“Tonight was about anger. It was a temper tantrum, that’s all.”
I exhaled. Was she right?
“Go to L.A., Gianni.” She spoke softly now, all the anger gone. “When you get back, we can figure things out.”
I watched as the tears she’d tried to battle slipped down her face and felt like I was being torn in half. Part of me wanted to thank my lucky stars she was being so undemanding, run out the back door, and keep going until I hit California. But another part of me knew that would feel all wrong.
I remembered her telling me what she wanted in life—not just marriage and family, but the kind of love that filled a room. To know she was someone’s everything just by the way he looked at her.
This was . . . not that.
But my chest ached at the thought of a little Lupo boy, a troublemaker like his dad and uncles, or a sweet girl with huge brown eyes that melted my heart.
Just like Ellie’s were doing right now.
God, this was so fucking unfair. And as hard as it was for me, it was worse for her. She’d have to carry this baby for nine months and deal with everyone’s questions and judgment. Did she really want to do that alone?
Neither of us moved for a minute, and then I got up off the stool. She remained behind the marble island like it was a protective barrier, and maybe it was. But I wanted to be close to her. Put my arms around her. Hold her. Say the words out loud—everything is going to be okay.
But what came out was something else.
“Ellie, I’m—I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”
“You can stop apologizing. It’s not your fault, and I shouldn’t have said that.”
“I wish things were different.”
She forced something like a smile as she wiped her eyes. “Well, like you said. We had a good fucking time at that motel.”
“It was more than that,” I said quietly.
“Don’t.” Her voice trembled. “Please don’t.”
My hands were clenched into fists at my side. At that moment, I nearly said to hell with it and vaulted that island so I could get my arms around her, but told myself to respect her body and her wish. I’d done enough damage, hadn’t I?
Forcing myself to turn around, I pushed the kitchen door open and walked away.
I barely slept that night, and when I woke up feeling like a zombie, I remembered why in an instant.
A baby. Ellie was pregnant with my baby.
And I was terrified.
I wasn’t prepared to be a father. I was only twenty-three! I still felt like a kid myself! And speaking of babies, I’d never changed a diaper. Or fed an infant a bottle. Or helped a kid get dressed or cross the street or read a story.
Babies were so fragile! You had to hold them a certain way or their heads would fall right off their necks. I didn’t know how to hold a baby!
I didn’t know anything.
Plus, I’d been a fucking hellion as a kid—a smart-ass, rule-breaking, back-talking, brother-punching, umbrella-smashing little asshole. What business did I have trying to raise a child?
I was immature and vain and egotistical. Food and sex were my two favorite things. I had a hot temper. I liked to sleep in. I threw darks and whites into the washing machine at once. I forgot to recycle. I never went to the doctor. I drove my car with the gas gauge on E for days. I didn’t make my bed, take vitamins, or drink enough water.
I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow. Ellie would probably be amazing at all the baby stuff. She probably knew everything—what they ate and how to hold them and why they cried all the time. She’d been the perfect child, hadn’t she? She’d listened to her parents and teachers. She would know instinctively how to bring up a child to be smart and kind and well-behaved. I’d know how to teach it to cook, that was all. And I couldn’t even do that until it was older. Kids weren’t supposed to be around stoves, right?
Maybe I’d only be in the way. Maybe Ellie really didn’t need me. Maybe she didn’t even like me. She probably figured she could do a lot better, and maybe she could.
I mean, not in the bedroom or kitchen, but maybe in other rooms of the house.
But she didn’t seem to want me around. Was she just letting me off the hook by telling me to go do Hot Mess? Or did she really want me gone? I couldn’t fucking tell.
Maybe I should just go do it. Give her space.
Besides, we’d need the money, wouldn’t we? Having a kid was probably even more expensive than opening a restaurant. If a restaurant failed, you could close it, but a kid was your responsibility for at least eighteen years. Better to have some cushion going into it.