Page 222 of Falling for the Wife

For the past weeks, I knew she had been bombarded with so many things she’d had to fully process and get used to, but we hadn’t been physical much. Even the kissing, the hugs, and random touches throughout the day that simply showed how much one was treasured had been lacking. Well, tomorrow we would start remedying that problem.

One thing I had pondered lately was the fact that I wanted to propose marriage. Her annulment could take another month, two at the most. Was it too early to plan? She had promised that, in six months’ time, we could discuss the living arrangement and us as a family, so was it wrong of me to secure an engagement before the intended date she had set for us? A part of me believed it wasn’t, but another argued that, since my mother had bullied her into this situation in the first place, I should have the wherewithal to wait until then.

My mind was truly a cluster-fuck. I sometimes shoved personal matters to the side and focused on work when I had free time, because I continuously tortured myself. Therefore, it was in my sanity’s best interest to apply this severe concentration on matters that I fully understood and had some control over.

My phone shrilled the moment I entered my bedroom.Who would be calling me around this time?It was almost midnight.

Well, my father wasn’t one to consider midnight as of late. The man barely slept two to four hours and functioned like a stallion with the stamina of a bull. Then again, if one treated espressos like they were water, I supposed anyone could become an insomniac.

“Sì, Papa?” There was no point in greeting him, not when the call was informal. Most of his calls at this hour were unconventional through the years. On a few occasions, I was even high or drunk and was blabbering about nonsensical things. The old man had reprimanded me yet would somehow let me off easy.

It was my mother who laid down the law on how I should behave and function privately and publicly. Well, none of that would apply to my own son. Sure, I would instill manners and such, but I wouldn’t dare dictate his life if he chose to do something that was unconventional or something that was outside of my comfort zone.

“Apologies for calling this late, but I knew you’d be up. Am I interrupting you from anything, son?” he had the finesse to ask. Of course, he did this out of propriety. If I had said that I was preoccupied, he would simply speak over my reason and carry on, stating what he had called me for. It used to exasperate me when I was a teenager, yet somewhere along the way, I had gotten used to it. Funny, these days, it seemed quite normal to me.

“I’ve cleared my schedule just to hear you talk, Papa.”

“Oh, don’t patronize me. I called to ask if it’s okay if your mother and I visit tomorrow around lunchtime,” he chastised, but his cheerful mood sort of ruined the effect.

I didn’t check with Kimberly, but I was sure she would be accommodating. After all, she was the one who had suggested this cacophony to take place. Unpleasant though it was, I was at their mercy.

“Even if I decline you inviting yourselves into my home, it won’t make a difference. We both know that’s how that works.”

He grumbled a laugh on the other end of the line. “Nice talking to you, son. I’ll see you at lunch,” he stated elatedly before cutting the line.

My father was a lot of things, but in his own way, he loved me. I knew that deep down.

Back in the day, I had wished he were different, a father I could confide in and who was approachable. Most of my colorful past was due to rebellion from my vast disconnect with my parents. Thankfully, I had grown out of that.

I could relate to him now and see through his odd way of being. Not all fathers were created equal. Mine just happened to be unconventional and showed his love in different ways, like giving his support even though I shouldn’t have it. Though he wasn’t normally vocal about anything regarding personal matters, when he did address them, I understood it was important. I hoped I could do the same for my son.

As a matter of fact, the other night, Kimberly and I had discussed how I would react if Gian Luca later on revealed he wasn’t straight and was playing for the other field. Would I accept him then? Would I continue to love him unconditionally? Her question had made me pause. I mean, what if thatdidhappen? In this new generation, men and women expressed themselves freely. Gone were the days of repression.

I admitted it was a daunting prospect to consider as a parent, but I supposed, if that ever happened, nothing would truly change. Sure, it might take some time to get used to the fact, but I doubted it would diminish my love for him.

When I had made that vow that I would forever love and support my child/children, I had meant every word of it. The promise was engraved in my soul, in my heart, where it counted the most. Of course, I would prefer it didn’t come to that, because most folks here lived and breathed the church and could easily see him as a sacrilege.

Italian machismo didn’t stem from nowhere. It had quite a history, based upon centuries upon centuries of barbaric displays of strength, skills, and insurmountable acts of bravery, be it on the battlefield, at the arena, or on a mission. This country, after all, had produced gladiators and taken part in the Knights of the Templar and The Sixth Legion. There was an undying stigma for those who didn’t follow that lifestyle.

Here in Italy, we looked at things in a different perspective. Italian men were a breed of their own. Life and driving in our male populace went hand in hand. So everything we compared ourselves with would be in reference to dominant male animals or any of our well-renowned cars. Just like a traffic light, green meantgo, yellow meantkeep going,and red meantit’s just a suggestion. It was just how things were around here. We lived to love and loved to live.

Nevertheless, men in general were creatures of pattern. We stuck to what we knew and what worked. That was why the mere idea of abolishing siesta was truly criminal.

When I announced that my parents were joining us for lunch, Kimberly wasn’t even fazed or surprised by it. She received my announcement as if she had expected it and simply shrugged and smiled at me then stated we had better have a good menu planned out.

Instead of trying to figure her out, I resumed work after checking in on the vigorous little one. Each time he and I were together, his grip on my hand became tighter until I wondered if he didn’t want me to leave him at all. Parting from him, even if it was a short walking distance downstairs, could prove to be difficult at times, most especially if he used those eyes and the tiny, heart-melting yawn. He sure knew how to play me.

Lunchtime approached, and as expected, my parents came. The four of us—for the very first time, mind you—actually sat down like civilized folks as we ate our meal outside on the veranda. It was odd at first, but Kimberly’s willingness to keep reaching out to them and engage with them—most especially my father—helped to lighten the mood. I wasn’t particularly much help. I barely engaged unless provoked, and then I would respond with a dicey word or two.

“Are you planning to go back to the track soon?” my father casually threw the question, piquing both my mother and Kimberly’s curiosity.

She and I hadn’t really discussed much of anything about the outside world and the commitment I’d had prior. We were simply living in the moment. I supposed it was high time I really considered what was the best route for my future.

Taking my time, I appeared as if I were considering his question with great care. “I want to do more with the business aspect of my life as I have been doing since I took leave.”

“As you should. You are, after all, going to inherit the family business,” he immediately interjected, seeming pleased by my answer.

“I’m thinking of expansion, but it’s still in the early stages of planning. And as for racing, I will release a statement that I’m announcing my retirement.”