?
She looked over and caught me staring, and her expression turned angry. “Quit it,” she said, sucking sauce from her thumb. “You’re creeping me out.”
“Sorry.” Definitely temperamental, I decided. I pictured myself pacing the floor at night, holding a fat, screaming baby with wild red hair and briefly had second thoughts.
“Want some coffee?” she asked, sliding off her stool.
“Sure.” I rose to my feet to help her clean up.
“I’m impressed,” she said, watching me set my dishes in the sink and rinse them.
“Thank you.”
“I meant with your mother. You have nice manners.”
I poked her in the side and she giggled, scooting away from me. “Yeah, well, when she wasn’t busy screaming at my father, she managed to raise polite kids.”
We cleared off the island, and while I loaded the dishwasher, she put the food away. “You want to take some pasta home?” she asked.
“Are you kidding? Yes, please.”
She grabbed a plastic container from a cupboard, filled it with pappardelle, and snapped the lid on. “Don’t forget to take it. It’ll be in the fridge.”
“Okay. Thanks. Hey, can I use your bathroom?”
“Sure. Around the corner on your right.”
When I came out of the bathroom, instead of going left to head back to the kitchen, I peeked into the small room across the hall. It was a bedroom set up like an office, but it also had a couch, which looked like it might be a pull-out. Spying a bunch of framed photos on the bookshelves behind her desk, I switched the light on and moved deeper into the room to check them out.