His head swings back and forth. “No, he didn’t. Never said a word. Then again, it’s none of my business, is it?”
“There’s no forwarding address?”
“No, I swear, he didn’t leave one. He moved out…” He shuffles through papers on his desk before coming to a lease agreement with notes scrawled in the margins. “Three weeks ago. The eighteenth.”
My throat is suddenly too tight. Prince steps in when I fall silent. “You’re absolutely sure of that?”
“Positive. It was Saturday the eighteenth, later in the day. I remember that part since it seemed odd to leave out of nowhere at that time of day.”
I know without looking at him that Prince understands what I now do. “Thank you. We were never here, got it?” His head bobs up and down, eyes bulging, and I decide to leave it at that.
It isn’t until we’re outside that Prince speaks. “The eighteenth. Wasn’t that—”
“Yeah,” I grunt. “My wedding day.”
15
ALICIA
Iplanned to get up early today, but I’m up even before my alarm. The sun has barely risen, and I sort of wish I was still asleep. When I’m asleep, I’m not here. Sure, sometimes I dream about my life, but usually, they’re nightmares, not nice dreams. It’s still better than reality.
My period must be coming up because I am so freaking emotional and hormonal. I have to shake it off—there’s a lot of studying I need to catch up on, which was the entire reason I wanted to get up early this morning. Lying here and wallowing in misery isn’t going to help anything.
At least I don’t have to worry about waking Enzo. He never stays with me in my room. Once we’re finished, he leaves me alone. Like I need another reminder of how much I don’t matter to him. I’m getting used to that, though. What’s the point of wishing for what I can’t have? Whatever there was between us broke the day of our wedding, and I’m not going to get it back. I need to accept that. Maybe I’m finally starting to since every time he fucks me and leaves me, it hurts a little less.
I force myself to sit up with a sigh and throw black the blankets.
A moment later, I’m scrambling out of bed and running for the bathroom. I barely make it, sliding the last few feet on my knees, but at least my face is hovering over the toilet bowl before the first rush of vomit makes its way out of my mouth. Again and again, my stomach heaves, and I grip the sides of the bowl, straining until the last few drops fall from my lips.
Holy shit. That came on so fast. I’m afraid to get up in case it happens again, but after a minute or so, I’m reasonably confident enough to flush the toilet, then get on my feet to brush my teeth. A part of me wonders if this is a waste of time—if I have a stomach virus or food poisoning, that won’t be the last time I’m sick today. I might end up having to do this again in a few minutes.
I feel awful. All I want to do is crawl back into bed and shut out the world until this passes. What the hell did I eat last night? Even thinking about food makes my stomach churn, but I want to remember. We had grilled salmon, that’s right. Maybe it was off? I don’t remember it tasting bad. But then it doesn’t have to taste bad, does it?
Wait a second.
I drop the toothbrush into the sink and stare at myself in the mirror. Oh shit. There I was, thinking I was feeling hormonal because my period’s coming on, but when was the last time I had my period, anyway? I totally lost track of time. That’s the one thing I should have been paying closer attention to in all of this, but I haven’t.
Am I pregnant?
I probably am. I mean, hardly a night goes by when Enzo isn’t doing his best to knock me up. And it’s not like he ever used protection before we were married, either.
A baby. I put a hand over my belly and look down, but of course, it doesn’t look any different than usual. That won’t come for a little while yet. Right now, to the rest of the world, I look like any average woman my age. My boobs are a little bigger, now that I think about it, but it’s not like that’s a telltale sign. Only when my bump starts to show will anybody be able to tell.
Like my husband, for instance.
A rush of cold fear washes over me, and for a second, I think I’m going to throw up again. But morning sickness isn’t why I’m feeling this way. I know it. It’s the thought of Enzo finding out.
Why can’t this just be normal? What’s so wrong with me that I don’t deserve the happiness, the joy of telling my husband we’re going to have a baby? Other people get to experience that kind of joy. Why can’t I? Why does every aspect of my life have to be so much harder than everybody else’s?
What happens when he finds out and doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore?
I’m ashamed of that thought, so ashamed I can’t look at myself in the mirror anymore. I turn my back on it, leaning against the vanity, folding my arms over my stomach and trembling. What am I supposed to do? How do I handle this? He’s frustrated that I’m not pregnant yet after all these weeks. I know that much from the almost mechanical way he takes me now. There’s not even lust involved anymore. It’s another task to get out of the way before he moves on to the next thing, and the thing after that.
But it will be even worse once he knows we’ve been successful. Even lonelier. What use will he have for me now when all that’s left for me to do is grow our baby, then hand it over to him after it’s born?
At least if it’s a boy. I’m not sure if I want it to be or not. I dread the idea of Enzo raising our child just as much as I ever did. This life growing inside me, if it is really there—and I’m pretty sure it is—deserves a chance. Not just his money, not just his name or his influence. They deserve a chance at a real life of being nurtured and loved. What could he possibly know about that?
How would I live with myself day after day, year after year, knowing I left my son with a man who will only screw him up?