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He cuts me off, while reaching out for a strand of my hair, and tucks it behind my ear. “Your skin is glowing—”
“—From the nonstop morning sickness, all day every day. You’re lucky I didn’t get sick earlier—”
“—and your lips are full and deliciously red—”
“—Again, from the non-stop barfing.” I snort, surprised he still finds me so appealing. “I’m not a pregnancy unicorn, Sean.”
His fingers lift from the sheets and touch my long curls. “Your hair shines like starlight. Or a Pantene commercial.”
The corner of my mouth lifts a bit as I bark out a surprised laugh. “Really? Pantene?”
Those impossibly blue eyes hold my gaze as he changes the topic of conversation. “So, are we going to find out?”
I roll onto my back and throw an arm over my face. “I don’t know. Part of me loves the idea of knowing, but the other part likes the idea of a surprise.”
He strokes a strand of hair away from my face. “We can do it either way.”
I release a rush of hair, huffing as I roll my face back toward his. “Seriously? You have no opinion on this topic?”
“I do,” his voice is patient, kind. “It’s just that you’re the one doing all the work and suffering from it. I think you should decide.” He adds, straight-faced, totally serious, “I can choose the name.”
Pushing up on an elbow, I feel my brows pull together and disappear under my hair. “Really? You want to name the baby? All by yourself?”
He nods, face serene. “It’s only fair.”
I blink at him. “Fair?”
“Yes. It’s my child, too.”
“Hmmm.” The smirk fades from my face. Is he serious?
Sean nudges me with his shoulder. “Ask me the name.”
I don’t want to. My bottom lip juts out as I consider giving him total control over the name reins. He repeats the question, needling me, so I finally blurt out, “What do you want to name it?”
“Baby Babypants Junior. That’s my legal name. My mother was quite high on pain killers at the time and—”
Laughter breaks free from my chest. Every inch of me shakes with mirth as Sean pulls me against his chest. Those strong hands cup my face as he tells me, “I would love to know the sex of the baby. I would love to have the time to talk about it—his or her future. It gives us more time to dream. Maybe that’s ridiculous, but—”
Shaking my head, I respond, “No, it’s not. I was thinking the same thing, actually.”
“So, we find out?” Hope fills his features, softening the lines of his face.
I reach out and place my palm against his cheek and press my lips softly to his. Pulling away, I can’t help but giggle, muttering baby-baby pants. Picturing Constance high is another image that’s beyond hilarious. For a split second I can see her wearing a bright red leotard and dancing with her white bear. The smile starts to ache, so I lower my head against Sean’s chest, tracing the lines of his body with the tip of my finger. His chest rises and falls slowly, as if he’s still sleepy.
“I guess so.” My chest fills with something full and light, something I haven’t felt in a long time—hope.
CHAPTER 6
Today we find out if the baby is a boy or a girl. Hours have passed since our midnight conversation and Sean drifted off again. Sleep eludes me. No matter what I do or how I move, I can’t get comfortable. The mattress is perfect, my pillows—all five of them—are supportive and soft the way I like them. It doesn’t matter. I throw one on the floor and shove another between my knees, before rolling over. My back is turned to a slumbering Sean. It’s almost sunrise.
Returning to the city is difficult. People are everywhere. Cameras are always snapping pictures of me—cell phones and big cameras that journalists carry. From the time we stepped off the jet, people snap photos of me. I refuse to look at the papers or read any headlines. Sean helps maintain my bubble of bliss and doesn’t talk about the issues of the day unless I ask.
Coming back is strange. Adjusting to island life was hard. Slowing down, not staring at my watch, and learning to be on ‘island time’ took forever. New Yorkers are used to fast everything, always available, 24/7. Nothing is fast on the island. As a result, I’m moving slower, feeling less frantic. For six weeks straight I wore a bathing suit. No jeans. No blouses with pointy shoes. No getting up early to be somewhere with a full face of make-up. It’s kind of nice to have soft hair again. The salty air and sunshine made it feel like hay. Now it lays in soft curls again, tied with a ribbon at the base of my neck.
I stretch and decide to start the day. Sleep won’t return no matter how long I lay in bed. Since we’ve returned, the ever-present New York nightmares fade to whispers. The noose-like waters that had drowned me every night since my parents died have faded into oblivion.
I think about those dreams sometimes, mourn my father’s loss—not because of the terror they brought—but because I’m happy again. Sometimes I feel guilty. This new life had me torn in two for a while, but after watching my mother for a few weeks, seeing her face again and hearing her voice—well, I don’t want to screw up this second chance.
Sean reminds me what is real, what is not. My mind frayed, certainly, but I did not crack. I’m still here under all this pain. I’m still Avery. Maybe a little more jaded and cynical, but that will fade over time. Especially as more important joys fill my life.
Sean.
Baby Ferro-pants. I grin. We haven’t been able to decide on a name yet.
Dr. Chang told me, the first time I walked into her Manhattan office, “To realize and accept the past, one must look toward the future.” Her one-liners stick in my head like fly paper, catching nasty little thoughts that shouldn’t be swarming there.
So I try. I took my parents for granted before the accident—I took their lives at face value. There was never any creeping suspicion that mom was involved with Vic Campogne or had any ties to organized crime of any sort.
“This is life,” Chang reminded me from the cream-colored leather chair in her office. Sitting there with her olive skin, red suit, and shiny sheet of shoulder length inky hair makes her appear even more striking. The office is decorated in fifty shades of white, giving the space an ethereal feel. It’s calming.
Frowning on her soft paper white couch, she’d tell me, “The sooner you learn how to accept the events of your past, the better off you will be.”
I’m not a magician. I have trouble accepting what I’ve done, especially with a baby on board. I think my brain vacated my body. Maybe it’s sitting under a coconut tree in the Caribbean, getting a tan. Either way, most days I’m wandering around without it. On the island it didn’t matter. I’d go to the kitchen to get a glass of water, forget what I was doing en route, and end up following the path out to the pool to watch the clouds float by.
Yesterday, I spaced out and wandered down to the subway. I was on a train before I realized what I was doing, or where I was going. I don’t live in Babylon anymore, but my ticket was for Babylon station. I forgot I moved. How messed up is that? The truth is the repressive haze, that long shadow from my past stretches over me. That train ride conjured memories of Marty meeting me the last time I wandered to my parent’s house. I can understand why Sean left Manhattan after Amanda died. Everywhere I look, something reminds me of the past. It’s draining me slowly.
The truth is, most days I feel faded, like a pillow that’s sat in the sun too long, blanched of its color. Of life.
CHAPTER 7
Glancing over at Sean in the large bed, his face is peaceful with dark eyelashes against sun-kissed skin. His muscular body is sprawled on top of the white sheets, completely naked, every inch of him revealed. His dark hair is tousled with a dark lock hanging over his left eye. His slow, rhythmic, breathing lets me know he’s still asleep. It’s a cliché, but Sean has the same outlook on perseverance that I do—strength must come from within.
I don’t know how he’s lived through ever
ything life has thrown his way. Grief reaches up and chokes me sometimes and it’s all I can do to breathe and stretch my face into a smile. To chase it away.
I had a brother. That haunts me. I always wanted siblings, family to gather around big holiday tables overflowing with food, with too many voices talking at once, and meals filled with laughter.
The tipping point comes like a dark wave, rushing over me. The fly paper fails and I’m engulfed, laying in bed, staring at the paint of the walls. I swallow hard as the thoughts pelt me. Pitting my soul, further decaying who I am.
My brother is dead.
I killed him.
There are too many things, too many horrors, lining my memory.
Marty. Is. Dead.
I killed him. Even if it wasn’t my hand that dealt the killing blow, he was there because of me. It doesn’t matter that Vic Jr. slit his throat. I stood there and did nothing.
The pilot. That was my fault. It was him or me, but still. He’s dead and I’m not.
Something dark snakes out from deep in my chest and wraps its fingers around my heart, squeezing and tapping as if to say, I’m here and there’s no way to change it. The monster within is real. She’s something I never wanted to become.
