25. Anika
— ? —
Anika
Breakfast on the Amalfi terrace should have been peaceful.
The morning was perfect. Golden light spilling across the table, the sea glittering below, the smell of fresh coffee and pastries that had been delivered at dawn. Everything arranged beautifully, like a postcard someone might send to make their friends jealous.
Except Neil was on his phone.
I watched him scroll through emails, his brow furrowed, his coffee going cold beside his plate. Old habits. The kind that didn’t die just because you’d spent two weeks begging outside my door and sitting still on couches.
Then he caught himself.
I saw the moment it happened. The slight tensing of his shoulders. The flicker of awareness crossing his face. He looked at the phone, looked at me, and set it face-down on the table.
“Sorry,” he said. “Habit.”
“Uh-huh.”
He picked up his coffee. Took a sip and made a face because it was cold.
“I’ll get better at this,” he said. “The not-checking thing. It’s just… ingrained.”
“I know that.”
We sat in silence for a moment. The waves crashed against the rocks below. A seagull called somewhere in the distance.
I reached into my bag.
My fingers found the tissue at the bottom. Twenty minutes I’d been sitting here with it, and I still didn’t have the words I’d come down the stairs looking for.
But he’d put the phone down. On his own, without me asking.
There probably wasn’t a right moment for something like this. There was just the moment you chose.
I slid it across the table.
Neil looked at it. At the white plastic stick with its two pink lines. At the evidence of everything that was about to change.
He didn’t say anything.
He stood up and walked to the railing. Stood there with his back to me, looking out at the water, his shoulders rigid.
“Neil, talk to me.”
“Give me a second.”
The silence stretched. I watched him grip the railing, watched his knuckles go white. I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read what he was feeling. Fear? Joy? Panic? All three?
Then he turned around.
His eyes were wet.
He crossed back to the table, but he didn’t sit in his chair. He sat on the floor. Right there on the stone terrace, beside my chair, like his legs had given out.
“You’re on the floor again,” I said.
“I like floors now.” His voice was rough. “Floors are grounding. Literally.”
I looked at him. This billionaire CEO, this man who commanded boardrooms and intimidated competitors, sitting on the ground like a child because he didn’t know what else to do.
I slid down to join him.
The stone was cool through my dress. We sat there side by side, our backs against the table legs, looking out at the impossible view.
“I’m going to be terrible at this,” he said.
“Probably.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“I’m not in the business of reassuring you. I’m in the business of being honest.” I leaned my head against his shoulder. “You’ll be terrible. You’ll also be wonderful. Both things can be true.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, “What if I become my father?”
The question landed heavy. I thought about the one photograph I’d ever seen of Neil’s dad, tucked in a drawer in his study. Never on display. He never mentioned it. Just that one image of a man with Neil’s jaw and none of his warmth.
“You won’t,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re already asking that question. Because you’re sitting on a floor instead of pacing a boardroom. Because you spent two weeks pulling weeds and learning how to be still.” I took his hand. “The fact that you’re scared means you’re already different.”
He turned to look at me. His eyes were still wet, but there was hope in it. Or the beginning of it.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said.
“Neither do I.”
“That’s also not reassuring.”
“We’ll figure it out together. That’s the whole point.”
He reached out. Placed his hand on my stomach, gentle, reverent. There was nothing to feel yet, just flat skin and the knowledge of what was growing beneath.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “I’m your dad. I’ll mess up constantly. I’ll probably forget important things and say the wrong thing at the wrong time and generally be a disaster. But I’ll be there. Every day. For everything that matters. I promise.”
“I can’t hear you,” I said with a tiny voice. “I’m the size of a blueberry.”
“I’m practicing.”
I laughed. It came out watery, caught somewhere between joy and tears.
“You’re ridiculous,” I said.
“I’m terrified.”
He pulled me closer. Wrapped his arms around me and held on like I might disappear.
We sat there on the terrace floor until the sun climbed high and the coffee went completely cold. Neither of us suggested moving.
For once, there was nowhere else either of us needed to be.