Tangled In Strings

Chapter Twenty-Three

In all the horror, there's this moment. A moment that can turn even someone like me, who can hardly stand in a room with a child for more than five minutes without experiencing extreme panic, into a soft person who only now realized, wrapped in a man's embrace—something is actually growing inside of me, something that was created by only he and me. And I allow myself to dwell on it, knowing that as long as Giovanni's here, I'm not dwelling alone.

Still weak on my toes, facing the aftermath of a harsh fever, my fingers grasp onto him with vigor, needing his support to stay upright. He must sense my weakening, for he lifts me with ease into his arms, face still buried into the crook of my neck. Relieved to be off my feet, my legs bound around his waist, clinging to him like a mammal on a tree. Just seconds later, I feel a hard surface beneath my backside, which I realize is the kitchen counter.

He tears his cheek from mine, only to find my eyes. I've been waiting for his and am struck by the magnitude of what I just told him, just by looking into his face. I think that as we sat in silence, I expected him to come to his senses, to realize how poor timing all of this is, to realize that he's having his child with me, a glorified mess, and begin to feel a shrinking feeling of doubt. I expected him to pull away with a gaping mouth and furrowed brow, considering what this news means at this specific time in our lives.

But he doesn't do any of that. He's stunned; there's no doubt about that. He can't stop blinking, but the corners of his eyes are crinkled, making the dark abysses within seem alight. I observe him intensely as his hands move from my hair to my face. On the descent, his thumbs glide over the shape of my face. My legs are still wrapped around him, holding him to me even though I'm seated.

There's a shocking amount of vulnerability sunken into his features when his eyes leave my lips, shooting up to meet my gaze.

"How long have you known?"

"Since the day you had dinner with Norman. After I saw you."

He swallows, trying to think. "How far along—?"

"Almost seven weeks."

"So, that means it probably happened—"

"Right when we got back together, yes. I don't know how it happened—"

He shakes his head, smiling wide enough to blind me. "I don't care how it happened. I don't."

Part of me is screaming inside, trapped in who I have always been. The other part, the part I let show, and the part of me that is brand new, whose actions and emotions are foreign to me, thrive off of his excitement and wants to soak in it. I want him to change my mind. My arm stretches out and dives beneath his to touch his face. His eyes coax shut the moment he feels my fingers. His arms move to come around me, his hands digging behind my shoulders, urging me to him.

"Thank God," he whispers, chuckling suddenly to himself.

"What?"

We look at one another collectively.

"I thought you were going to tell me Dixon had hurt you. I thought that was why you weren't telling me."

I shake my head with quickness, my heart sinking at just that thought. "No, no. Nothing like that."

He exhales and leans in to kiss me. It's a gentle, soft kiss that lingers even after his lips settle against my cheek, his nose nuzzling my skin sweetly. We fall into silence for the second time, reflecting and settling into the news. I drop my face onto his shoulder, sniffling, exhausted—reeling.

His hand continues to travel up and down my back, comfortingly. My eyes become heavy, yearning for slumber, for rest I've missed out on for days now. However, when he speaks again, his voice deceptively calm, his question pours over me like a bucket of frigid ice.