“I would have come before,” he tells Amadeo, “but Angel”—he darts a worried look at her—“I only just found out last night. I swear I would have come before.”
“That’s great,” Amadeo says encouragingly.
Everyone’s eyes are on the baby, as everyone’s eyes always are, but it’s particularly pronounced now, when no one can bear to look at anyone else.
“Want a Coke?” Amadeo is already filling cups with ice, welcoming the grinding clatter of the ice maker. He pours soda over the crackling ice, passes the glasses around.
Angel sips, and Amadeo remembers too late that she no longer drinks soda.
“Oh, here.” He reaches for her glass. “I forgot. Let me get milk for you.”
Angel waves him off. “It’s cool.”
“I didn’t know you had a dad,” says Ryan. “For some reason I thought he was dead.”
Amadeo starts. “You thought I was dead?”
“He’s not dead. Obviously. I just don’t talk about him much.”
“Gee, thanks,” says Amadeo, ready to joke. See? He’s not reading insult into every little thing. He chuckles gamely.
“School’s pretty good this year,” Ryan says.
Silence.
“You like school, Ryan?” Amadeo has got to quit watching television. The scene he’s in now is Father Meets Daughter’s Boyfriend, and the role calls for him to be cheerful, hapless, well-meaning. Except that Amadeo is no television father and this kid is not Angel’s boyfriend.
“I like it okay. I play basketball.”
“JV,” says Angel.
“How do you know I haven’t moved up?” He clutches his knobby wrists. “You weren’t at school for practically all year last year.”
“I know you’re not on varsity.”
Amadeo begins to feel bad for the kid. “Here, sit,” he tells them.
Angel obeys, but when Ryan sits next to her on the couch, she scoots away so she’s wedged against the armrest.
“Why is his head like that? So bumpy.”
Offense flares in Amadeo, but Angel just shrugs. “His skull bones are still moving around.”
Ryan extends a long finger, lets it hover over the black curls, but then thinks better of it, and touches Connor’s red fist instead. “Hi, little dude.” He sits back against the cushions, but his eyes don’t stray from the baby.
Amadeo peers at Connor, trying to see a resemblance between him and Ryan. Connor did not get Ryan’s long face or weak chin, certainly not his coloring. But there is something in the shape of his mouth.
“Can I hold him?” Ryan asks.
“He’s your kid, too.” Her tone is bitter, but then she says, more softly, “Sure.” She places Connor in Ryan’s arms. The maneuver requires her to get near him, but once the baby has been transferred, she retreats to the corner of the couch again. She drags her legs up.
Ryan draws Connor cautiously toward his skinny chest. He seems relieved when Angel takes the baby back.
“So how did you two meet?” Amadeo immediately regrets asking, because the question seems just a hair away from asking how Connor was conceived.
“Geometry,” Angel says flatly. “Mrs. Esposito.”
“Angel’s really good at geometry. Was. I called her Angle. Obtuse Angle. For, like, a joke.” Ryan laughs, a dweeby, breathy laugh. Amadeo pictures him powering through a clumsy flirtation, maybe yanking a braid or two. He wouldn’t have expected a math joke to work on his daughter, but maybe that just shows how little he knows her.