The Don's Baby: A Bad Boy Romance (15 page)

“Or make me get rid of it,” I said quietly.

“Sophie, he wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t he? I thought that too initially, but now I’m not so sure. Why would he leave? If he left he obviously has things or is doing things he doesn’t want me to know about.”

“You need to call him.”

“So he can tell me how hard it is to think around me again?”

“You need to find out the facts. The only way to know what he’s feeling is to ask him. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that he loves you, but he does care about you. He wouldn’t have gone through all that trouble to keep you safe if he didn’t.”

“My marriage is over,” I said miserably. “It never even got to the part when it could have been fun yet.”

“I’m not leaving you here like this. We’re going.”

“Going where?”

“I don’t have to be into work for a number of hours, but you need to stop moping. It’s not good for you.”

“It doesn’t make a difference, if I’m not moping here, I’ll mope wherever it is you want to take me.”

“Fine. You don’t care about yourself, think about this…it’s bad for the baby.”

That one got me.

“Get in the shower and get dressed.”

“No,” I pouted.

An hour later we were at
Puglia
and I was rolling fresh pasta.

Usually, I got tunnel vision when I cooked. It was still pretty early in the day so the chefs were still doing mainly prep, but it didn’t matter. Elena thought that occupying my hands would help me stop thinking about Marcelo, but the prep was too repetitive and routine to truly engage me enough to stop ruminating. She had dragged me to
Puglia
, which I suppose was the best place she could have taken me. I was familiar with the space, so I could move around in my semi-catatonic state and not fall on my face. I morosely julienned cucumber and carrots.

I was going to be Marcelo Orsini’s pregnant ex-wife within the next three months. Our fathers were going to kill each other, and half the New York City underground was going to collapse. That was how this story was going to end. I was going to be a divorced, single mother—and Marcelo would cede all legal rights to the baby. I would be out on my ass with nothing because we had no prenup and he would be able to make sure I wasn’t entitled to anything from our time together.

Or even better. He would make me have an abortion on the grounds that I made him get me pregnant in order to indebt him to my father. The kid was the thing that would make sure my father always had one up on him even if we ended up divorcing, which was what was going to happen. That was what he had left me to think about, wasn’t it?

How would he do it? Would he give me the respect of at least telling me himself to my face, or were we going to communicate through lawyers from then on? How the hell would I pay for legal counsel that could rival his?

***

I couldn’t sleep in the house that night. Everything made me think about him, and when I started thinking about him, it was only a matter of time before I began thinking about the baby and all the terrible things that were going to happen if Marcelo was as angry as I thought he was.

My options were limited. I moved out of my own apartment right into Marcelo’s house and the apartment was already being rented by somebody else. If he kicked me out, I would be homeless. There was always my parents’ house. They wouldn’t turn me away, but there was no way I would be able to lie to my mother that everything was all right. Everything was
not
all right. She would be able to tell right away.

I wanted to go. I wanted to see her again. The last time I had was at the wedding. My father, too. They would know that something was wrong. Was that so bad though? They were married. They had been married for years. They knew what it was like. If anything, they should be able to empathize.

I was
married
. I couldn’t go running to my mom and dad whenever things were rough between my husband and me. There was the fact that he had run away from me first…but that didn’t make it right. Maybe if I left the television on for long enough, I would fall asleep in front of it. That was worth a try. Or maybe I could invite Elena over so I could at least have another person in the room as I cried.

I might have been semi-useful during prep, but there was no way I could have been any use to anyone during the busy lunch service. Elena had to work, so I had nobody to bore with my thoughts about my impending divorce. I decided to head home, walking.

***

The same violent wave of nausea that had dragged me from bed in the morning, pulled me from bed the next day. I heaved into the toilet, wondering what on earth I had done to deserve this. I had been to Catholic elementary and high school, so maybe that was why I had managed not to employ contraception with Marcelo. I knew that wasn’t the truth; I had been to Planned Parenthood enough times through college to educate myself on the risks associated with these things. Marcelo wasn’t my college boyfriend though, he was my husband. That was not a good enough excuse not to have gotten on the pill or gotten a diaphragm or something, but it had seemed harmless enough at the time.

In the very beginning, it had just been twice. We had had sex two times, but all it took to conceive was one time. It only took one time, and it only took one sperm. Marcelo was so hot and perfect that it made sense that he would also be extremely virile. If anyone’s genes needed to be passed, they were his. And whether he wanted them to be or not, they were.

Nothing. He had given me nothing. I had watched my phone, waiting to see that he had called me or at the very least sent a message. Nothing. There was the option, of course, that
I
could have called
him…
but to say what? Yeah, it would have been nice to hear his voice, maybe ask him what was up and where he was, but when it came to that other thing, there was nothing I could have done. The ball was in his court, and he had put it there himself. I was waiting for him because he had asked me to wait. What could I do?

For all, I knew he was filing for divorce and I would be served in the next forty-eight hours.

What the hell was I supposed to do with myself all day? I couldn’t go to
Puglia
. I couldn’t go see my parents. Elena would have only been able to entertain me till her shift began. I needed some hobbies. I needed to join some groups or something. What did I even like to do besides cook? Would I turn into one of those people who ran a cooking blog? If it meant having something to do besides worry about the state of my marriage, then
yes
.
I
would
.

Staring at the empty address bar of my browser, my fingers took on a life of their own. In seconds, I was logged into Amazon researching different breast pumps. Was I going to breastfeed? A lot of women didn’t, but it was supposed to be good for the kid. What happened to the milk if you didn’t feed it to your kid? Did you just reabsorb it? Did you milk it out of yourself like a cow?

Thinking of milk, was I still allowed to have tea and coffee?

I thought about it and realized I had no fucking idea.

None.

I had more questions than answers. How was I going into this so clueless? When was I even supposed to visit the doctor to get the fetus checked out? I had no clue. Why did I still not know anything? How and why had I let this much time pass since I had found out that I was pregnant before I actually started taking steps to educate myself on how to raise a kid?

Babies were expensive. The kid would need furniture and clothes. There was a ton of accessory items that needed to be procured as well. The decision to keep the baby when I found out about it had been instant, so how had I fallen into complete inertia? Just because Marcelo didn’t know where he stood, didn’t mean I had to stick myself in whatever limbo he was still in.

A knock at the door after I had spent hours online made me jump. It was Daniella. She had been around a lot more often now that Marcelo was gone.

“Mrs. Orsini, I’m done for the day. I’m heading out.”

“Thank you, Daniella, see you tomorrow,” I said.

“Something came for you a couple hours ago. I left it downstairs on the dining table,” she told me. I thanked her again and resumed my frenzied googling before heading downstairs to eat something. I felt like Doritos but also raspberry sorbet. I settled for a plate of the ziti that Daniella had cooked and stashed in the refrigerator. Settling down to eat my reheated meal, was when I saw them. It was a bouquet, but likely the largest one that had ever been recorded in history. It was huge, definitely more than twelve roses.

I held the roses and inhaled their sweet scent. They were white. I noticed a piece of card, lodged between the stems. I pulled it out. It was covered in writing, Marcelo’s handwriting, which I had never seen other than when we were signing the marriage certificate.

‘I don’t know if I can be a good husband and father. But I want to try more than anything.-M’

I read the note then reread it. I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face. It wasn’t as good as having him here supporting me, but it was something. This was his olive branch. He was going to try. He wanted to try, and that was all I really wanted. I wanted him to make the effort, and he was going to do it for me. He was going to do it for us.

I put the flowers in a vase and went upstairs. This was great. This called for a celebration. I ran the bath and poured in the bubble bath. I pinned my hair up and slid inside. The flowers were a sign. I was going to treat them as an invitation. He had communicated, and his answer was what I had hoped it would be. Sure, he wasn’t here gushing about how happy he was to become a dad, but I didn’t need that. All I needed was for him to try, and he was. I reached for my phone and carefully dialed his number, careful not to get water on it. He picked up after two rings.

“Did you get the flowers?” he said instead of a greeting.

“I did. Traditionally, you’re supposed to give your wife red roses,” I said playfully.

“Come on, baby. You know traditional is the last thing that describes us.”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me. I’m mad at you.”

“What is it? What did I do?”

“You made me wait a whole day before you let me know you weren’t going to divorce me.”

He laughed at that.

“Why would I divorce you after we just got married, Sophie?”

“The way you left… I was so scared you hated me after I told you that I was pregnant.”

“I don’t hate you, Sophie. You’re my wife. You’re going to give birth to my child.”

“Do you think you’re ready to become a parent?”

“Honestly, no. I don’t know the first thing about parenting, but I know I could do it if you were with me.”

“You really mean that?”

“I do. Our relationship started rough, but not a lot of guys get set up the way that I did with you. I think we’d make a great team. The way that we started doesn’t matter because being stuck in the past doesn’t help anything.”

“Are you scared?” I asked.

“I’m excited.”

“When are you getting back?” I asked.

“A few more days. A week at the very most. Something came up.”

“More thinking?”

“No more thinking. Work.”

“Where are you?”

“Sophie…you know I can’t tell you that,” he said.

I sighed. I wasn’t going to push it, not when he was making an effort. “What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”