Chapter 13 – POSY #2
I exhale, and unbidden, all the poison comes out on that breath, tainting the air, burning the scales from my eyes until I can see this is a showroom, I’m a mannequin, this whole life is a fake designed to please a man who can never feel for me like I feel for him.
“This is all going to fall apart. You don’t love me.
I’m not a person to you. I’m the thing that plays games with you.
And that isn’t love. It isn’t . And the baby won’t know how to play games.
You won’t care about her at all, and I’m not going to make dinner and smile and make myself pretty, night after night, while you don’t even notice her. I won’t do it. I won’t .”
It’s more truth than I knew I had inside me. It gusts out, and in the aftermath, everything is still. Dario’s phone pings a notification. His breath is calm and even, ghosting warm across my cheek.
He takes a hand and rests it on the mound of my belly, so lightly I wouldn’t know if I didn’t see it there.
“I wish I had met you when we were younger.”
I don’t know what I was expecting him to say, but it wasn’t that.
“If I had known you when that business with your uncle happened, no one would have dared turn their back on you.”
“How do you know about that?”
“I know everything about you. I know your father wanted a boy. I know all your friends dumped you when he was forced out. I know you tried to fuck your way back into the inner circle.”
I jerk and hiss. He wraps his arms around me, light and gentle, but with no give.
“I know what you’ve done so you could feel like you were worth something to someone. What you’ve taken.” His beard scratches my jaw. “Don’t you think that scares the shit out of me?”
I don’t understand. I try to turn and meet his eyes, but his chin is tucked in the crook of my neck.
“Are you cooking dinner and smiling and making yourself pretty because I’m better than no one? Are you taking this? Like you took it with Giorgio and Frankie and whoever else?”
He splays his fingers over my bump. “And when this baby comes, and she loves you, and you love her?”
What do I need him for? That’s the part he leaves unsaid. My foolish, sappy heart rushes to reassure him, but wasn’t I the one who just said this isn’t love?
I look at his hands, feel his strength surrounding me. I’ve never been this close to anyone. The irony is as sharp as a knife.
Eventually, he sighs. “It’s late. I have work I want to do before bed.”
“Okay.” My voice is small. I push up, but he’s already bracing an arm under my knees, rising to his feet as if my weight is inconsequential. He lays me carefully on our bed, and then he hands me the remote.
“I’ll be back up in an hour or so.”
I nod. He smooths down my shirt where it’s crept up and lets his palm linger on the curve below my belly button. It’s a nanosecond. An afterthought.
It’s gentle and common, so ordinary a gesture that he’s already gone when it hits me. He cares.
And he doesn’t know if I do. He’s flying as blind as I am.
The idea is so big that I can’t swallow it all at once.
I settle back, click on the TV, and every so often, I take it out and nibble it—Dario is as uncertain of me as I am of him.
I’m not the victim. He’s not the villain. Not anymore. We’re—something else.
After three episodes of House Mavens , I start to get restless. My hip joints ache. I stick a pillow between my legs, try to relieve the pressure, but it’s coming from inside my body, and no position really helps.
Where is Dario? He said he’d only be a little while. Is he brooding? He never has before, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.
The house is silent. There are no footsteps echoing from the entrance hall or the crunch of tires in the drive.
The day staff have all left. It’s not that late, but the sun sets around five these days, so it’s been dark for hours.
Sal’s probably walking the perimeter, bored off his gourd, while Ray’s watching hockey in the media room.
I can’t relax, and I have to pee again. I haul my ass up, run to the bathroom, and then go to the window and open the blinds. There’s a crescent moon, but it’s bright, casting a bluish glow over the snow. It’s a peaceful scene, and my nerves finally start to chill.
It’s a great yard. Much better than the neighborhood park I had to play in growing up. As soon as the snow thaws, I want to get it ready for the baby, too. Buy one of those Amish-made playsets.
Dario says he’ll build one himself, and I have no doubt that he could, but he’d be hell to live with while he’s doing it. Dario doesn’t appreciate directions telling him what to do. I never appreciated that fact before I saw him put together an assemble-at-home baby jumper.
I think I’ll put the playset by the bed of posies, right next to the—what is that?
There’s a black blob in the snow, half obscured by the shadow of a maple tree. It’s not moving. Maybe a garbage bag flew over the fence? Or a tarp?
I sigh. I’m sick of waiting. I’ll go see what’s holding Dario up, and I’ll mention the bag to Ray. I slide into my old lady slippers and check myself out in the mirror. I’m a bombshell. Gray terry sweatshirt dress. With pockets. Preggo yoga pants. How is Dario not rushing back to do this?
I shrug off the hormones and waddle off downstairs.
The overhead lights are out; the wall sconces dimmed.
I love the house like this, quiet and mysterious.
It’s a delicious thrill to sneak through the empty halls and freak myself out when the floor squeaks, and then the “all home free” feeling when I tumble into bed and crawl under the covers—it’s as much a thrill now as when I was a little girl, creeping around the big house we lost after Uncle Marco.
Dario has offered to buy a new house if I want to pick one, but I’d rather make this one my own.
I’m making inroads, room by room. There’s a deacon’s bench in the entrance hall now, and throw pillows on all the sofas and chairs in the house.
I like to walk into an immaculately, professionally decorated room and see the incongruity of the painting I hung or the rug I bought.
There’s a metaphor in there somewhere for Dario and me. He shelters me. I fill his emptiness. I don’t know exactly but the thought soothes more of the lingering hurt from our conversation.
I’ll feel even better when I see him. When he looks at me like he always does after I lose my shit—as if nothing’s happened and everything is the way it ought to be.
I’ve never known anyone who can reset to default quicker than Dario.
It’s creepy, but it does mean we never fight any longer than I want to.
I reach his office and turn the knob, fully expecting to sashay on in. It’s locked. That’s weird. He never locks his office. I didn’t realize he could.
Is this some kind of message?
I knock. No answer. I knock again. Hard. “Dario!”
I have to bang several times before the door swings open. Dario’s already heading back for his desk. He lowers himself slowly to sit rigidly in his chair, eyes directed at me but unfocused. Unreadable.
What the hell is going on?
His laptop is closed. He wasn’t watching porn. And I highly doubt he’d care if I busted him.
And he looks so strange. He’s resting his hands on the clear desk top. His face is a mask. The room is dark; the only light comes from the standing lamp in the corner. Icy fingers trip up my spine. Something is very wrong.
“Why did you lock the door?”
He answers immediately. “Go back upstairs, Posy. I’ll join you in a minute.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Go on. I’ll just be a minute.”
“You can’t tell me nothing’s wrong. You’re sitting here in the dark with the door locked.”
“It was an accident.”
“Bullshit.”
“Your hormones are talking again. Go back to bed. I’ll be there soon.”
His voice is calm, no different than always, but it pings a memory. This room. Early spring. The same even voice asking me to sit on his lap and watch a video. Is he thinking about that, too?
Is he sitting here in the dark stewing on it? On my past and what I’ve done and how can he tell that what we have is any different?
That’s the thing about Dario—there is no way to know what’s going on in his head. Not for sure. You can’t even accuse him of wearing a mask, really. He is a mask.
Something’s really wrong. He said he’d only be an hour or so. He keeps his word, or he lets me know.
Unless he’s having second thoughts.
I pad a little further into the room. “What’s going on? Are you still upset about earlier?” I absently rub my belly.
“Posy,” his voice hardens. “ Go .”
Once upon a time, I would have scurried off, but he doesn’t scare me anymore.
“No.” I plop down in the leather chair across from his desk, not appreciating how far I sink in the overstuffed seat. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”
He hasn’t moved at all. His hands are still resting on either side of his closed laptop, his posture straight. A vein pulsing in his temple is the only sign I’m getting to him.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“We can talk about it now. Are you worried about the baby?” I never answered him when he said that about me loving the baby. Is that what’s eating him? My heart aches.
His nostrils flare. “Fine, Posy. I’m worried about the baby.”
My insides melt. He’s worried that when the baby comes, I won’t need him anymore, but I’ll need him more than ever. He’s the one that will keep her safe. Who will teach her that she’s priceless. Who’ll never let the world chew her up like it did to me.
“There’s nothing to worry about. The baby will make us stronger than ever.”
For a second, he seems lost, his gaze flickering, but then something happens, and his face blanks. His lips contort and his eyes narrow. A voice comes out of his mouth that I haven’t heard in months. Not since that day in this office when he asked for the watch and the earrings.