“There’s a good possibility. The fucked-up thing is that Mitch gave them to him so Mick would know love, and hopefully his mother would give it back to him. She never did.”
“I don’t even know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
We had completed a few blocks at this point, coming up on Snow, close to our place. The evening was gorgeous. Cool air touched my skin and lungs with a gentle hand. A smoky essence floated around us; someone had lit a fireplace.
“Are you sick?” He said this so casually that it took a moment for me to string the words together. When I didn’t answer right away, his hand squeezed mine too hard.
I let out a squeak before answering. “No. Why would you even say that? You’d know if I was sick.”
“Grief is blinding. I don’t know if what I’ve been seeing is sorrow or something else. It’s fucking with my head, Scarlett.”
“What have you been seeing?”
“You’ve been sleeping harder.”
“I’m tired. It has a lot to do with emotions. Missing Mick is hard enough. Then there’s Violet. Mitch. The kids. It brought back a lot of memories for me, too. Matteo and Elliott.”
He said nothing, and I made him stop. “Look at me, Brando.”
Finally, he did.
“I’m fine.We’refine.”
He put my hand against his heart. “Giura a me.”
He demanded that I swear, so I did, clutching the cross around my neck, hoping to God the latter would prove to be true.We’re going to be fine.
* * *
Somehow, I knew. Call it intuition, but I had known all along. Some deeper part of me had felt it.
After the night of our anniversary, a week after we had made love, I woke up with a tightening in my stomach, close to cramps.
I knew then. With a feeling I couldn’t even describe, I had turned to Brando, setting his hand on my stomach, the warmth of his skin comforting the tightness of the ache—a calm to the beautiful storm he had created inside of me.
The proof of that knowledge was now clutched in my hands as I tried to compose myself in the bathroom at the doctor’s office—an ultrasound picture, a small blob in black and white with a strong heartbeat. It had been loud enough that the thudding of it could be heard so clearly.
His. Mine.Ours.Due in September.
The doctor blamed it on recalled birth control—faultywas what she had called it.
I called it fate.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
Those words came to me in a rush. Words I had spoken to him that night out of sheer exhaustion—or was it? I knew what they had meant and why I had said them. I knew what we had created that night or soon after.
A baby.
Turning to the side, staring in the mirror, I saw a swell that was already noticeable, as if I had eaten too much. Tenderness in my breasts still lingered. All normal, the doctor had assured me. Even the cramping—implantation was what she had called it—was normal. Being extremely tired too.
“All is well, Mrs. Fausti. Should I get Mr. Fausti? He seems worried. This might put him at ease.”
“No,” I had said. “I want to surprise him.”Give him a heart attack, more like, but I kept that to myself.
Mr. Fausti was going to be a father. The bile in my throat came out in a rush and I had to brace myself against the sink as the spasms rocked my body.
