Chapter 13
Nia
I can see the wheels turning in his head. He’s only ever focused on his immediate anger, but not the long-term consequences with his family.
“I know that I would have always chosen you,” he grits out. “I know there’s no way I would not have chosen you and our son. Everything and everyone else be damned.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but he puts a hand to my lips. “Do you know how much I love you, Nia Paradise? I love you so much that I’d rather die than hurt you.”
“Please don’t talk about dying,” I say with his finger still to my lips.
“I mean it,” he says. “I would not have allowed anyone to pressure me or us into doing anything. Hell, I’d have moved us clear across the country or to another continent if I had to, but there’s no way I would have let you go or let my family come between us.” He puts his forehead to mine. “But you’re right. They would have tried. He would have tried, and he would have made my mother the go-between.” He pauses before he speaks again. “I’m glad he’s gone. I’m glad that’s not a scenario we have to face.”
“Drake,” I say. I’m shocked by his confession, but I’m not sure if I believe it. “You don’t mean that.”
“I still miss him, Nia. I still think about him. I think of the good times and everything he taught me. Everything I thought he stood for, but that was all a mirage. An alternate reality. He’s gone, and I don’t have to deal with any additional drama where he’s concerned. I’m not going to pretend not to be relieved by that.” I wrap my arms around him and don’t respond to the heavy words he just spoke. Instead, I press my body to him, and he holds me. We stay like that for several minutes.
I expect him to put the letter and pictures back in the safe, but he doesn’t. He picks them up again and looks through them with a sad, wistful smile on his face. “This one is my favorite,” he says, lifting the one of me kissing a wiggling Carter. “And this one.” He holds up a picture of me looking down at my sleeping infant. I remember that day. I was exhausted, but when I looked at him, I felt so much love and pride in making such an incredible creature. “I love these,” he says while looking at another.
“Let these be for our eyes only,” I say.
“I’m so angry he invaded your life this way, but I’m happy to have these snapshots.”
“Don’t get me started on that,” I mutter. I want to say so much more. I want to call Donald Paradise a spineless excuse of a father who could have told the truth so much sooner but chose cowardice instead. I want to scream about how he made this about himself and what he missed when the truth is he didn’t deserve to know my son. If he were alive, he would not be allowed to be near me or my children.
I don’t say any of that. Drake already knows how I feel, and he doesn’t need to hear it. I don’t want to make today more about Donald Paradise than it already is. Today is about my husband and his feelings, not about the selfish narcissist who was his father.
“Let’s go and climb into bed,” I suggest. He stands with me in his arms and carries me upstairs to our bedroom. He puts me down and slides in the bed next to me. I expect him to undress me and himself so we can make love, but he doesn’t. He pulls me close, and I rest my head on his chest.
The strong beating of his heart lulls me, and soon, my eyes become heavy. I let out a yawn and close them.
“Drake,” I mumble after my eyes pop open.
The room is completely dark now. When we first came up here, the blinds were open, but not any longer. My husband is also gone, and judging from how cold his side of the bed is, he’s been gone for a while. I sit up in bed and stretch. I want to lie back down. The first trimester is always the hardest on me, especially when fatigue takes over my body, but this weekend isn’t about me or my pregnancy. My stomach growls, and after checking my watch, I notice it’s early afternoon.
After freshening up, I go find my husband. When I land on the bottom step, I hear him in the kitchen. His back is to me while he tosses something in a skillet. I approach, wrap my arms around his waist, and kiss between his shoulder blades.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” I ask .
“Because you need your rest,” he says, “and I wanted to make lunch.”
“But I’m in charge of the meals this weekend,” I moan.
“Oh, Lord, no. When did we decide that? You stay away from this kitchen. And for the love of God, don’t you ever take another cooking class again.”
I stick my face in the middle of his back and laugh at the memory. I gently bite him through his shirt, and he yelps. Last Christmas, I decided I was going to cook a meal for my husband as one of his presents. I signed up for a class, and not just any class. The private lessons were with a seasoned chef who came to our house to teach me how to make a meal. We decided on filet mignon with scalloped brussels sprouts and black truffle mashed potatoes.
We cooked that meal together twice, and it turned out great both times. I thought I had mastered this meal, but when I cooked it, I dropped the meat on the floor before I could get it in the hot skillet. Pixie picked up both pieces and ran from the kitchen. I forgot to take the brussels sprouts out of the oven, and they burned to a crisp. The potatoes were lumpy and undercooked, and I misread the ingredients and added four times as much salt as the recipe required.
Drake finally had enough, kicked me out of the kitchen and cooked us a different meal. After that, he made me promise never to cook again. In fact, he banned me from being in the kitchen alone for a week.
“I promise,” I say.
“Good. Set the table.” I kiss his back one more time before letting him go.
“You okay?” I ask while I get the plates.
“I promise you that I am, but I don’t want to talk about this morning now. I want to have lunch with my wife, then I want us to watch a movie and just be together. We can talk about it tomorrow, but not today.”
“How about I make you a drink? At least I’m good at that.”
“Yes. Surprise me,” is all he says.
I kiss his cheek before I open the fridge and grab a platter of fruit. I decide to make him a pineapple mojito, and once I’m done, I put a straw in the drink and put it to his lips.
“It’s so unfair,” I say. “I want one.” I put his glass down and make my own drink, only without the rum.
Minutes later, we’re seated and enjoying a delicious lunch of rigatoni a la vodka with ground sausage.