Page 118 of Lucas & Melissa Falling in Love
“I love you, too, mia bella.”
* * *
On Friday morning,I do the one thing I thought I’d never do in all my professional life, I play hooky from work. Calling in sick is easy since my boss—and everyone else in the office—had seen me at my pale-faced worse, had seen me rush to the ladies’ room more than once in the morning the past two days. I get the feeling my boss is relieved I’m staying home since he thinks I have something deadly and possibly catchy.
This leaves me the whole day to prepare. At the small grocery shop a few blocks away, standing in front of the produce, I quickly realize even if I had a year I would not be able to prepare adequately. If I were tested on herb identification right now I would get a big fat F. But armed with my ingredients list and the recipe for chicken parmesan from George’s favorite caterer, I snap myself into can-do mode, the old Melissa’s default mode but not so much for the new Melissa, and I get to work, one step at a time. I can follow a recipe.
* * *
Wearingmy best and only designer dress, a red Donna Karan number with no back, covered with an apron temporarily, I rush to the door to open it for Lucas. I gave Walter the weekend off, though he was sweetly reluctant to leave me alone knowing how sick I’ve been. I swore to him the meds the doc gave me are working and managed to shove him out the door with a portion of the chicken parm to go. That was only ten minutes ago.
My heart is leaping around, half ecstatic to see Lucas, half dreading to tell him the news. I’m having trouble thinking past that moment, but I reach for the door handle and open it, pleased at my well of hidden bravery.
Lucas steps inside. He embraces me, hands me red roses and says the food smells like an angel from heaven has been doing the cooking. I laugh and he asks if I, the angel, hav any trepidation about serving a meal to a devil like him.
I lead him to the dining room table set for two at the corner near the kitchen door. I go to get the food and he insists on helping.
“You could be Lucifer and I would love you and cook for you.” It sounds ridiculous after I say it and I feel the pink rise to my cheeks. He’s swept me up into his romantic spell. But he wraps his arm around me, pinning me against the refrigerator, then caresses the bare skin of my back, making me shiver and dispelling any foolish feelings with the power of his genuine passion.
He suggests we let the chicken parm stay warm in the oven and skip to the dessert.
I panic. I need to tell him before we make love again. It seems irrational and I can’t think why, I only know I can’t deny my sense of urgency, the need to get past this hurdle, to see what’s on the other side of sharing this burden, this blessing with him.
“First I have something I need to tell—to share with you.”
He pulls back, still standing with the lower, very manly half of his body pinned against mine, but his arms are pressed against the refrigerator holding him back, allowing him to look at me, study me, measure me. I know the moment he recognizes my serious intent.
“What is it?” he says, his urgency now matching mine. My mind leaps open, whatever barriers or locks or inhibitions or reticence there were disintegrating under the power of whatever we have,everythingwe have. I realize now it’s formidable, so much more than lust, more than even love. And I can’t help the thoughtless tumbling of the words from my mouth.
“I’m pregnant.”
The concerned puzzle on his loving face snaps as if clicking from the before to the after photograph without the interim transformation. His face is lit like a candle in a votive, glowing. Joy, pride, love and wonder competing for prominence and combining into the most magnificently beautiful loving face I’ve ever seen. He’s like Adonis and I can’t resist plastering my mouth to his, our lips meeting with mutual mad devouring intent.
Whatever words were on the verge of his lips get lost, consumed in my hot passion. I feel him envelop me again, heated and intense, his embrace tight and dizzying. Through the haze of our joined euphoria, I realize I need to say more, to make sure there’s no misunderstanding. Practicality asserts itself over passion in my mind and I press my hands against him to give myself space.
He lifts his head, murmuring those Italian words of love. I recognizebambino,amoreand almost get mesmerized by the loving stream of words that sounds like the sweetest melody to my ears. But I have to tell him before his haze of joy recedes enough for his mind to understand, to question.
“Lucas, I swear to God I didn’t know I was pregnant when I agreed to move in with you,” I whisper the words against his chest as he holds me impossibly tight.
Then he lets go.
“What are you talking about?” he says.
“I wanted you to know I’m not moving in with you just because we’re having a baby.”
He looks like I’m speaking to him in a combination of Hindu and Sanskrit or like I’ve just landed from Jupiter, too foreign to even be from Mars.
I grasp his arms and say, “I’m moving in with you because I love you, Lucas.”
His face clears somewhat and he says, “I know.”
“You look so . . . I don’t know. I just didn’t want you to think otherwise.”
His face goes unreadable like he’s thinking and considering his words. This is not the best version of Lucas. It’s the one I’m a tiny bit intimidated by.
“Are you happy about the baby, Melissa?” He holds in all expression, even his breath stops.
I hesitate for a fraction, because I’m taken aback by his question, and he turns away, pushing a hand through his hair.
