Doesn't speak.
Just sits there in his wheelchair, staring at the tests in my outstretched hand like I've just handed him a live grenade.
Seconds pass.
Ten.
Twenty.
The silence stretches until I can't bear it anymore.
"Say something," I whisper. "Please. Say anything."
Bruno
There must be a God.
That's the first coherent thought that forms in my mind.
There must be a God, and He has the most twisted sense of humor in the universe.
Because this?—
This is fucking hilarious.
Me.
Bruno Sartori.
The broken one in the wheelchair.
The man who can barely stand for sixty seconds.
The man who spent two years convinced he was half a corpse.
A father.
I'm going to be a father.
My vision blurs. Something hot and wet pricks at the corners of my eyes.
No.
I shove it down.
Not now.
Not ever.
I don't cry.
So I push the moisture back. Swallow the lump in my throat. Force my face into something that isn't complete devastation.
But my hands won't stop shaking.
And my chest won't stop aching.
And Antonella is standing there with three pregnancy tests in her trembling palm, looking at me like I'm about to destroy her world.
