The tone of his voice turned my heart into mush.
It wasn’t his fault. At one time I had held some resentment, not for him, but for the self-loathing that made him not want children. I understood his reasons, though it didn’t make acceptance any easier.
I stood on my toes (even in heels he was much taller than me) and placed my arms around his neck, my mouth against his. “I love you, Brando. I don’t move unless you move with me. Wherever you go, I go.”
His hold on me grew tighter, as if he wanted to absorb me through his skin. His breath left him in hollowed out slowness. And I wondered…just how alone I was in this struggle.
* * *
Brando had brought me a cool cloth to put over my eyes and wanted to call Uncle Tito. I waved him off, more than once. Just thinking of having to explain to Uncle Tito that I had a moment of grief for a dead dream made me close my eyes tighter.
Especially since Brando wouldn’t stop staring at me. Every so often he’d glance at the luggage waiting by the door, our luggage for Vegas, but mostly his eyes were on me.
“Brando.” I reached out for him.
“What’s wrong?” His hand took mine in a death grip.
“Nothing,” I said, moving the cloth from my eyes. I had a stress headache. I felt like I had gone ten rounds with the champ. Emotions were ruthless. “Why would something be wrong?”
He shook his head. I knew he was unable to say what he felt—he was worried and not sure how to move forward after I had lost it earlier. There was no use in reassuring him that all was fine, either. I tried that, more than once, and it wasn’t helping.
I pointed to his suitcase. “Double check your case,mio marito. Make sure that I packed everything you’ll need.”
He didn’t want to, but he did it anyway to appease me. He sighed, long and hard, as he got up to do it. Perhaps if he actually saw the proof that we were going together, he’d lighten up some. I wasn’t sure if he was mad at himself for the children issue, or more worried that I’d try to slip out on him during the middle of the night—not that I could. He had radar when it came to me.
He unzipped his suitcase, and I tried to relax as he searched through the contents inside. He went to the closet and got a few things—mostly extra t-shirts and sweatpants—and packed those. As soon as he zipped up, he was next to me in the bed again.
“Here—” he said, reaching out for me. He started to rub my head. I relaxed into his touch, making pleasurable noises as his firm hands worked against my scalp, moving down my neck and along the nubs of my spine.
“Doesn’t it seem like all of our fights start in the kitchen and end in the bedroom lately?” He hit a tender spot, and I pressed against him and made anooohsound. He mumbled something unintelligible. I thought I heardyou’ll fight with me anywhere, but I wasn’t too sure.
He cleared his throat. “You’ll tell me if not having children becomes too much.”
“It’s a little too late for deal breakers now, don’t you think?” He didn’t say it, but I knew that’s what he was thinking.
“Scarlett.”
I sighed and told him to turn over. His lower back was tender, so bruised that I could hardly look at it. But I attempted to massage around the area. He stopped me, though, taking my hand and pulling me closer.
Earlier, after stripping out of the dress and taking a hot shower to relieve the pressure in my head, I had slipped into bed naked. My bare front pressed up against his bare back. My nipples hardened against him from the contact.
“Brando. I had a moment in the kitchen. That’s all it was.”
“No. I know it wasn’t just a moment. You didn’t see your face. Devastated is the only word I can think of to describe it. It’s still—”
I shoved at him. “Still what?”
“Puffy.”
“Oh.” My face did feel swollen. Little wonder, though. I had cried enough for months. It was as if a surge of ocean water had almost drowned me. I was tired to the bone but not able to sleep. I had grieved over the dream, but something restless still tugged at me.
Actually, taking a flight out of New York felt right. Our flight to Vegas wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow evening, and I couldn’t wait to leave.
He took my hand in his again and held tight. “You’ll tell me if it becomes too much.”
“It’s not going to.”
“You don’t resent me.”
