Fabian and I exchange looks.
“We were introduced by a mutual acquaintance,” Fabian answers, leaving out the fact that the mutual acquaintance was a fertility clinic. Close enough.
“And then you just … randomly … reconnected?” Dan asks.
“Pretty much.” I take a drink.
“It’s just weird that all this time we’ve been friends, you never mentioned that you knew one of the world’s biggest athletes,” Dan says, a curious glint in his eye as he examines Fabian. “If it were me, I’d work it into every conversation I ever had.”
“Yeah, well, Rossi’s not like that,” Fabian says, turning to me. “Which is one of my favorite things about her.”
Dan clears his throat.
“So where’d you go?” he asks.
“Pardon?” Fabian coughs.
“If you knew her before and you recently reconnected, why was there a disconnect? Did you stop talking to her? Disappear from her life? I guess I’m just trying to paint a picture here,” Dan says. “I don’t do well with ambiguity.”
“Fabian’s a busy guy,” I say. “And I’m a busy girl. Our paths crossed again at the perfect time.”
Dan slices a corner of lasagna with his knife before loading it into his fork. Frowning, he doesn’t take a bite. He simply continues to study Fabian.
At least he’s actually looking at him now—which was more than I could say twenty minutes ago.
Lucia squeals, tossing a sticky handful of yogurt melts on the floor before knocking her sippy cup aside. Pushing away from her tray, she winces.
“She’s been in there a while.” I hop up to unfasten her. “I’m sure she wants to stretch.”
“I’ve got it.” Dan swats me away, retrieving Lucia before I have a chance. She offers him a drooly grin, which he promptly cleans up with her bib before placing her on his lap. With one arm holding my squirmy daughter, he finishes his dinner.
For the next several minutes, Fabian’s stare is heavy, his jaw is set, and his lasagna goes cold.
“You don’t like it?” I ask, though it’s a silly question because he hasn’t even tried it. “I used that organic sauce you were telling me about …”
Forcing a breath through flared nostrils, he digs into his food, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Dan and Lucia.
Tossing back the rest of my wine, I sit in awkward limbo as Dan bounces my baby on his knee and makes silly sounds that send her into roaring giggles—all the while Fabian shoots daggers his way.
Is he jealous?
Protective?
Rising, I casually make my way to the other side of the table, scoop my daughter into my arms, and carry her to the kitchen. With Lucia on my hip, I begin cleaning up. Maybe I shouldn’t leave those two to their own devices over there, but I couldn’t stand another second of whatever the hell they’re doing.
“Oh, Rossi, let me help you.” Dan meets me by the island, stacking plates and silverware, washing utensils and placing everything back into its rightful spot—the way he’s done a hundred times before.
For the next ten minutes, no one says a word.
On a normal Wednesday, we’d eat dinner, clean up, play with Lucia for a bit, then we’d watch a movie or a couple shows after putting the baby to bed.
But something tells me that’s not going to happen tonight.
“Thanks for stopping by, Dan.” Fabian grips the back of Dan’s left shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. “Think I can take it from here.”
Elevens form between Dan’s brows. “I’m confused.”
Only I know he isn’t confused. He knows exactly what Fabian’s implying.
“I’ll walk you out?” I offer, before things get worse.
Dan shuts off the faucet, dries his hands, and exhales.
I follow him to the front door, Lucia on my hip.
“Well, that was interesting,” Dan says, voice low. His eyes scan past my shoulder, toward the kitchen where Fabian is finishing what he started.
I debate apologizing—but I stop myself.
I didn’t do anything wrong.
I didn’t participate in the pissing match.
As far as I’m concerned, they both owe each other some kind words.
“Call me tomorrow,” he says, a distinct air of concernment in his tone. “I’m worried about this … situation.”
“Stop.” I roll my eyes and swat his chest. “Have a good night, okay?”
I close up behind him, carry Lucia to the living room, then return to the kitchen, perching at the island where Fabian waits for me.
“So?” I ask. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“That guy’s a fucking creep,” he blurts before eyeing Lucia and wincing. “I’m sorry, Rossi. But something’s off about him.”
“He’s just lonely,” I say. “And protective of us.”
“Protective?” he asks. “Protective? Rossi, that man wants to wear your skin.”
I laugh so hard I snort. “Dan? No. He might be a little socially awkward, but he’s no Buffalo Bill. This is not a Silence of the Lambs situation.”
“It’s weird how much he likes Lucia.” Fabian’s expression sours. “That’s not normal. Grown men parading around babies like that.”