Lib Novel Page 33
Six months, two weeks, and three days as he so kindly pointed out just minutes ago.
“Breathe, Matteo.” He starts talking to himself, closing his eyes, inhaling, and exhaling rapidly. It’s quite a sight to see this big, bearded guy trying to meditate or whatever the heck he is doing. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay. You will be a dad. To twins. Soon. It’s all totally fine. So what that you are only twenty-three. At least it’s with Zoe.”
What does “at least it’s with Zoe” mean?
He clears his throat and looks at my swollen belly that has been hard as a rock this whole morning. “Um, can I…can I touch it?”
I regard him with pure amusement. I should really say something but let the miserable, pregnant cougar have her bit of fun a few seconds longer. So, I pucker my lips to hide the smile and nod.
Tentatively, very slowly and carefully he extends his tattooed hand toward me until just the tips of his fingers graze my stomach. Just a graze yet it feels like he set me on fire.
No, not fire, it’s like he sets the world right.
Just like back then. Just like a moment ago when I touched his arm. I suck in a sharp breath at the contact, and he retracts his hand right away.
“Did I hurt you?” His eyes are wide.
“No,” I whisper and clear my throat, no longer in a laughing mood because I should not be feeling anything toward him. Nothing at all when I know where I would end up.
Alone and miserable all over again.
Without asking, Matteo places both of his palms around my belly and our gazes lock just for a second, yet it’s enough for me to see the shift within his eyes. There isn’t an ounce of fear in them.
My throat goes dry, and I open my mouth to finally put him—and myself—out of his misery but before I can utter a word, a piercing pain shoots through me, followed by a pop sound and a whole lot of water gushing from between my legs.
11
Matteo
“You’re the best surprise I ever had. And sometimes the biggest shock.” – Rachel Green, Friends
Pop.
“Oh my God!” I shriek like a high school girl that went to prom with me. Just for the record, I’d like to blame her for teaching me these sounds, not that this fucking matters right now because all of a sudden, Zoe is almost losing her balance, catching onto my forearms with strength she should not possess and lets out a horrible, painful howl.
“Beastie!” I’m full on freaking out now, my heart beating out of control because she’s clearly hurting very badly and there is all this water at our feet. So much water. Where the hell is it coming from?
“What’s going on? Shit, I did hurt you, didn’t I? Fuck!” I curse and then wince, bending down to her stomach without letting her small hands slip from mine, and say, “Dear, kids, please forget you heard daddy say that, okay? I promise I’ll put a quarter in the swear jar. Once you are born.” I stand back up and see Zoe regard me with what I think should be a smile, but her face is currently unable to make that happen.
“Please tell me what to do, Zoe?” I plead, and she whispers in a barely audible voice.
“Hospital. My water broke.”
Damn it, of course that’s what it was! I should have known! Look at that, I have been a father—or known that I’m going to be one—for all of five minutes and I’m already fucking up.
No wonder she didn’t reach out to find me and tell me about the pregnancy. Who would want a clueless manwhore for a father of their baby. Babies.
Fu…fuuuudge. There, that’s better.
“Car! W-we need a car. Mine is parked at LPs, stay here, I’ll be right back.” I look around for a chair where she can sit, and I can run when she tugs on my arms.
“Matteo, don’t be an idiot, a fucking watermelon is trying to come out of my vagina!” She hisses, and I wince from the visual she’s pained. Ouch! “You are not running any-fucking-where! Mine is behind the house. Go grab my keys from the house, they are right here by the door.” I nod like a bobble head and start to run when she tugs on me again. “Get my purse and my phone too.”
Zoe pushes herself off me, leaning against the railing and I dash inside, grabbing the keys and her phone right away but where is the freaking purse? Or rather which one?
I groan. There are at least ten of them hanging by the front door.
“Matteo!” Zoe screams, and I grab whatever one my hand lands on first and run out finding her hunched over, her eyes shut hard. “Breathe, my fucking ass,” she mumbles to herself. “It’s a gradual process…it will take hours with your first child, my fucking ass…walking around helps with the pain, my fucking ass. A bunch of liars! I had a plan! This is not going according to a plan,” she hisses out in pain and then yells, “Matteo, where the fuck are you?”