“Not interested, Dani.”
“That’s a first.” She giggles. “You know where I am if you change your mind. And you usually do.”
“Not this time. Take care, Dani.”
I push through the door and head for my car. The morning air is warm and humid, promising another hot day. I toss the food bag onto the passenger seat and pull out of the parking lot.
The drive back takes fifteen minutes. I spend most of it thinking about Jasmine, about how she felt in my arms last night during the storm and the taste of her mouth when she kissed me.
I keep remembering that moment she pressed my hand to her stomach, desperate for me to feel our daughter move, and the disappointment in her voice when I couldn’t. I meant it when I told her to tell me every time. I want to know everything, even the things I can’t feel yet.
Before long, I’m parking in the driveway and grabbing the food. The front door is locked, so I punch in the code.
Inside, I find Jasmine sitting at the island with a mug of lemon water. She’s wearing a t-shirt over her shorts, and her hair is pulled up in a messy bun. She looks soft and rumpled and entirely too good for this early in the morning.
The bruise on her cheekbone has faded to a dark shadow barely visible against her skin. The butterfly bandages are gone, leaving a thin line on her forehead. She looks better. Stronger. Still too fragile for my liking, but better.
This morning, I’d woken up with her on top of me, her head tucked under my chin, one leg hooked over mine. Her weight was perfect.
We’d stayed like that until she’d lifted her head and kissed me. We spent the better part of thirty minutes doing nothing but kissing before I left for breakfast.
“You’re back.” She sets down the mug as I approach.
“Yes.” I put the bag on the counter and reach for her, pulling her close. I take my time kissing her.
“Good morning to you again,” she murmurs when I pull back.
“Hungry?” I nod toward the bag.
“Starving.”
I unpack the containers while Jasmine sets out plates. We eat at the island.
She tells me about a dream she had where the baby came out speaking Portuguese, and I teach her how to say “bom dia, minha filha” between bites. Her accent is terrible. I tell her so. She throws a blueberry at my head.
She’s scraping the last of the avocado from her bowl when the crunch of gravel reaches us through the open window.
We both turn toward the window.
A silver Olympus Artemis parks behind my car. The driver’s door opens, and a woman steps out.
“Is that...” Jasmine starts.
“Mãe.” I close my eyes briefly.
Jasmine goes rigid beside me. “Your mother is here. Right now. And I’m wearing a t-shirt and no bra, and we were just kissing, and she’s going to know, and oh my God, Antonio, I can’t meet her like this.”
“Breathe.”
“I am breathing. I’m breathing very fast, which is the opposite of helpful.” She pulls back, hands flying to her hair. “Before, I was just Meesha’s friend. Now I’m the woman who got knocked up by her son and I look like I just rolled out of his bed, which I basically did, and she’s going to hate me.”
I catch her hands before she can spiral further. “She’s not going to hate you.”
“You don’t know that.”
I pull her back against me. “Mãe has loved you for years. This pregnancy changes nothing except she’ll want to feed you more.”
The front door opens before Jasmine can argue further.
