Page 116 of Bitter Poetry
“Why don’t we go on up to bed?” Lillete says coaxingly. “You could get ready for sleep while we wait for the milk and cookie.”
Peony nods. Her cheeks are pink and tear-stained. It doesn’t take an expert to work out that she’s exhausted, perhaps even missing her mother… although personally, I find that a stretch. She even goes so far as to return the cushion held in her small, angry fist to the couch. “I want Uncle Christian to carry me.”
“Huh?” Christian shakes his head slowly. “What the f-udge do I know about carrying a kid?”
“Well, you are her uncle now,” I point out with more sadistic joy than I thought myself capable of.
A look of horror passes over his face.
At least I’m not the only one suffering in the wake of Dante’s decision to marry her bitch mother…God, what if he hates me?“We don’t want her to start crying again, do we?” I add tartly.
He scowls at me like this is my fault and stalks over to the child. “Fine. How do I…” He directs his glare between me, Lillete, and the mini tyrant. “They don’t pay me enough for this sh-ut up, Christian,” he mutters before he scoops Peony into his arms.
The child softens instantly.
“Lead the way,” he says to Lillete.
“I’ll check on her cookie,” I say. This awkward version of Christian is surprisingly endearing. I’m still furious with him and don’t appreciate the warm feeling one bit.
Lillete sends me a grateful smile and directs Christian up the stairs.
I watch them go, unable to fully crush the flutter in my chest at the image of Christian carrying a little girl, even one that has been possessed by the devil. He’s so young. I guess we both are. My only thoughts toward children so far have been how to prevent them with the monstrous man I call my husband.
It strikes me unexpectedly that Christian would be a good father. I mean, he’s crazy and definitely unhinged. There have been plenty of times when I’ve hated him. Only he’s not so bad, is he, in the scheme of things—he definitely has a playful, if annoying, side that I can easily imagine children warming to. Whenever I’ve needed him—really needed him—he’s been there. And while he is younger than me, it’s only by a month, and in many ways, he’s experienced things and done things that I can’t even imagine.
I feel a tightening in my womb at the thought of carrying his child—or Dante’s.
“For the record. So you know. Being inside her feels fucking amazing.”
Not exactly poetry, but Christian’s words, nevertheless, stirred strong emotions in me. The truth is out there now. I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t regret Christian; even now, even after the hurt and conflict it caused.
I’m infatuated with two men, one of whom married another woman today, and the other probably pulls thugs’ fingernails for fun, and has a sadistic sense of humor.
When I enter the kitchen, Brigida is finishing up a small tray with a plate containing a cookie and a glass of hot milk. “I’ll take it up,” I say. “Why don’t you head off for the night?”
“Are you sure, Mrs. Gallo?” she asks.
I flinch. When will that name ever not hurt?
“I am, Brigida.” I pause at the door and turn back. “And please, just Carmela whenever my husband is not here.”
Her expression is full of sensitivity. It reminds me of the story she once told me. I’m still waiting for my liberation. “Yes, Carmela. My apologies, I forgot… It has been a long day. And thank you, I will head to bed. But do call me if you need anything more.”
“I will.”
I carry the tray upstairs. My footsteps slow as I notice Christian waiting at the top. His eyes are on mine, and there is so much heat in that look, it’s a wonder I don’t combust.
I drag my gaze away and shift to walk past him. His arm shoots out, blocking my way—the plate and glass of milk rattle. Looking up is a bad idea, but my body has other ideas, and foolishly I do.
He leans in close, his lips inches from mine like he might kiss me. I’m tingling all over, and recklessness is pounding through my veins. “You looked hot when my brother was inside you. I can’t wait to watch him fuck you again.”
I don’t breathe.
He straightens up and heads down the stairs.
I turn and watch him leave.
The front door opening and closing on him jolts me from the daze.
