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35
EMILIA
Nico ran me a bath and left me to relax until I was a prune, then wrapped me up in a towel, dried me, and put me to bed. If someone had told me I would be bathed and put to bed by any man, I would have thought them crazy, but for Nico, a man of the mob to do such a thing, well, I think I am the one who has lost my mind.
Now as I wake, naked, tousled in his sheets, my hair everywhere and my eyes adjusting to the light, I still feel exhausted. My body’s weak, no strength in my limbs, no energy humming around my nervous system. I feel purely exhausted, like I could sleep for a week.
I’m not sure where Nico is, but I see my phone on the bedside table. Grabbing it, I notice the time and internally cringe. I slept for over twelve hours. I don’t think I have ever done that before. I rub my hand across my face, wondering if I need to run to the bathroom or if the feeling of nausea will pass if I lie still for a moment. My body jolts slightly, giving me a hint, and within seconds, I fling the sheets back and run like my life depends on it. Any thoughts of breakfast now erased from my mind as I empty my stomach.
Sitting back on my heels, I rub my tummy. How can something so small have such an impact? I need to tell Nico. I need to tell him because I have no idea what I am doing. It has been days and even though I took three tests, the outcome was the same. Deep down, I know they are right.
Two weeks pregnant, the test said. Standing at the sink, I look at my pale complexion and dark circles and wonder when the pregnancy glow is supposed to kick in. I splash some water on my face to help make me feel human and saunter back to bed, where I feel like I want to spend the day.
So unlike me.
The apartment is quiet, so I grab my phone again and look through my emails and social media before I tap to view my photos. Images of the paperwork I sorted from the boxes come up. I captured what I thought was important, and now, as I stare at one image, I am trying to get my mind to work.
“Think, Emi. Think. Think. Think,”I mumble to myself as I rub my eyes, willing my brain to work. The image of those scrawled numbers I found in the plane journal is staring back at me, the ones that could mean absolutely nothing, yet play on repeat in my mind.
42 and 5. I run the numbers through my head, over and over. They feel familiar, but I have no idea from where.
Sighing, I try to think of other things, like how I need to visit my mom again. I got so much clarity after my last visit. Unloading my life story to her was very cathartic, and maybe that is what I need to do to clear my mind.
Thinking of her reminds me of the flowers, the beautiful red roses on her headstone, and I pull up the florist Instagram page again, just to look at the beautiful arrangements. That's when it hits me.
Le Rose Fleurs.
Corner of 5th Avenue and 42nd Street.
I sit up with a start.
5. 42.
It’s the florist!
I jump out of bed a little too quickly and need to grip onto the side table so I don’t vomit, before I start again and move slower to grab my clothes and get my things together.
“Going somewhere?” Nico asks, as he saunters into the room.
“Hey. I wanted to go visit my mother.”
“How are you feeling?” He produces a coffee, and my insides melt a little. I’ll never get tired of it. He is rough on the outside, but so attentive to me.
“I’m fine. It was just a big day, and I was exhausted. But I feel much better,” I lie through my teeth. I feel bad, the pull in my stomach to sit and tell him about the baby is overwhelming, but I can’t. Not yet.
“Did you find anything on the laptop?” I ask, changing the topic, as he sits on the sofa with his coffee like a king on his throne.
“Sebastian and Carter are looking through it. If we have trouble, I might need you to take a look too,” he says, not looking convinced that I am well as he eyes me.
“I shouldn’t have taken you there yesterday.” I notice his jaw popping. He is tense.
“I wanted to go.”
“Don’t ask me to do that again because the answer will be no.” I look at him and watch him for a beat.
“Fine. I don’t particularly need to see him again. He hasn’t changed. He is still the same cruel son of a bitch he has always been,” I say, sipping on my coffee.
“Did he ever hurt you?” Nico’s question surprises me, and my body stills.
