“I do,” I say.
And then, because what matters is what I do with that knowledge: “I pride myself on being a fast learner, but it took me too long to learn this one, I’m ashamed to admit. I won’t choose that over my child again. That’s my path now.”
She holds my gaze. My pulse stutters with uncertainty, then holds steady.
“What do you need from me, Elena?” I ask. “Not in theory. Right now.”
She picks up the fork again and continues sliding it through the satin-smooth torta, creating deep-set lines.
“I’m supposed to have an ultrasound at eight weeks,” she says, and I know she wasn’t going to tell me about it. At least not until after it happened. “That’s in two weeks.”
I keep my voice level, so I don’t sound like a desperate fool. “Do you want me there?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she says abruptly, surprising herself and me. “I know what I’m supposed to do. I have it all memorized: the lists, and the dos and don’ts. I know it all. I understand it all.” She blows out a breath.
“But none of it tells me what to do when I wake up in the morning and want to throw up, not because of the pregnancy, but from fear. Or how to deal with staring at the ceiling at night and realizing I’ve never been alone in a room andreallyfelt alone until—”
She stops, and she pulls a shaky breath in. “Until lately.”
My heart aches for her. I’ve been thinking of myself through all this and how I was going to convince Elena to let me into the child’s life, and how different it would be this time around. I never stopped to think how scared she might be. How everything is changing for her, too.
I reach out and cover her hand with mine. “You’re not alone,” I say.
It’s the truest thing I’ve ever said to her.
“Don’t promise me things you can’t give,” she says, but there’s no bite. Just a plea.
“I’m promising what I can,” I say.
“I haven’t even made an appointment yet,” she confesses. “I don’t have a doctor. Every time I look, none of them seems right. It all feels wrong. All I want to do is talk to my mother, and I can’t—”
A tear spills, and she stops to blow out a shuddering breath.
“Breathe, dolcezza,” I murmur, squeezing her hand. “Breathe.” I match her—inhale, hold, let it out. Once, twice. Until her jaw unclenches, and her shoulders drop an inch.
“What kind of professional am I? I can’t even pick a doctor,” she says on the exhale, a helpless little laugh threaded into it. “It feels like if I choose wrong, it’ll be the end of the world.”
“You won’t,” I say softly. “You can do this.”
She gives me a look that says, if I weren’t holding her hand, she might throw the fork at me. “Oh, thanks. Revolutionary.”
I smile. “How about this? I will get you three names,” I offer. “Tell me what you’re looking for, and I will have those names by morning. If you don’t like any of them, you tell me, and I start over.”
Her fingers flex under mine. “What if they can’t see me in two weeks? I should’ve made an appointment right away.”
“Give me a little credit, Panini,” I say, giving her a cocky smirk I know will make her smile.
It does, but only briefly.
“Come,” she says.
She doesn’t elaborate, but my heart leaps.
“I will be there,” I tell her. “I promise.”
Then I add: “Unless you choose somewhere outside the city limits.”
I stick my ankle out from under the table.
