She's tired all the time. She looks exhausted if I see her in the mornings, and more than once I catch her having fallen asleep on the couch when I come home late at night. I should wake her up, but that feels too much like taking care of her, so I leave her there every time, feeling horribly guilty that I’m leaving the mother of my child to sleep on the couch. But if I were to wake her, urge her upstairs, it would feel like tenderness.
Her face is drawn, and there are dark circles under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide. She's emotional, more so than in the past. I hear her crying sometimes, late at night when she thinks I'm asleep—soft, muffled sobs that make something twist in my chest. And she's showing. Just barely, but it's there—a slight swell to her stomach that wasn't there before. Evidence of the baby growing inside her.
My baby.
The thought should fill me with joy or anticipation. Instead, it just makes me feel trapped, tied to her in a way I can never escape. But it makes me feel something else, too, as I start to see the clear evidence of what caused all of this in the first place.
A strange protectiveness… a desire to care for her even though none of my hate or resentment has gone away. It only complicates the constant tangle of emotions in me, making me more restless and irritable than ever, but I find myself doing small things all the same.
She’s an obligation, I remind myself. She and the baby have to be cared for, for me to keep up my end of the deal. I tell myself that’s all it is when I pick up crackers and Sprite on the way home, or when I leave her ginger tea on the counter in the morning.
She never mentions anything about it. Not the tea or the snacks, or when I leave protein shakes in the fridge that are easy to drink, or prenatal vitamins in the bathroom. I stock the pantry with other things I’ve seen her eat over the years—gummy bears, Parmesan crackers, and a jar of pickles in the fridge, just in case.
And I don’t admit to myself why I’m doing any of this. It would mean admitting that I still care. That despite everything, despite the lies and the manipulation and the betrayal, I can't stand the thought of her suffering.
But deep down, I know there’s something more than pure obligation. I just ignore it, like I have everything else that I’ve felt since the night Giulia told me the truth.
21
GIULIA
The ginger tea appears on the counter every morning like clockwork, and I don't know what to do with the hope it creates.
I wake up nauseous and stumble to the bathroom to empty my stomach of nothing, because I haven't been able to keep much down. It leaves me shaky and weak, my throat raw, and my eyes watering. I brush my teeth and wash my face, and try to make myself presentable even though there's no one here to see me. Luca is always gone by the time I emerge from my bedroom.
But the tea is there, the scent of ginger cutting through the lingering nausea. Next to it this morning, there’s a banana and some graham crackers. Once there was a container of Greek yogurt with a note that just said "protein" in his sharp, angular handwriting.
He never mentions it or acknowledges that he's doing it, and he’s never around long enough for me to thank him.
I'm terrified to say anything anyway, because I'm afraid that if I acknowledge these small kindnesses, he'll stop. He'll realize he's being too soft, too caring, and he'll pull back into that cold, distant place where I can't reach him at all.
So I drink the tea in silence, and eat the fruit and crackers. I take the prenatal vitamins he leaves next to the mug—expensive ones, the kind my doctor recommended, not the generic brand from the drugstore.
I tell myself it means something. That he's paying attention, that he cares about the baby even if he doesn't care about me. It's not much. But it's more than I had even a week ago, when he could barely stand to be in the same room with me.
The tension in our marriage is only growing worse with each passing day. My father seems determined to build an outward show of happiness between us, creating more and more reasons for us to be seen together. There are more family dinners, business events, and parties where Luca and I have to appear. He’s trying to make the family seem strong and united, to avoid further problems, but it feels to me like being shoved through layers of hell one at a time. I imagine it’s not much better for Luca, which only makes me feel worse.
I have a doctor’s appointment that Luca dutifully attends, barely looking at me and only paying attention to the doctor, which creates an uncomfortable feeling in the room that I know everyone picks up on. Every interaction is charged with what's unspoken, with the resentment that takes up all the space that should be filled with something else. Something better.
I catch him watching me sometimes. His eyes track my movements across a room with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness. His jaw tightens when I walk past him, the muscle jumping beneath his skin like he's physically restraining himself from reaching out. His hands clench into fists when I'm close enough to touch, his knuckles going white with the force of whatever he's holding back. I know he still wants me physically. I can see it in every tense line of his body, every sharp breath he takes when I accidentally brush against him. I’m not even sure if he fully realizes it, but the desire is stillthere, as strong as it ever was, maybe stronger because now it's tangled up with anger and betrayal and all the things we can't say to each other.
But he won't act on it. He won’t let himself touch me, because touching me might seem like forgiveness, I suppose. He's made it abundantly clear that he's not ready to forgive me.
I doubt he ever will.
At a family dinner on Thursday night, I'm talking to Savannah when Luca approaches. He doesn't say anything, just slides his hand around my waist. His palm is warm through the thin fabric of my dress, his fingers splayed across my hip, and I have to fight not to lean into the touch. Sparks leap across my skin, and I can feel my body tightening, clenching, aching for him. I want him so badly I can barely breathe.
"Having a good time?" he asks, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear the edge in it.
"Yes," I murmur back, trying not to sound as breathless as I feel, even though it's a lie. I'm exhausted and nauseous and so desperately lonely I could scream.
His hand tightens fractionally on my waist—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me that this is a performance. That the tenderness is fake, manufactured for the benefit of the people watching us. "Good," he says, and then he's gone, moving across the room to talk to Romeo and leaving me standing there with the ghost of his touch burning through my dress.
Savannah gives me a sympathetic look. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm fine," I say automatically. What else can I say? That I'm drowning in this marriage? That I'm suffocating under the weight of his hatred, and I don't know how much longer I can survive like this?
"Giulia—"
