The Ground Rules: Undone

by Roya Carmen

  My hands are already working the tie of his checkered lounging pants. “I want to make love tonight,” I whisper against his ear. And as I explore further, I see he’s already willing and able.

  He toys with the thin strap of my silk nightie. “What Mrs. Keates wants…she gets.”

  He trails his finger along the embroidered flowers lining the neckline of my slip. “This is nice,” he whispers. “It’s almost a shame to take it off.”

  I smile. “But I want you to.”

  He drags his hand to the hem and slides it up against my thigh. “Me too. I absolutely want you naked,” he says with a cheeky smirk.

  He pulls the nightie over my head. The sensation of the smooth silk is heavenly against my skin. He pulls me to him and takes my breast in his mouth. He’s gentle tonight. I feel my body warm at the feel of his wet tongue on me. I close my eyes and bury my face in his soft hair.

  Familiarity is a wicked bitch — it makes you forget what you really love. I’d forgotten how much I desire him. I’ve taken him for granted.

  I had forgotten the feel of him, the soft curls wrapping around my fingers when I rake my hands through his hair, the soft hair on his forearms, the smoothness of his skin, the feel of his hips pressing against the inside of my thighs, the sheer size of him as his length fills me deep.

  He pulls me under him in one swift move and stares straight into my eyes. But he can’t see what’s really there — all the secrets I’ve hidden from him. I pull him close, not wanting to look into his eyes. His mouth tugs at my ear softly, his hands slide up my legs. He’s being playful.

  He tugs my panties down and plants a kiss just above my hip bone, where his name is etched on my skin.

  When he makes his way back up to me, I reach again for his pants and free him.

  Tucked in under the cozy quilt, his naked body finally presses against mine.

  He kisses me as he sinks into me gently. The old rustic wrought-iron bed clanks against the wall and squeaks, despite the fact that he’s being very gentle. We smile at the sound, his grin pressed against mine.

  I relish the feel of him against me, and I try not to think too much. This might be our last time. After all these years, my soul mate and I might be torn apart. I can’t imagine not seeing him every day, not waking up next to him, not being able to joke around with him like we do so often, and not being able to play.

  I push his body away from mine gently, my hand pressed on his stomach. “I want to see you.” I want to see his beautiful body pressing against me. The contrast of his dark ink-covered skin against my ivory snow white flesh is so erotic.

  I take a mental photograph of him, of every detail. Because I know this is most likely the last time I’ll get a chance to appreciate this view.

  He presses down against me again and stills. “I’m sorry…we need to stop,” he breathes against my ear. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. You drive me crazy.”

  “Please don’t,” I breathe. I don’t need to climax. I don’t care about that tonight.

  All I want is to make love to him one last time.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  …she will remember him now.

  I’m at twelve weeks. It’s time. This baby is not going anywhere.

  I’ve thought about this moment so often — have replayed it in my head over and over, like an old film. I’ve wondered where I should do it, how I should go about it. There is no good time for something like this.

  One thing I know for certain is I don’t want to do this with the girls around. I know Gabe’s volatile nature too well. And although I know he would never lay a finger on me or the girls, I know things will probably go flying, walls will be punched. The girls certainly don’t need to witness this.

  I’ve given Caroline clear instructions. She is to take the girls to the park and she is not to come back to our house under any circumstances. I’ve asked her to bring the girls back to her house until I call her. If she were anyone else, she’d probably think Gabe and I are enjoying a little summer afternoon delight, but Caroline is as sweet as they come, I’m sure her mind wouldn’t even go there.

  And there’s something else I know. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to utter the words, I’m pregnant.

  I pace around the living room, working up the courage to confess. How can I tell him when I can’t even say the words?

  Still on vacation, he’s sprawled on the sofa, enjoying the Movie Entertainment magazine we get in the mail every month. His foot rests on the arm of the sofa. His grey t-shirt rides up, exposing his tattooed skin. He doesn’t seem to notice the girls are gone. He hasn’t asked about them.

  He peels his eyes away from his magazine and shoots me a smile. “What’s up with you?”

  I freeze. “Uh… I-I…” I stammer, seemingly not able to form a coherent sentence. “Nothing…” I finally manage and dash out of the living room.

  An idea hits me and I cling to it with desperation. I run to the basement storage room and dig the What to Expect When You’re Expecting book out of the box, the same one I have been secretly reading for the past two months, careful to do it only when he’s been out of the house.

  I drag myself up the stairs, my feet sluggish.

  This is it.

  He’s abandoned his magazine. His attention is fully focused on me. He sits up and eyes me with a raised brow. He knows something’s up.

  I take a seat next to him, and hug the book tightly to my chest. It’s an old version — the one with the beautiful illustration of the sad looking, very pregnant woman in the pink dress, seated in an old-fashioned rocking chair. I’ve always wondered why she looked so sad. Shouldn’t she be happy? She’s expecting. But coincidentally, this is exactly how I feel at this moment…unbelievably sorrowed.

  My heart is heavy as I lower my arms and set the book on my lap.

  Confusion clouds his features as he looks down at the familiar cover. He looks up at me and I spot a sudden expression of panic on his face.

  “I…I’ve been reading this lately,” I say simply, my throat tight and thick. My words are choppy, edgy…a complete mess.

  He stares blankly at the book. I don’t think it has quite settled in yet.

  The tears flow down my cheeks as I tell him, “I’ve been reading it secretly. I didn’t want you to know.”

  Suddenly, sorrow washes over him. I can see it so clearly on his face, my heart sinks.

  “But…” he says. “That’s impossible…” he trails off as his mind slowly draws the only conclusion it can.

  He looks up at me, and the look in his eyes will haunt me forever.

  Forever.

  “No,” is all he says.

  I bow my head and let myself fall into full-on sobbing. “I-I’m so sorry.”

  He jerks to his feet so fast, the sofa bounces.

  “How the fuck,” he snaps. “How could you let this happen, Mirella?”

  I brace myself for the onslaught. I’ve expected it and it’s here. A small part of me is afraid, but the more sensible part of me knows he would never hurt me. He loves me too much, and he’s never laid a hand on me before.

  He scrapes his hands down his face, bowing to the floor. He turns away from me and doesn’t utter another word. I desperately want him to say something.

  Anything.

  I blow out a breath, willing myself to try to explain. “I’m so sorry, Gabe. It was unexpected.”

  He turns back to me. “Unexpected?” he hisses, the word laced with hatred and disgust. “I bet it wasn’t. I bet you wanted this. You wanted the prick’s baby in you.”

  I close my eyes and remind myself he’s angry.

  “You probably threw the damn pills in the toilet.”

  “No.”

  “Did the asshole not wear a rubber?” he scoffs. “He went on and on about that. I always did, Mirella. Bridget and I followed the rules. Why didn’t you?”

  I can’t find the words to answer him. He’s right. We didn’t follow the rul
es. We’ve broken so many I’ve lost track.

  His expression seems to soften, for a second. “Does he know? About the baby?”

  I can’t quite look at him. “No. I haven’t told him.”

  He laughs. His loud edgy cackle makes me shudder. “Oh, I see. Well, I’d love to see his face when he finds out. If I remember right, the guy was pretty wound up about the whole birth control thing. I wonder what he’ll think about you fucking up his perfect little life.”

  Gabe’s words cut me. They ring too true. We both know this won’t be news Weston will want to hear.

  “Guys like him…,” he goes on, “they have perfect lives with beautiful trophy wives but that’s not enough for them. They need to get some ass on the side too. They need a fucking whore.”

  My stomach sinks at his words. I suddenly want to vomit. He’s being so cruel, but I know it’s because he’s hurt. But he’s right. I’ve always been Weston’s little whore — his play-thing.

  “And it’s one thing for the wife to get accidently pregnant,” Gabe plows on, contempt written all over his face, “but it’s another when the whore gets knocked up. The man’s going to go fucking ape-shit.”

  I try to swallow the lump in my throat, try to stop the tears. I don’t want him to see he’s getting to me. I don’t want him to know I agree with what he’s saying. I know Weston will be furious. He won’t like this. Weston Hanson does not like the unexpected. He hates curve balls. This is the kind of man who has his day planned, down to the last minute. I don’t know how he’ll react. The unknown…the irrepressible never pleases a control freak.

  He paces the living room. “Why haven’t you told him?”

  I tuck in my legs and hug myself tightly, trying to find some refuge in the big soft pillows of the sofa. “I was waiting to tell you. I was waiting for the twelve-week mark to tell both of you. And then there was our trip…”

  “So you’re already at twelve weeks. Were you hoping to lose the baby? Were you..”

  I look up at him. “No, not really ever. Gwen dragged me to the clinic, but I couldn’t.”

  “Of course you couldn’t,” he says. He closes his eyes and rubs his face, the shape of his features distorted. He has morphed into an ugly dark stranger. And I realize he’s about to lose it. I’ve seen him like this before.

  I sink back deeper into the sofa, wishing it could swallow me whole.

  Tears are streaming down his face. “All this time, you knew,” he says, his words soft. “Every day, you knew. Every time I looked at you, you knew and you never told me,” he goes on, completely broken. And I feel sick seeing him like this, knowing I’m the one who’s done this to him.

  “I didn’t want to hurt you, Gabe,” I desperately try to explain. “I was trying to sa—”

  “And you even let me have sex with you,” he hisses. “All the while, the prick’s baby was in you. What the fuck is wrong with you, Mirella?”

  He swipes his hand across the mantle, swift and hard. I twitch as everything comes crashing down, the sound excruciating, earsplitting. The colorful vase Weston had given us has shattered into a thousand pieces across the floor. It’s rather fitting, I admit to myself. The vase holding the roses, the beautiful lavender roses with the small note. The note which started it all. The moment I decided not to throw that note away was the moment I made the decision to walk down this path.

  “This is a life. And it’s your fucking mess. You deal with it,” he hisses. “There’s no way in hell I’ll be here to help you.”

  These are the last words he says before he leaves. I haven’t even had a chance to say everything I’ve wanted to say, to explain. To tell him how this happened, tell him about the sickness. He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to hear my excuses.

  I hear him fumble around in the mud room. And then, the door slams so hard, the house shakes. And the small ceramic bunny hovering at the edge of the mantle, one of Claire’s prized possessions, the only piece that has managed to survive Gabe’s wrath, falls to the floor and shatters.

  I spend the next thirty minutes on my knees, cleaning up the mess. I am on auto-pilot, my hands dedicated to the task, but my mind completely elsewhere. My limbs move, but my brain is completely fuzzy. I’m a zombie wielding a broom and a dustpan. All I can think about is Gabe. Where will he go? Where will he stay the night? He certainly won’t be coming back to me, of that I am sure. I empty the dust pan into the waste basket. The rainbow colored shards of glass slide into a heap on top of wasted food, soiled paper towels and banana peels.

  I think about Weston. Now that I’ve told Gabe, I really should tell Weston too. But I just don’t have the strength to do it. I’m such a mess, I can barely breathe. And I’m in no shape to see the girls either.

  I call Caroline and ask her to keep the girls a little longer. She tells me the girls are having a blast.

  “That’s great,” I say. My voice is shaky and I know she can probably tell something’s not right.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Keates?” she asks, her voice soft.

  “I’m fine, Caroline,” I lie. “You have fun with the girls.”

  As soon as I’m off the phone with Caroline, I call Gwen, hoping, with every fiber of my being, to reach her.

  She answers on the third ring, her voice cheerful. “Hi, Mirella.”

  I crumble to the sofa and fall into tears before I can even say a single word.

  “What’s wrong, sweetie?” she asks, her voice no longer cheery. “Talk to me.”

  A snort escapes my mouth, the sound slightly disturbing. “I…I told Gabe.”

  Silence fills the line. And I realize she doesn’t know what to say to me. She can’t help me either.

  No one can.

  “Oh no,” she finally manages. “I’m so sorry. I bet he was pissed.”

  My voice still cracks when I tell her, “Yeah. He stormed off. Told me I was on own.”

  “I’m coming over,” she says. “Don’t move an inch. I’ll be there soon. Will you be okay until then?”

  I wipe my cheek with the heel of my hand. “I will. Thanks, Gwen.”

  Gwen is by my side in a flash. I wonder how many traffic rules she broke to get here so fast. She holds me in her arms and tells me she’ll be here for me, no matter what. She tells me she’ll sit for me, run to the grocery store, and buy cute little outfits for the baby. She says she hopes it’s a girl because there are so much more fashion choices for girls. And she tells me she’s glad I’ve decided to keep the baby. “I’m sorry I brought you to that clinic,” she says. “And I’m sorry I said you were ruining your life. You’re not. This baby is a precious gift.” A weight is lifted as I realize that no matter what, I have support. Even if I don’t have Gabe’s or Weston’s support, I’ll always have Gwen.

  And just as expected, she instantly goes into ‘cheer-up-Mirella’ mode. She makes me my favorite tea, selects one of my favorite movies (Dirty Dancing) from my DVD collection and plops it into the player. She even does my nails in a bright orange color, which I hate, but that’s of absolutely no importance to me at the moment. I try to get lost in the movie but I just can’t. Even Baby and Johnny’s story, which I love, can’t get me out of my funk. Johnny reminds me of Gabe too much — the quintessential sexy tortured rebel with a heart of gold. Although my bad boy’s heart wasn’t so golden when I told him about the baby. He’s never been so hurtful.

  I vacuum the living room, not wanting the girls to prick their toes on microscopic shards of glass, as Gwen makes us smoothies. She insisted when I told her I didn’t want dinner.

  She takes a seat next to me and hands me one of the rather disgusting looking green smoothies. I have no clue what she’s put in there but I suspect broccoli might have been involved. I eye it suspiciously and she forces me to drink it. “You need to keep your baby healthy.”

  Surprisingly, it’s not horrible. As I drain my glass, I reach for the phone. “I should call Caroline and tell her to bring the girls over.”

  But jus
t as I reach for the receiver, the phone shrills, the old familiar melody ringing in my ears. It is a number I don’t recognize and I pray to the Gods it’s not a telemarketer because this is really not a good time. Whatever poor soul is at the other end of the line will most certainly get his or her head chewed off, in one huge, single bite.

  “Hello,” I venture cautiously.

  “Hello, Mirella.” I recognize the voice, but the tone is all wrong. Something tells me this voice should be cheerful, sweet. But it is edgy and shaky.

  “Hello,” I venture once again, knowing I know this woman, but can’t quite put my finger on her.

  “Mirella,” she says with a heavy sigh. Her voice is still shaky. “It’s Bridget.”

  My stomach drops. I’ve never spoken to Bridget on the phone before and I’ve never heard her quite like this. She’s clearly upset and I wonder what’s wrong. My mind immediately jumps to Weston. He was so upset the last time I saw him and he never did call me. But then, I asked him not to. Could he have told her about our little tryst?

  “I’m at the precinct with Gabe,” Bridget tells me, her words as cold as ice. “You should come down immediately.”

  My mind whirls around. “What?” A flood of emotions overtake me. I have a million questions. Were they in an accident? Were they together? Did he tell her about the baby?

  When she tells me what happened, a wave of nausea hits me. I can’t believe her words. It feels like I’m caught in a bad nightmare. I worry about Weston. I worry about Gabe.

  I grab the pen and notepaper by the phone and jot down the details she gives me, my mind numb. Gwen stares at me, wide-eyed, a half-empty smoothie in her hand. I ask Bridget a question or two but she dismisses them.

  My hand shakes uncontrollably as I set the receiver back in its cradle. Gwen rests her hand softly on mine. I crumble to the sofa, my sobs coming out in half-cries, half-whimpers.

  She squeezes me tight. “What happened?”

  “Weston…Gabe…” At first, I can’t quite speak. My cries muffle every word I try to utter. I close my eyes and suck in a calming breath. “Gabe…Gabe went to see Weston…”

  Gwen gulps. She knows Gabe. She can probably guess what I’m about to say.