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“Maybe,” Francesca agrees. “But you can’t fix him, Aurora. You can’t lose yourself trying to have him.”
“I won’t,” I say, more confidently than I feel. That’s really the essential problem with me and Nico, isn’t it?
I want him so badly that I’m willing to give up a part of myself. That’s what I’ve been doing, all this time. But yet, I’ve just agreed to have him in my bed later tonight. Knowing that I want more. Knowing that he doesn’t.
I sigh when Francesca keeps looking at me. “I understand what you mean,” I assure her. “And I’m going to try really hard to keep being myself, okay?”
“That’s all I needed to hear,” she says, and then Mia comes into the living room with a big plate of leftover pasta. She smiles at us.
“Mind if I join you ladies?” she asks.
I nod and so does Francesca.
“Of course, it’s your house,” Francesca says.
Mia laughs. “I like to be a good host. Feel free to share this pasta with me. I’m eating for two, not four.”
I snort and take my fork and eat a little off her plate, my eyes widening. “This is delicious. Marisa made this?”
Mia smiles. “Dante, actually,” she says.
“Wow, this is better than anything Nico has ever cooked,” I say, even though he’s cooked some great meals for me, this one is phenomenal.
Francesca laughs, always happy at any dig to her brother. They’re so close, but at the same time, they butt heads so often.
“You’re eating for two, also, I heard?” Mia asks me softly, and I flush.
“Yeah,” I agree.
“I’ve been trying to get her to eat!” Francesca says.
Mia hums in sympathy. “It’s so hard to eat the first couple of months,” she says. “I was nauseous for the first five months. They say it’s four, but it was five for me.”
I groan. “Don’t tell me that.”
I have to admit that it’s nice, to be able to talk about it, not have it be some secret. It’s nice to have someone like Mia who’s going through it to talk to.
“And then I had the weirdest food aversions,” Mia continued. “I love onions and garlic, but the first few months? I would throw up if I so much as smelled them.”
“That sounds terrible,” Francesca says, her eyes wide.
“No onions and garlic as an Italian should be considered torture,” I say, and Mia laughs.
“It gets better.” She pats her big stomach. “It gets easier.” She winces and I look at her.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. She’s just kicking away in there. You want to feel?” She takes my hand and places it on her stomach, and I feel a little bump. Then another.
“Wow,” I breathe, my eyes feeling watery again. It seems like I’m crying all the time. “That’s beautiful, Mia.”
“You won’t think so when yours is sleeping with his butt in your ribs,” she laughs, and I smile, wiping at my eyes. She leans in closer to me. “The crying gets better, too.”
I feel encouraged and eat more pasta and fruit, my stomach feeling more and more stable. I chat with Mia and Francesca late into the evening before dinner, and finally, we realize that the guys are missing.
“Where did Nico and Dante get off to?” Francesca asks, and Mia shrugs.
“They’re probably drinking in the office,” she says. “I’ll take them a plate later.”
