At the moment, I’m sitting in the guest room adjacent to our bedroom. Half of the old furniture has been moved out so far, but we’ve still got a long way to go before the space looks anything like a nursery. A pile of shopping bags sits on the armchair next to me—the result of my impromptu outing with Armani the other day. Colorful squares of the sample paints we picked are painted on the wall opposite the windows, and I’m halfway done sorting through the haul of baby books and toys, maternity clothes, and a few other items I had to have.
Then I pull out a pair of adorable footie pajamas with knitted lamb’s ears attached to the hood and a puffy little tail sewn onto the butt. I can’t fight back a grin. I hadn’t wanted to buy any baby clothes until I’m safely past the first trimester, but I’d held this pair of pajamas in my hand for a few moments, almost melting as I thought about my baby wearing it. And then I’d put it back on the rack. But somehow, here it is, in this bag. Armani.
We chose a crib, too—ridiculously expensive but solid and very high quality, the kind that converts to a twin-size bed once the baby is old enough—and a changing table, but I didn’t want to pick out any more furniture before we figure out the layout of the nursery.
Just then, a knock on the doorframe has me looking over my shoulder. It’s Armani.
“Hey,” I say, unable to keep the smile off my face.
“Hey yourself,” he says, pulling a couple of crinkling paper bags from behind his back.
“That better not be more baby stuff,” I tease.
“Nope. It’s lunch.”
As he comes closer, I catch a delicious smell wafting from the bags.
“Where’d you go?”
“I sent Donovan to pick it up from this great Italian place called Antonio’s,” he says.
The name makes my stomach drop. It’s one of Juliana’s favorite restaurants. Thinking of her hiding out somewhere, possibly still healing from the fire, is almost enough to ruin my appetite. She still hasn’t called me.
Armani hesitates. “No good? I can get something else delivered.”
“No, no,” I say, waving him closer. “This is great. My stomach’s just been…off.”
“I figured. That’s why I got you something light. Pasta primavera with lots of vegetables and grilled chicken on the side, for protein.”
“That sounds perfect. Thank you.”
“Should we picnic up here, or go down to the dining room?” he asks. “Or we could eat by the pool if you want. I don’t have to be back at work in a hurry.”
“Here is good.”
Armani sets up our lunch on the coffee table, then insists I use a few throw pillows to sit on, even though the rug is cushy enough.
He’s about to sit down on the rug when he says, “Forgot the drinks. Be right back. Is sparkling water okay?”
I nod, and a minute later he’s back with two bottles of Perrier and two glasses of ice. Settling beside me, he seems surprised that I haven’t touched my food yet.
“Eat, eat, eat,” he commands. “Before it gets cold. You didn’t have to wait on me.”
Laughing, I twirl my fork in the pasta, making sure to stab a fat slice of zucchini while I’m at it. As I chew, Armani pours my water and then kisses the top of my head.
When he digs into his panzanella, I watch him out of the corner of my eye. There’s got to be a catch to all of this. What is it?
Armani catches me staring and arches a brow. “Is something wrong?”
“Just wondering what I’m going to owe you for all your recent kindness,” I say levelly.
My husband has an expert level poker face, but he doesn’t realize how well I’ve learned to read him. One useful thing about growing up in an abusive home is, you learn how to read the body language of the people who have the power to hurt you. Which is why my intuition is so good at picking up on subtle things that other people might miss.
His slight pause before looking slightly wounded is exactly the cue I’m looking for.
“You’re carrying our child,” he says carefully. “What could you possibly owe me? I’m the one who owes you.”
I don’t believe him, but I don’t have it in me to argue. My mind keeps telling me to savor this time with him. Take whatever he’s offering and enjoy it while I can.
