Page 232 of The Havenport Collection

Before I could throw something else at him, Gio was up and rooting around in my fridge.

Despite growing up working in our family’s restaurant, he could not cook worth a damn.

He frequently came over here to feast on whatever I had been making.

At least he always brought beer. It made it easier to put up with him.

“Are you still holding out for Mandy?” he joked.

I shuddered. “Fuck no.” Valentina’s mother was a well-meaning train wreck.

She loved Valentina, called her frequently, and visited a few times a year, but she was not cut out to be a full-time parent.

Don’t get me wrong, I wanted Valentina to have a relationship with her mother, but Mandy surfaced every few months with empty promises and half-baked ideas that did more harm than good.

Hence, my current refusal to even open her email.

She was a hurricane in woman form. We met and three days later decided to drive cross-country on my motorcycle, camping and partying and having the time of our lives.

We eventually made it back to Chicago where I had scored a job at a trendy new restaurant, and that’s when we found out she was pregnant.

Things went downhill from there. I struggled to work and keep Mandy sober long enough to deliver Valentina. It was brutal. Mandy had no interest in our baby, and I was grateful when Valentina arrived early. The less time with her mother, the better.

The minute Val got out of the NICU, we hightailed it back to Massachusetts. Over the past eight years, Mandy had gotten sober, worked out many of her issues, and tried to do right by her daughter. I respected the effort she put in, but there was no way in hell I trusted her yet.

“What’s holding you back?” Gio was shoving paper-thin slices of imported prosciutto into his mouth while standing in front of my open refrigerator.

I shrugged. “Just haven’t met anyone who interests me.

” I could lie and tell him I wasn’t interested in dating, but he would see right through that.

The older I got and the harder I worked, the more I wanted to find my person.

Someone who made me feel like a man, not just an overworked dad and exhausted small business owner.

“Now that I’m older, I want connection, partnership.

I can’t just fuck around like I did when I was younger. ”

But practically, I knew that was unlikely. Partnership took work and time and energy, three things that were in short supply. “I have nothing to give a woman right now. I’ve got too much going on.”

“Spoken like a sad old man. You know, you could always try this crazy thing—it’s called asking for help.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I’m serious, Matteo. Help at work, help at home, help for Val, help for yourself. You need to prioritize yourself and your needs too sometimes.”

“I can’t afford help at work, at least not before the busy season picks up, and I would love help with Val, but our babysitter just left for a semester abroad.”

“Hire a new one, hire someone to help with the cleaning and laundry, and ask Dad to help you out at the restaurant. He’s basically retired now and has nothing to do.”

“And listen to him tell me how he would do everything better? No thanks.”

“You can’t keep up this exhausted Superman act forever, bro. You need some balance.”

I threw the pair of leggings I was folding at him. “Fuck balance. There is no such thing. I gotta give a hundred percent to my kid and a hundred percent to my restaurant. And that’s all I’ve got.”

“Don’t do this. Don’t play the martyr game with me. You have a good life, Matteo. You have a wonderful kid and are very lucky to have your own successful business.”

“Semi-successful,” I added. This year had not been one for the record books.

“Whatever. You have a loving family, you have your health, and even though you’ve let yourself go, you still sort of have your looks. So cut the shit and have a little gratitude and perspective. Enjoy what you have. Don’t keep punishing yourself.”

I rolled my eyes and handed him a plate. “Sit at the table. This isn’t a barn.”

“You sound like Nonna,” he teased as I grabbed the laundry basket and headed upstairs, figuring I could at least make a dent in some chores while Gio ate me out of house and home.

He wasn’t wrong. He knew me too well. Somewhere over the past year or so, I had let all the pressure get to me.

I had stopped being present and being grateful and turned into the stressed-out monster I always swore I’d never become.

But there was no time or space to breathe right now. So I didn’t know how to fix it.

I peered into Val’s room, expecting to find her sleeping peacefully. But I could hear the wheezing from the staircase. My heart stopped, and I dropped the laundry basket. I ran in, flipping the light switch on to see her nostrils flared and body shaking.

I immediately pulled up her nightgown to reveal what I suspected. Her abdomen was sucking under her ribs with each breath. A sure sign of respiratory distress. This was beyond an average asthma attack. I sat her up, looking for her rescue inhaler.

“Gio,” I screamed. “Call 911.”

“Val, sweetie,” I said, trying to remain calm. Her eyes were glassy, and her lips had a blueish tint.

I ripped open the nightstand drawer, taking out her rescue inhaler and spacer.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I repeated while putting the device together.

I carefully covered her mouth and nose, putting the spacer in place and praying that she could inhale.

I puffed the inhaler once, twice, and watched her struggle.

She was burning up, and her little body looked so frail.

I felt the tide of panic rising in my chest and reminded myself that I needed to stay calm.

I cradled Val to my chest, carrying her downstairs while praying that the inhaler would work its magic on her tiny lungs.

I could hear sirens in the distance. It was the one plus side to living in a small town. Response times were incredible, and I knew every cop, firefighter, and paramedic in a twenty-mile radius.

When I got down the stairs, Gio was standing in the doorway with our coats and my phone.

I could see his hands shaking. The stress of this winter had done a number on him too.

He was my primary backup caregiver for Val, one of the few people I trusted with her.

And he had a front-row seat to more asthma attacks than I would have liked.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said as I strode into the street to meet the ambulance. “It’s going to be okay.”