The hovering. The calls. The ironclad grip that trapped me but made me feel safe. The safest I ever felt.
"Hells, Lola, you're a damn mess." I am.
Because I know there's still the matter of his obsession and what it might be down the road.
I'm falling for him. Maybe I'm even in love... The emotions swamp me, then ebb, and I fill up with doubt, only to be swept away again.
Forgiveness, moving on, blank slates. I don't know how to fit in the obsession, the hovering. Because even though I miss it, even though he doesn't do it, I still catch glimpses of it—like certain conversations and looks.
And I can't help wondering if I'm making a mistake.
This is different from how I hesitated when I thought Alex was real. That might have ended with me murdered.
But while I trusted that Enzo wasn't going to go that far, I still hesitated because something shifted inside me, and I wonder if that something was instinct warning me.
Because back then, I could have walked if it got weird or cloying.
Now? I'm pregnant, and the window, even if it's open just a sliver, is shutting. And with it will go any chance of freedom.
A freedom I'm experiencing and that is leaving me feeling both elated and lacking. As if I'm missing something. As if my life is not as good as it was when he was solely focused on me.
But what if it becomes too much?
Running in the early months of pregnancy is vastly different from being the size of a house or having a baby with me.
I don't think I need to run, though.
I'm just jittery.
Right?
Splashing water on my face, I adjust my dress.
It's our first trip to the OB-GYN.
And I'm beyond nervous.
I hang my head. "Breathe," I whisper. "You're a massive knot of hormones."
From beyond the door, Lyndall's voice reaches me. "I've made a list. For things we need for the baby."
There's a pause. I raise my head, turning off the tap, and I wait.
"Baby things. Clothes. Oh, shit. I need to baby-proof everything, don't I? Wait. What do babies need?" Enzo asks, slight terror sliding through his voice.
"Regular things, dude." Lyndall has the confidence of a fifteen-year-old.
"Well, I don't fucking know what regular things are. Do I buy the baby a weapon? It's never too early to start training them, right?"
"I know you're joking, but no. Usually, you wait until they can walk and have more advanced motor skills. And are out of the terrible twos, threes, and probably feral fours and fives."
He breathes out audibly. "Which tie for this suit, Lynds?"
There's silence, and I half-smile, even though my heart is racing after that previous exchange.
Weapons?
At six years of age?
