63. Rico
Rico
Four months.
One hundred and twenty days of Alessandra Bennetti living under my roof, in my space, in my bed.
She works so much even my brothers would be horrified, and that’s saying something considering Alex used to call a work-life balance a conspiracy theory.
Her only day off is Sunday, which is devoured by mandatory family dinners, and even then, I don’t get her alone.
Occasionally, she surprises the hell out of me by taking a night off during the week. But lately? That’s been rare.
What’s also rare? My wife being pregnant.
Not that I’m keeping track or anything.
Okay, I am.
The odds are slim even when she’s ovulating, but every month, she tells me she got her period, and I feel an unsettling mixture of relief and something else I don’t have the bandwidth to analyze.
I’m not ready for kids. Might never be. I’ve seen what parenting does to my brothers—Alex has been driven into some hyper-protective, borderline unhinged version of himself, and Dom glows like some insufferable, doting husband out of a Hallmark special.
Not me.
I look at my nieces and nephews and all I see are therapy bills waiting to happen if I’m their father figure.
Besides, I have more immediate concerns—like the fact that my wife is slowly but surely stealing from me.
First, my time. Then, my privacy. My quiet at work. My bed. My ability to sleep through the night without waking up to an aching, pathetic, attention-starved erection because she slid into bed at some ungodly hour and my body decided that meant it was time to wake up and beg.
It’s ridiculous. I don’t chase. I’ve never craved. My sex life before this marriage was efficient.
Now?
Now I’m spending hours tangled up in my wife, rolling around in the sheets like some lovesick teenager, and even when I pull myself out of bed in the morning, I have to resist the temptation to wake her up and start all over again.
The second she falls asleep, her limbs find me—an arm draped across my chest, a leg curling over mine, her face buried into my side like I’m some human-sized body pillow she claims she doesn’t need.
I don’t like being touched.
Yet, somehow, she’s snatched that too.
I know she’s pushing me. She wants me to open up. To talk. To go out in public. And I endure it because I need her to comply with one thing—to get pregnant.
Because once she is, this primal, feral, brain-dead need for her will stop. Right?
Right.
Which is why I’m here, in my brother’s kitchen.
Every Friday night, Alex and Dom sit in this exact spot, drinking and discussing things, but I don't show up for their teen girl gab sessions. Every few weeks, poker night gets thrown into the mix, and I show up for that because it gives my brain something to focus on other than my wife and the war zone she’s left behind in my head.
Not tonight, though.
Tonight, I need noise. Distraction.
Because my demons?
They’ve gone quiet.
She walked into their domain, kicked them the hell out, and set up permanent residence, claiming squatter’s rights.
And the worst part?
I’m not even mad about that one. Those voices were getting old.
“So…”
Alex draws out the word as he slides a tumbler of scotch toward me, landing across the counter. Dom, next to him, stares at me like I just sprouted a second head. Which, honestly, fair. Me sitting here willingly? This is as rare as spotting a unicorn smoking a cigar while riding a bicycle.
“I need advice.” Holy shit, that one hurt to say. I'm tempted to check myself for signs of a stroke.
Dom chokes on his drink. Alex freezes mid-sip, eyes narrowing like I just told him I’m planning to become a monk.
I get it. I’ve asked for their advice more times since marrying my wife than in my entire lifetime, and it’s taking a toll on my self-respect. But facts are facts. These two idiots somehow impregnate their wives at alarming rates, and I—despite extensive effort—am coming up empty.
It’s not for a lack of trying. My wife, bless her stubborn little soul, refuses IVF, refuses to track ovulation, refuses to do anything that might increase our odds of success. So I’m left with one solution: have as much sex as possible and hope my army of swimmers eventually breaches the walls.
Which brings me to my current predicament.
“How do you two knock up your wives so easily?”
Silence.
Alex blinks at me like I just asked him to explain quantum mechanics. Dom, who has been swirling his drink like he’s some sophisticated intellectual rather than a man who impregnates women with the efficiency of a malfunctioning condom, quirks a brow.
“You’re serious?” Alex asks.
“No, I came here to discuss my feelings,” I deadpan.
They exchange a glance before turning back to me. “You know how babies are made, right?” Dom asks, and I want to punch him. “Like, you’ve covered that step?”
“Yes, Dom, I’m well aware of the mechanics.”
He lifts his hands in surrender, though he doesn’t bother hiding his amusement. “Just checking. Because, I mean, if you’re still treating it like some clinical experiment instead of actually enjoying it—”
“Oh, I enjoy it,” I cut him off, rolling my glass between my fingers. Maybe a little too much. Enough that the second Allie walks into the house, my body drafts battle plans for round one, two, and—if we’re feeling ambitious—three.
I don’t share that, though. No need to give them details they didn’t ask for. Wait, no. That's not right. Details that are none of their fucking business. Even if they asked, why would I tell. Clearly, my head is no longer in the right place.
“The more you stress about it, the harder it is,” Alex says, taking a sip. “Women’s bodies are weird like that.”
Dom snaps his fingers. “That’s right. I read that in one of the baby books. Stress messes with their hormones. Good thing my wife is never stressed.”
The absolute idiot winks at me.
“Same,” Alex adds, as if his pregnant wife isn’t currently wrangling a small army of children.
They both turn to me. “Is Allie stressed?”
How the fuck should I know?
We only talk when I’m buried inside her, and that conversation usually comprises her calling out my name while I try not to lose my damn mind over how amazing it feels.
Outside the bedroom, we exchange minimal words.
She still texts. I still ignore them. The last time I did text her, I apparently gave her too much hope, and when I didn’t follow through, she got mad.
Rightfully so. I apologized—with my tongue, my fingers, and my dick.
But now that they mention it…
She hasn’t been poking at me as much.
Normally, she’s scheming. Moving her shit into my bedroom out of spite. Decorating the house in ways that offend my eyeballs. Exposing me to the sun like I’m a vampire. Manipulating me into social events under the guise of “date night.”
When did she stop?
I frown.
Shit.
That might actually be a problem.
“Did Papa give you a deadline for knocking her up?” Alex asks, swirling his drink like he’s in a Bond movie.
“No. Why would he?”
“Then why are you acting like a man on death row waiting for the governor’s call?
” Dom gets up, walking into the living room to retrieve Cici, who is currently mid-squeal.
The kid is permanently attached to his hip, her chubby little hands gripping his shirt like he’s the only person she trusts in the world.
Dom, a former playboy with a revolving door of women, is now the human equivalent of a Build-A-Bear dad. Soft, compliant, wrapped around his daughter’s tiny, sticky fingers. That girl is going to bleed him dry one day, and he’s going to thank her for it.
“It’s been four months,” I say, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “Four months of her in my bed. Dragging me to gallery openings. Forcing me to engage in conversation on Sundays.”
“We know,” Dom says while bouncing Cici on his knee. “It’s been nice seeing you act more human and less… well, you.”
I shoot him a look that would have most men re-evaluating. Unfortunately, he’s immune.
“I don’t like it.”
“You like nothing that requires human interaction,” Alex points out, completely unfazed. “But you have a wife who tolerates you, and that’s a miracle enough.”
Yeah, because I gladly dish out multiple orgasms every night.
“I want my bed back. My space. My peace.” Her constant pushing has my whole body tense, my patience stretched thin. Okay, it doesn't, and that pisses me off more.
“You’re seriously kicking her out the second you knock her up?” Dom looks at me like I’m the devil reincarnated.
Is he actually shocked by this? Has he met me?
“I like my space,” I remind him, because apparently, we need to review the fundamentals of who I am as a person.
“I almost hope she doesn’t get knocked up,” Alex mutters, leaning back against the counter.
I glare at him, as if he just tossed a curse into the universe, ensuring my wife’s womb stays vacant. Like my soul. I don’t miss the irony of realizing that. Regardless, if I see black cats and broken mirrors, I’m holding him personally responsible.
“What?” He shrugs, lifting his drink. “You’re literally counting down the days until she’s pregnant just so you can ship her back to her floor like she’s a borrowed library book.
I thought maybe, just maybe, months of sharing a room, acting more like a functioning human, meant you were changing.
” He sighs, dragging a hand down his face before knocking back the rest of his scotch. “Guess we were wrong.”
I don’t respond. Because fuck, that noise. Instead, I flip my phone over on the counter. It’s just past ten, but that’s not what I’m fixated on.
It’s the text messages.
Or lack of them.
She didn’t text me when she left today. Hasn’t texted me at all about when she’s coming home.
Opening our thread, I see the last text she sent was three days ago.
Three.
I remember reading it. I was deep in my coding—drowning in patches and releases, trying to rid myself of a pest with the most insufferably dull hacker handle known to man. I read it, like I always do. And, like always, I didn’t respond.
But she hasn’t texted me since.
My stomach tightens.
I’ve always been gloomy, but I’ve been especially aggravated for the past few days, and now I understand why. Since when does a woman not texting me, especially one I never text back, make me feel like my equilibrium is off?
There’s only one logical solution.
Go home tonight. Tell her we’re doing IVF. If we’ve been having sex almost daily for four months with no results, something’s got to give.
This woman has stolen everything else.
She’s not taking my mind, too.