41. Lucia
41
LUCIA
T he soft glow of the morning sun seeps through the blinds, casting warm, golden light across the kitchen floor. It’s quiet, the kind of peaceful Saturday morning I don’t get enough. The smell of fresh coffee fills the room, and I take a slow, steadying breath as I pour myself a cup.
One week ago today, Saverio stood in my kitchen and told me about his brother. I sliced my hand open, had to go to the ER, and had to face the realization that I might be pregnant. The weight of it all feels suffocating, but for a few minutes, I pretend none of it exists.
Instead, I focus on the simple things—scrambled eggs sizzling in the pan, their rich aroma mingling with the scent of coffee, the clink of the spoon as I stir sugar into my mug, watching the dark liquid swirl into a caramel hue. My thoughts wander aimlessly as I move through the kitchen, bare feet padding softly on the cool tile. I wonder if there’s a way to hold onto this sense of normalcy for just a little longer, to stretch out these peaceful moments like taffy. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough on the mundane details—the way the sunlight catches the chrome of the faucet, the gentle hum of the refrigerator—I can trick myself into believing this is all there is, just for a little while.
Are you ready for this? The thought flashes through my mind, unbidden and unwelcome, and I push it away quickly. “Not now,” I whisper to the stillness of the kitchen, “not yet.”
I plate my eggs with care, arranging them just so on the ceramic dish, and carry them over to the worn kitchen table. As I ease myself into the familiar chair, its legs scraping softly against the floor, I hear the faint but unmistakable creak of steps on wooden floorboards upstairs. If I lived alone, this sound would send a chill down my spine, but this morning, it just irritates me. I don’t even bother to lift my gaze from my breakfast; I know exactly who it is.
“Morning,” Raffaele announces his presence with a steady, quiet hello. But something about his tone feels off—something that makes my skin prickle.
I look up to see him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. “Morning,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light. “Do you want some eggs?”
He shakes his head. Normally, Raffaele stays on the periphery of my days, a silent shadow that follows me everywhere but never engages. So when he asks, “How are you doing?” It catches me off guard.
I blink at him, the eggs on my plate getting cold. “I’m fine,” I manage with a frown. “How are you?”
Raffaele doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stares at me, his dark eyes locking onto mine, unblinking. The intensity of his gaze makes me shift uncomfortably in my chair.
“Can I help you with something?” I snap irritably. I wanted to sound casual, but his presence is off-putting.
He takes a slow breath before pushing off the doorway and stepping closer. “Are you going to tell Saverio, or do I have to?”
I freeze. The fork in my hand hovers over the plate, and for a moment, everything seems to stop—my breath, my heartbeat, and the world around me. “Tell him what?”
Raffaele doesn’t blink. “About the positive pregnancy test I found in your bathroom last night.”
The fork slips from my fingers and clatters against the plate, the sound sharp and jarring in the quiet kitchen. My stomach twists, inducing a sickening wave of nausea. I should have known better than to leave the test in the trash. Raffaele’s always watching; he’s always a step ahead of me, but I didn’t consider he’d go through my trash.
I can’t move. My chest tightens, and the air feels too thick to breathe. I couldn’t take the test on Thursday night when I bought it. I spent all night staring at it, wondering what I’d do if the results were positive. Then, all day at work yesterday, Brooklyn badgered me to take it. She said she’d stand outside the bathroom door if I wanted her to. She offered to hit the father in the head with a hammer. She swore that no matter what the test said, we could get ice cream and watch sad movies once I took it. But in the end, I knew I had to take it alone. It had to be me, the test, and the weight of all the expectations that came with the answer.
I thought I’d have more time to figure out what came next. But now the answer is out there, figured out by my constant shadow who did nothing more than stumble across something he shouldn’t have.
I swallow hard, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation. “Raffaele, it’s not—” I start, but my voice falters, and the lie dies in my throat before it even fully forms.
Raffaele watches me for a long moment, his expression calm, almost too calm, and it’s the calmness that unnerves me the most. My heartbeat is throbbing in my ears, and the world around me feels like it’s being ripped apart. But Raffaele stands there as if we’re discussing what to get at the grocery store. As if the tension in the room is a dispute over almond milk versus cow’s milk, and not the future of me and the baby growing inside me.
The silence stretches between us filled with unspoken accusations and questions I’m not sure I’m ready to answer. I want to look away, to break eye contact, but I can’t.
“I don’t want to be the one who tells him, Lucia, but I will if you won’t. You get to decide how this plays out.”
My hands tremble in my lap, and I press them together, willing them to stop. The subtle quivering betrays my inner turmoil, a physical manifestation of the storm raging within me. I focus on steadying my breath, hoping to regain some semblance of composure, but the tremors persist. “I will. I just need time.”
Raffaele’s gaze never wavers, his eyes cold and unreadable. “Time is not a luxury in situations like this. He’s going to find out one way or another. You get to decide how it happens.”
“I’ll tell him,” I whisper, the words sounding hollow. “I’ll tell him within the week.”
He nods once, a sharp, decisive motion punctuating our conversation with finality. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel and leaves, his footsteps echoing softly against the floor. The sound grows fainter with each step, a rhythmic reminder of his retreat, until silence once again envelops the room.
I sit at the kitchen table, staring at the empty space where Raffaele stood, my fingers tracing absent patterns on the worn wood. I’m standing on the edge of something I can’t control, a future I can’t predict.
I have a week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. It’s no time at all when it comes to Saverio and me. I have a week before my life changes forever.
Someone pounds on the front door a moment later. “Lucia, it’s me. Open up.”
I don’t need to check the cameras to know it’s Saverio. I have a week, but somehow, the week lasted seven seconds instead of seven days.