The Ground Rules: Undone (11 page)

Gabe and I have only had sex once. Still, it’s all I can think about on our last day. Because I know that soon, we’ll be back home and he’ll most likely leave me once he knows my secret.

This will probably our last chance to ever make love
, I realize as I tuck myself in the crook of his arm, staring up at the wooden beams overhead. I trail my hand along his bare torso, warming the tip of my fingers against his hot skin.

Gabe takes my hand in his. “We’ve had a great week, haven’t we?” he asks. “I’m so glad we did this.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Me too,” I say, looking up at him. I sit up and press myself close against the length of his body, smothering him. I want to get as close as I can. I press my lips against his.

The sound of his laughter vibrates against my mouth. “You’re a frisky little bunny this week,” he breathes. “I like it when you can’t get enough of me.”

My hands are already working the tie of his checkered lounging pants. “I want to make love tonight,” I whisper against his ear. And as I explore further, I see he’s already willing and able.

He toys with the thin strap of my silk nightie. “What Mrs. Keates wants…she gets.”

He trails his finger along the embroidered flowers lining the neckline of my slip. “This is nice,” he whispers. “It’s almost a shame to take it off.”

I smile. “But I want you to.”

He drags his hand to the hem and slides it up against my thigh. “Me too. I absolutely want you naked,” he says with a cheeky smirk.

He pulls the nightie over my head. The sensation of the smooth silk is heavenly against my skin. He pulls me to him and takes my breast in his mouth. He’s gentle tonight. I feel my body warm at the feel of his wet tongue on me. I close my eyes and bury my face in his soft hair.

Familiarity is a wicked bitch — it makes you forget what you really love. I’d forgotten how much I desire him. I’ve taken him for granted.

I had forgotten the feel of him, the soft curls wrapping around my fingers when I rake my hands through his hair, the soft hair on his forearms, the smoothness of his skin, the feel of his hips pressing against the inside of my thighs, the sheer size of him as his length fills me deep.

He pulls me under him in one swift move and stares straight into my eyes. But he can’t see what’s really there — all the secrets I’ve hidden from him. I pull him close, not wanting to look into his eyes. His mouth tugs at my ear softly, his hands slide up my legs. He’s being playful.

He tugs my panties down and plants a kiss just above my hip bone, where his name is etched on my skin.

When he makes his way back up to me, I reach again for his pants and free him.

Tucked in under the cozy quilt, his naked body finally presses against mine.

He kisses me as he sinks into me gently. The old rustic wrought-iron bed clanks against the wall and squeaks, despite the fact that he’s being very gentle. We smile at the sound, his grin pressed against mine.

I relish the feel of him against me, and I try not to think too much. This might be our last time. After all these years, my soul mate and I might be torn apart. I can’t imagine not seeing him every day, not waking up next to him, not being able to joke around with him like we do so often, and not being able to play.

I push his body away from mine gently, my hand pressed on his stomach. “I want to see you.” I want to see his beautiful body pressing against me. The contrast of his dark ink-covered skin against my ivory snow white flesh is so erotic.

I take a mental photograph of him, of every detail. Because I know this is most likely the last time I’ll get a chance to appreciate this view.

He presses down against me again and stills. “I’m sorry…we need to stop,” he breathes against my ear. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. You drive me crazy.”

“Please don’t,” I breathe. I don’t need to climax. I don’t care about that tonight.

All I want is to make love to him one last time.

CHAPTER EIGHT

…she will remember him now.

I
’m at twelve weeks. It’s time. This baby is not going anywhere.

I’ve thought about this moment so often — have replayed it in my head over and over, like an old film. I’ve wondered where I should do it, how I should go about it. There is no good time for something like this.

One thing I know for certain is I don’t want to do this with the girls around. I know Gabe’s volatile nature too well. And although I know he would never lay a finger on me or the girls, I know things will probably go flying, walls will be punched. The girls certainly don’t need to witness this.

I’ve given Caroline clear instructions. She is to take the girls to the park and she is not to come back to our house under any circumstances. I’ve asked her to bring the girls back to her house until I call her. If she were anyone else, she’d probably think Gabe and I are enjoying a little summer afternoon delight, but Caroline is as sweet as they come, I’m sure her mind wouldn’t even go there.

And there’s something else I know. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to utter the words,
I’m pregnant.

I pace around the living room, working up the courage to confess.
How can I tell him when I can’t even say the words?

Still on vacation, he’s sprawled on the sofa, enjoying the
Movie Entertainment
magazine we get in the mail every month. His foot rests on the arm of the sofa. His grey t-shirt rides up, exposing his tattooed skin. He doesn’t seem to notice the girls are gone. He hasn’t asked about them.

He peels his eyes away from his magazine and shoots me a smile. “What’s up with you?”

I freeze. “Uh… I-I…” I stammer, seemingly not able to form a coherent sentence. “Nothing…” I finally manage and dash out of the living room.

An idea hits me and I cling to it with desperation. I run to the basement storage room and dig the
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
book out of the box, the same one I have been secretly reading for the past two months, careful to do it only when he’s been out of the house.

I drag myself up the stairs, my feet sluggish.

This is it.

He’s abandoned his magazine. His attention is fully focused on me. He sits up and eyes me with a raised brow. He knows something’s up.

I take a seat next to him, and hug the book tightly to my chest. It’s an old version — the one with the beautiful illustration of the sad looking, very pregnant woman in the pink dress, seated in an old-fashioned rocking chair. I’ve always wondered why she looked so sad. Shouldn’t she be happy? She’s expecting. But coincidentally, this is exactly how I feel at this moment…unbelievably sorrowed.

My heart is heavy as I lower my arms and set the book on my lap.

Confusion clouds his features as he looks down at the familiar cover. He looks up at me and I spot a sudden expression of panic on his face.

“I…I’ve been reading this lately,” I say simply, my throat tight and thick. My words are choppy, edgy…a complete mess.

He stares blankly at the book. I don’t think it has quite settled in yet.

The tears flow down my cheeks as I tell him, “I’ve been reading it secretly. I didn’t want you to know.”

Suddenly, sorrow washes over him. I can see it so clearly on his face, my heart sinks.

“But…” he says. “That’s impossible…” he trails off as his mind slowly draws the only conclusion it can.

He looks up at me, and the look in his eyes will haunt me forever.

Forever.

“No,” is all he says.

I bow my head and let myself fall into full-on sobbing. “I-I’m so sorry.”

He jerks to his feet so fast, the sofa bounces.

“How the fuck,” he snaps. “How could you let this happen, Mirella?”

I brace myself for the onslaught. I’ve expected it and it’s here. A small part of me is afraid, but the more sensible part of me knows he would never hurt me. He loves me too much, and he’s never laid a hand on me before.

He scrapes his hands down his face, bowing to the floor. He turns away from me and doesn’t utter another word. I desperately want him to say something.

Anything.

I blow out a breath, willing myself to try to explain. “I’m so sorry, Gabe. It was unexpected.”

He turns back to me. “Unexpected?” he hisses, the word laced with hatred and disgust. “I bet it wasn’t. I bet you wanted this. You wanted the prick’s baby in you.”

I close my eyes and remind myself he’s angry.

“You probably threw the damn pills in the toilet.”

“No.”

“Did the asshole not wear a rubber?” he scoffs. “He went on and on about that. I always did, Mirella. Bridget and I followed the rules. Why didn’t you?”

I can’t find the words to answer him. He’s right. We didn’t follow the rules. We’ve broken so many I’ve lost track.

His expression seems to soften, for a second. “Does he know? About the baby?”

I can’t quite look at him. “No. I haven’t told him.”

He laughs. His loud edgy cackle makes me shudder. “Oh, I see. Well, I’d love to see his face when he finds out. If I remember right, the guy was pretty wound up about the whole birth control thing. I wonder what he’ll think about you fucking up his perfect little life.”

Gabe’s words cut me. They ring too true. We both know this won’t be news Weston will want to hear.

“Guys like him…,” he goes on, “they have perfect lives with beautiful trophy wives but that’s not enough for them. They need to get some ass on the side too. They need a fucking whore.”

My stomach sinks at his words. I suddenly want to vomit. He’s being so cruel, but I know it’s because he’s hurt. But he’s right. I’ve always been Weston’s little whore — his play-thing.

“And it’s one thing for the wife to get accidently pregnant,” Gabe plows on, contempt written all over his face, “but it’s another when the whore gets knocked up. The man’s going to go fucking ape-shit.”

I try to swallow the lump in my throat, try to stop the tears. I don’t want him to see he’s getting to me. I don’t want him to know I agree with what he’s saying. I know Weston will be furious. He won’t like this. Weston Hanson does not like the unexpected. He hates curve balls. This is the kind of man who has his day planned, down to the last minute. I don’t know how he’ll react. The unknown…the irrepressible never pleases a control freak.

He paces the living room. “Why haven’t you told him?”

I tuck in my legs and hug myself tightly, trying to find some refuge in the big soft pillows of the sofa. “I was waiting to tell you. I was waiting for the twelve-week mark to tell both of you. And then there was our trip…”

“So you’re already at twelve weeks. Were you hoping to lose the baby? Were you..”

I look up at him. “No, not really ever. Gwen dragged me to the clinic, but I couldn’t.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” he says. He closes his eyes and rubs his face, the shape of his features distorted. He has morphed into an ugly dark stranger. And I realize he’s about to lose it. I’ve seen him like this before.

I sink back deeper into the sofa, wishing it could swallow me whole.

Tears are streaming down his face. “All this time, you knew,” he says, his words soft. “Every day, you knew. Every time I looked at you, you knew and you never told me,” he goes on, completely broken. And I feel sick seeing him like this, knowing I’m the one who’s done this to him.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, Gabe,” I desperately try to explain. “I was trying to sa—”

“And you even let me have sex with you,” he hisses. “All the while, the prick’s baby was in you. What the fuck is wrong with you, Mirella?”

He swipes his hand across the mantle, swift and hard. I twitch as everything comes crashing down, the sound excruciating, earsplitting. The colorful vase Weston had given us has shattered into a thousand pieces across the floor. It’s rather fitting, I admit to myself. The vase holding the roses, the beautiful lavender roses with the small note. The note which started it all. The moment I decided not to throw that note away was the moment I made the decision to walk down this path.

“This is a life. And it’s your fucking mess. You deal with it,” he hisses. “There’s no way in hell I’ll be here to help you.”

These are the last words he says before he leaves. I haven’t even had a chance to say everything I’ve wanted to say, to explain. To tell him how this happened, tell him about the sickness. He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to hear my excuses.

I hear him fumble around in the mud room. And then, the door slams so hard, the house shakes. And the small ceramic bunny hovering at the edge of the mantle, one of Claire’s prized possessions, the only piece that has managed to survive Gabe’s wrath, falls to the floor and shatters.

I spend the next thirty minutes on my knees, cleaning up the mess. I am on auto-pilot, my hands dedicated to the task, but my mind completely elsewhere. My limbs move, but my brain is completely fuzzy. I’m a zombie wielding a broom and a dustpan. All I can think about is Gabe. Where will he go? Where will he stay the night? He certainly won’t be coming back to me, of that I am sure. I empty the dust pan into the waste basket. The rainbow colored shards of glass slide into a heap on top of wasted food, soiled paper towels and banana peels.

I think about Weston. Now that I’ve told Gabe, I really should tell Weston too. But I just don’t have the strength to do it. I’m such a mess, I can barely breathe. And I’m in no shape to see the girls either.

I call Caroline and ask her to keep the girls a little longer. She tells me the girls are having a blast.

“That’s great,” I say. My voice is shaky and I know she can probably tell something’s not right.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Keates?” she asks, her voice soft.

“I’m fine, Caroline,” I lie. “You have fun with the girls.”

As soon as I’m off the phone with Caroline, I call Gwen, hoping, with every fiber of my being, to reach her.

She answers on the third ring, her voice cheerful. “Hi, Mirella.”

I crumble to the sofa and fall into tears before I can even say a single word.