Page 254 of Mario
Ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
I sit back from the computer as if the search results might reach out and grab me by the throat.
No.
I am careful.
Usually.
My mind flashes, traitorous and immediate, to Friday night. And last Friday night.
My bed. His bed. Ripped lace.
His voice in my ear. His hands on my hips. His weight on my back.
The stretch of him inside me.
I press my fingers to my closed eyes.
No.
No, I am not doing this.
I am not adding that to the list.
I am not going from dead wife conspiracy to pregnancy panic in the same forty-eight-hour period like a woman trying to speedrun a nervous breakdown.
I lower my hand and force myself to breathe.
This is nausea from stress.
That is all.
Stress. Rich food. Bad sleep. Not enough food. Not enough water. Too many articles. Too many ridiculous questions that have no basis.
Not pregnancy.
Not that.
Still, my eyes drift back to the screen.
The word sits there, smug and awful.
I close the tab so hard my mouse jumps.
I can’t sit here.
The thought arrives suddenly, fully formed, and once it does, I cannot unthink it.
I cannot sit in this office, in this building, surrounded by Conti Enterprises reports and Conti Enterprises contracts and Conti Enterprisespeople, while Mario Conti and his family are down the hall or roaming around.
I cannot run into him like this.
I cannot be normal.
I cannot smile and raise my eyebrows playfully at his tone and pretend everything is all right.
