Dinner on Friday

51. Carla

MERRY-GO-ROUND

As a kid, I never liked merry-go-rounds, but to fit in with Eva and a couple of other friends, I would go on them anyway, only to feel sicker than a dog afterward.

The feeling of morning sickness wasn't any different, except this time, I didn't get to choose when I wanted to spend the day hovering over the toilet, throwing up my last meal.

It was a case of anytime, anywhere. It was like a malfunctioning merry-go-round I couldn't get off of.

Wheeling myself to the bathroom sink, I rinsed my mouth with water, hating the taste of bile at the back of my throat. This was my second time throwing up for the day and it wasn't even morning. I had taken one bite of my dinner when I felt the urgent need to vomit my guts out.

I knew that our bodies were complex entities that sometimes needed to excrete weird shit, but I didn't know what was worse: diarree or vomiting. I just knew that both were disgusting and exhausting.

Just as I was about to rinse my mouth for a second time, the sound of loud footfalls outside the door caught my attention.

"Sergio, is that you?" I asked while filling the cup in my hand with water. When there was no answer, I gargled some water before throwing it back in the sink.

"Sergio," I called out, putting the cup back down. "Stop being weird. I'm fine."

The bathroom door creaked open, revealing not Sergio but the last person I wanted to see. Just seeing his face flooded my body with anger and deep sorrow, almost like I was grieving.

Yet, among all these emotions, I detected something else.

Relief?

Why relief? After everything he did, I should be livid, not relieved.

Dante stood there, tall and imposing, commanding the small space. His black hair, usually meticulously styled, now hung disheveled over his forehead. He was covered in blood, the red standing out against his grey suit pants. He wore a black dress shirt, which had a couple of buttons undone, and I could see specks of blood on his chest. Around his neck, a gold necklace gleamed dully, catching the dim light as he stepped further into the room.

My gaze traveled lower, noticing the splashes of blood marring his shiny black shoes. His fit physique was evident beneath the stained clothes, his muscles tensed with restrained fury.

I looked back up. His beard had grown out, full and neatly trimmed, framing his jawline with a ruggedness I wasn't used to.

But it was his eyes that struck me the most-hazel and burning, not with worry, but with raw jealousy. They pierced through me, brimming with an intensity that made breathing difficult. The way he was looking at me told me that he didn't like that I had mistaken him for Sergio.

"Dante," I whispered, my voice echoing against the tiles.

The sight of him bloodied and furious, should have terrified me. It should have ignited my anger, my pain. He was the reason our family was destroyed. The reason I spent the last weeks in tears. The reason I feared losing our baby due to tremendous stress.

"Did you really think Sergio could replace me?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous as he took another step closer.

The accusation in his tone stung, but it was his presence, the undeniable reality of him standing there, that held me captive. The room seemed to shrink around us, the air thick with unspoken words.

"You're one to talk," I said, my anger resurfacing.

"Excuse me?" His voice sounded guarded, as if he wasn't ready to open this can of worms. Too bad, I was ready to open every can, otherwise filled with poisonous snakes or deadly spiders, just to alleviate the dreadful ache of heartbreak and betrayal.