Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 332(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 332(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
It had to be special.
An hour and a half later, I was back in Con’s apartment with takeaway from Giardo’s. I’d also stopped at Candle Delirium on my way and picked up a few for the outdoor table. I’d picked up flowers from the Flower Market that I’d arranged in bunches in two beer steins—the closest thing I could find to a vase in his apartment. His carbonara was neatly plated on one side of the table, and my fettuccine was on the other. I’d put the bread in a small basket, and the hard butter pats were softening in the sun. The tiramisu was still in the refrigerator, but then I’d thought to Google it and found about a dozen articles claiming it was unsafe for pregnant women. I found a few that claimed it was, but I was going to play it safe. The dessert would just be for him, as would the bottle of red wine I had breathing in the kitchen.
I had texted him as soon as I got back, asking when he would be back. To my surprise, he still hadn’t answered. I called once, but it went straight to voicemail. I worried a path between the elevator and the food, wondering if I should take it back in. But no, he had to be back soon. He’d said seven at the latest, and it was nearly eight.
At eight-thirty, I sat down in front of my fettuccine and twirled a bite onto my fork. I knew I should be hungry—I hadn’t eaten since lunch at one—but the delicious sauce could have been dust for all I tasted it, and the noodles felt slimy and unappetizing. After only a bite, I set my fork down. A pit was opening up in my stomach. Why was he so late? Why hadn’t he answered my text? Why was his phone off?
I reached for a piece of bread, thinking it might settle my stomach. By nine, I’d only taken a single bite, then shredded the rest into grain-sized pieces over my pasta. Something was very, very wrong. He should have been home hours ago. I had to call someone—but who? I couldn’t very well call Angie to see if Con had checked in. I couldn’t ask Halley if she’d heard from him. I didn’t have his friends’ phone numbers. It would be crazy to start calling hospitals. The police were completely out of the question.
I unlocked my phone at least a dozen times, feeling the need to take action. Any action. But I couldn’t think of a single thing to do. Suddenly, the isolation of our romance wasn’t sexy and thrilling anymore. If this had been any other romantic partner, I’d have had scores of people to call. Mutual friends to start with. Mothers if I had to. And it wouldn’t have been strange, because of course a girlfriend worried when her boyfriend didn’t come home.
But Con wasn’t my boyfriend.
He was somehow more and less. More to me—infinitely more. But to the world, he was nothing but my boss. The father of my best friend. Certainly not someone I should be worrying about after office hours.
We’d have to change that. The baby had already made it a certainty, but now I didn’t want until twelve weeks or whenever it was safe to announce a pregnancy. I wanted the whole world to know that I had a claim on Con. That his wellbeing was mine to worry over. If he was still mine. I bit down on the inside of my lip, trying to stem the rising panic.
He was fine. Of course he was fine.
Any second now, I’d—
Like an answered prayer, I heard the quiet chime of the elevator carriage locking into place and the gentle woosh of the door sliding open. I pushed away from the table and met him as he was walking into the kitchen. It was on the tip of my tongue to cry where have you been? But even in my head, it sounded like a disgruntled wife. I swallowed it. “I was worried about you,” I said instead.
Relief had started pumping through my veins, driving out the fear and making my feel tingly and lightheaded. Now that I got a good look at his face though, I froze. Con was home, but there was still something very, very wrong. His face was like a mask. When he looked at me, his eyes were those of a stranger.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” the stranger’s voice said.
I peered closer at him, like a child trying to see if there was a man inside the Easter Bunny costume. “Con, what’s wrong?” I asked. Instinctively, I tucked an arm over my stomach as if the tiny life inside needed protecting. But that was crazy. This was Con.