But what can I do? I’m back in my humble abode, which appears even more tawdry and run-down than what I remember. The space seems even smaller, and my furniture sags and creaks when I sit on it. This is my life, however, and I have to readjust no matter how hard it is.
Slowly, I take the bench in front of Scrappy to work on my latest song. My most recent creation is doleful and slow, almost like a mourning dirge. It’s tentatively titled, “He’s gone, I’m gone” and makes me want to cry so bad it’s almost unbearable to get any work done. But this is what’s flowing from my soul, and I’ve never been one to stifle creativity just because I need to hide. Pain is good for being productive, I tell myself, even as tears run down my cheeks.
With halting fingers, I pencil in a few changes to the score when suddenly, a wave of nausea hits my stomach. Dizzy, I press my hand to my mouth and rush to the bathroom before vomiting up breakfast in disgusting splashes that leave me heaving and sore. I’ve felt sick like this almost every day since I left Luke. I thought it was just extreme depression, but suddenly, a thought strikes and I’m not so sure anymore. OMG, could it be?
With trembling hands, I put on a hoodie, slip on a pair of sandals, and head downstairs. There’s a pharmacy a few blocks away; I’ll be able to pick up some Pepto Bismol, some peppermint tea, and most importantly, a pregnancy test.
Once I’m back at home, I dump my haul out onto the mattress. The pregnancy test stares at me, and I force myself to go into the bathroom with the box. Per the instructions, I pee on the stick and then wait. OMG. What will it say?
Quickly, I go outside and make myself a cup of tea as a distraction, and by the time the tea is cool enough to drink, it’s time. I head back into the bathroom where the indicator awaits, and my hand trembles as I pick it up. Two pink bars stare back at me. OMG, I’m pregnant with Luke’s baby. What will I do now?
Suddenly, there’s banging on my apartment door. The timing couldn’t be worse, and I try to ignore it, but the person won’t go away. The banging continues and with a sigh, I set down the test, and then stalk into my living room, ready to scream at whoever’s there. Frustrated, I yank open the door, but instead of a person, I see a huge, oddly-shaped object wrapped in moving blankets.
“You have the wrong apartment,” I say icily.
The movers ignore me. They begin shoving the item into my apartment, and I jump back to get out of the way.
“What are you doing?” I shriek. “You can’t just barge into someone’s place like this!”
But once they’re inside and out of the way, Luke appears, his expression grim. His azure eyes flare as he glares down at me, and I take a step back, my heart tripping in my chest. What is he doing here?
“So Patty,” he begins in a deceptively soft voice. “You left everything at the apartment, including this. You left your crown, your necklace, your clothes, and most of all, your ring. But this is yours too, and I’ve come to bring it to you.”
I stare at the huge item, and suddenly, realization hits me.
“My piano,” I breathe. I glance from the handsome man to the instrument, and then back again. This situation is so crazy and something bubbles up from my chest. I think it’s going to be laughter, but instead, it’s a choked sob.
“Luke,” I say, almost begging. “Where would a grand piano go in my tiny apartment?” I gesture to the cramped space behind me. “I don’t even have a real living room. It’s just an open area that barely fits my couch as is…”
It’s true. Luke waves the movers away with his hand, and they set Marguerite down in the middle of the room. She takes up all the available space, and is wedged in tight between my sofa and dining room table.
“Thanks boys,” Luke says. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
As the movers leave, Luke strides inside my apartment. He’s so tall and broad that he makes the small space feel even smaller, his black head almost brushing the ceiling. I think for a moment that he’s going to yell at me, or worse, turn around and walk out of my life forever, but the gorgeous billionaire does neither of those things. Instead, the anger on his face melts and he pulls me into his arms and holds me close.
“Then come back to me,” he whispers fiercely. “If you want a permanent home for your piano, then I want you to live with me for real this time. I love you.”