Eric stands in my doorway. “I’m not fine.” His every tell is front and center—lip tucked, brow creased—and his gaze flicks to my stomach. “I was coming anyway. I knew something was up, and I made Paul spill it, after he punched me.”
I cover my mouth to hold in my laugh. Paul left out that part of the visit, along with the part where he told Eric I’m pregnant, for which I’m going to punch him. “He punched you?”
Eric taps his cheekbone with the hint of smile. “Right here. A total sucker punch, too. Came out of nowhere and clocked me.”
I giggle. “Fucking Paul.”
My laughter feels so natural, so normal, until I remember where we are now. Eric moves into the room, close enough to touch me, though he doesn’t. He takes a deep breath. “When you came to the monastery, it was like you were the same person, but I wasn’t. I felt weak and useless, and I started to think you thought it, too. It seemed like you didn’t need me. It’s not an excuse for being an asshole, but I let those feelings take over. I forgot you’ve never needed me—you wanted me—and that’s even better.”
Eric’s put into words what I couldn’t articulate, likely because he sees past the inner obstacles that block my view. We don’t need each other the way we need oxygen; we went on breathing when apart, even though the air quality sucked. We chose each other. We make each other better. Maybe fate put us in the same place, but we made us happen.
“I regretted it the second you left Brooklyn,” he says. “All I’ve wanted since then is to make it right. I hope you believe me.”
The truth is evident in his warm, clear eyes. Though I want more than anything to return to the way things were, this feels too easy. But maybe it’s only as hard as accepting that he’s human—I’m human—and sometimes humans are assholes, even when they love each other. What matters is that they do it infrequently, and, when they do, they try to make it right.
If punishment were meted out for every mistake we’ve ever made, every time we lashed out in hurt or anger, I’d have a life sentence. I’ve been on the receiving end of mercy many times, and I’ve deserved it far less than Eric does. As Brother David said, the only thing I do perfectly is imperfection.
“I believe you,” I whisper. “And I’m sorry, too. I—”
Eric lifts a finger near my lips, his eyes just barely twinkling. “This is my apology. You got yours already.” I smile, and his hand drops to hover by my stomach. “There’s really a baby in there?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“How do you feel?”
“Okay, aside from the fact that I’ve been taken over by a parasite.”
His gaze coasts over my body in the nicest yet hungriest way possible. My insides flip while things loosen and heat and pine for his touch. “You look beautiful,” he says. “Lush.”
“It’s called bloating.”
He shakes his head in amusement. “Are you okay with this?”
“Am I okay with bloating?”
“With a baby.”
“Do I have a choice?” I ask.
“Maybe not, but you can not be okay.”
His hand comes to rest on my abdomen with a gentle pressure, and he beams like he’s thrilled, inviting me to play along. A tear hits my chin. Two more follow. Then another. The waterworks have reopened for business. “You don’t have to pretend to be happy,” I say.
“I’m not pretending. I had time to get used to the idea. If I’m going to have a baby, there’s no one I’d rather have it with.”
My thoughts on pregnancy have always been in the realm of a lost battle or the hangman’s noose. Though that hasn’t entirely changed, another voice whispers that it’ll be okay. This baby has Eric as a father, and he’ll be as amazing at that as at everything else.
But I’m petrified I’ll be my mother, subjecting a sweet spirit to a life of never good enough, as though it’s hard-wired in my DNA. Eric is the one person I can ask the questions that have plagued me since I saw that second pink line. “What if I don’t love it?” Fresh tears roll at those words spoken aloud. “What if I can’t?”
Eric takes my face in his hands. “Are you crazy? Look at how much you love Leo, how much he loves you. You’ll be the best mother because you’re the best person I know.”
He must have his fears and doubts, but there’s no doubt he believes his words. I’ll try to believe them, too. “Of course I’m crazy.” I wipe at my steady stream of tears. “It doesn’t help that I can’t stop crying. If I’m not crying, I’m cranky. Or hungry or tired.”
“Besides the crying, that’s different how?” he asks, and grabs my hand when I push him. “How many more months of this?”
“I don’t know—a thousand or something. Indy’s in charge of the details. But I know it has fingernails, and it’s the size of a black widow.”
“Why are you comparing my child to a spider? That’s just wrong.”
I sob-laugh as he pulls me to his chest. His sturdy heartbeat eases my tears, and I breathe in his scent, so familiar and so missed. “Your smell doesn’t make me gag,” I say.
“What a nice compliment. Your smell doesn’t make me gag, either.” He peers down with a soft, hopeful expression. “I really fucking love you. And I want you, if you’ll have me.”
I can see his love, I can feel it, as strongly as I ever could. So much so that I can only nod in response. His hands stroke my waist, leaving fiery tracks on my torso. I raise my face, and his lips skim mine before he lightly kisses my jaw down to my neck. The feel of his breath and warm skin has me panting in seconds. I kiss him, pull his lip between my teeth, and break away to tear off my shirt, then his. Pop his pants button. Undo my own. They hit the floor and I kick them off behind me.
Eric appears somewhat startled at how quickly I’ve switched from sobbing to lustful, but he doesn’t complain. He cups my breasts, and the caress of his hands and desire in his eyes make me whimper. “Lush,” he says.
“Bloated,” I say, and yank him near.
His hands move lower, exactly where I need them to be, and all rational thought evaporates. I’m completely given over to his fingers, his mouth, and it’s still not enough. I tug down his pants and look over my shoulder. My bed is five feet away, and that’s five feet too far, so I take him to the foyer floor.
We make it to the bed eventually, where I rest my head on Eric’s chest while he traces lazy circles on my back. “Was that pregnancy sex?” he asks. “Because, shit.”
“I think that was make-up-slash-pregnancy-sex.”
“I’m going to pick a fight with you a few times a week. Warning you now.”
“Please don’t. I can’t take any more fighting.” It’s not entirely true. Now that he’s here, I think I can take more, only not with him.
His finger moves along my brow. I close my eyes. My body is heavy, though my thoughts are anything but. “Are you sure we’re okay?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m sure.” I tap his chest and tilt my head to view him. “But I’m sorry to inform you that you’ve lost the Golden Boy title. I’m thinking Bronze Boy.”
“You bypassed silver and went straight to bronze? That doesn’t seem fair.”
“You’re lucky it’s not Tin Foil Boy.”
His sunny smile is as Golden Boy as they come. “Hey, I never asked to be Golden Boy.”
“You liked being Golden Boy, admit it,” I say, nestling my head into his chest again.
He strokes my shoulder, my hair, and the heavy mantle of sleep comes to rest on every inch of my body. “Maybe a little,” he says. “But I’m glad to be rid of it, and I accept my new title of Tin Foil Boy. Do I get an awards dinner?”
I snort. It feels almost impossible to speak with the way slumber drags me down, but I murmur, “I love you, freak.”
“I love you. Tired?”
“Mm-hmm. I need three naps a day. You can get up if you want.”
Eric pulls the covers over us, his hands firm yet tender. “I’m not going anywhere.”
&nbs
p; 102
Eric
Sylvie smiles drowsily in the first light of morning. She rolled away during the night, but now she turns on her side, still half-asleep, and scoots to fit her back to my chest. She’s here, in bed with me. I longed for this moment, and it’s every bit as blissful as I imagined.
“Good morning,” Sylvie murmurs. “Though it’s barely morning.”
I nuzzle the back of her neck and wrap my arms around her. “I promise you six naps today.”
“I’m not sleeping today away. I’ll nap when I get to StuyTown.”
She tenses, maybe at the thought of going, maybe at my coming response, or, possibly, at both. I want to lock her in here with me, but I keep my voice easy. “Come back as soon as you can?”
Sylvie’s body settles into mine. “I don’t want to go, but…”
“I know.”
She has to. Roger is more likely to help her cause than anyone else’s. I can’t say I’m fine with it, or that I don’t care or I’m not jealous, but I can say nothing, and that’s what I’m doing. Paul and Indy are there, Brother David, Micah. They’ll look after her. And she’ll look after herself—she’s done a hell of a job of that her entire life.
I caress her stomach. Even now, it doesn’t seem real, though I imagine it will be very real when her belly is huge and something moves in there. “When can we feel it kick?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I haven’t been paying much attention to that stuff.” Her voice is apologetic, though to whom I’m not sure. “But I’m taking my vitamins like a good girl.”
“And eating spinach,” I say. “Which is unbelievable.”
Last night I watched, astonished, as she inhaled a few leaves of spinach she’d brought from StuyTown’s greenhouse, though she gave most to Leo and the few kids here.
“I can’t control it—I’m like the marionette of a vegetable-crazed puppeteer. It’s just my luck I’d end up with a kid who doesn’t like sugar.”
I let out a resigned sigh. “We’ll try to love it anyway.”
She giggles. The thought of a baby is still scary as shit, but talking about it with Sylvie makes it less so. Indy and Paul told me she avoids the subject, and I think her willingness to talk about it with me, to joke, might mean she feels the same.
A knock comes at the door, and Paul enters at my call. “They’re almost frozen through. The last couple just hit the ground.”
When they told us of Walt and Teddy’s plan to hunt us at the freeze, we made a plan of our own. I knew it’d be soon, but I didn’t expect it to cut into the few hours I had with Sylvie. “I have to get moving. I guess you guys do, too.”
Sylvie sits up beside me, blankets clutched to her chest, and her eyes probe Paul’s. He shakes his head. “Are you kidding? We’re not leaving.”
It took a while to move the barriers that keep Lexers away from the tracks, and we dragged some frozen bodies closer so the line of demarcation won’t be easily spotted. The Standard has gone dark, which it usually is during the day, but we’ve closed the curtains and the kids only had to be told once to quiet down. The masonry heaters produce almost no smoke, and we let the fires burn down, though it’ll remain warm until night.
We’re freezing, however, on our roof that provides a view up and down 23rd Street from the Hudson River to Sixth Avenue. Others watch the streets south and north of us, and our transceivers are set to a frequency Walt’s and Teddy’s people don’t use.
A message comes through in Morse code, which we’re using whenever possible, just in case. I listen, saying the letters aloud while Indy writes them down. Trucks 14th and Seventh. Moving north. Jerry, Ren, and Blake know Morse, and one is stationed with each group.
“Thank God for Farina,” I say. She listens on the bands they frequent, using an antenna she strung up the side of The Standard weeks ago.
“I can’t believe you know Morse code,” Sylvie says.
“You can’t believe it?” Paul asks. He slaps his hands on his arms to warm them. “Why wouldn’t Golden Boy know Morse code?”
“He’s no longer Golden Boy,” Sylvie says with a wink my way. “The title’s up for grabs. You should have it, Paul. You did convince Walt to let us leave.”
“I believe I’ll take that title,” Paul says. Indy snickers. “What?”
“I hope you don’t think it gives you special privileges,” she says.
“Not for me. For you. Because you get to be with me.”
“Oh, right. That.” Indy turns her attention to the roof’s ledge. Paul grabs her sides until she’s batting at him and laughing.
Sylvie, beside me at the ledge, says, “This is them, all the time.”
Paul and Hannah were similar, and it’s a sign of how comfortable he is and how much he likes her. He wouldn’t be with her if he didn’t. Indy gives better than she gets, and Paul loves it. Maybe even loves her.
“He’s happy,” I say. “Me, too.”
Sylvie rests her hand on my cheek. “Me three.”
“You should learn Morse code,” I say. “Then I could send you messages if you’re on watch at StuyTown and I’m across the street.”
“How?”
“I’ll get on your channel and press the speaker button. It’d seem like interference.”
She bats her eyelashes. “What would you say?”
I take her hand and tap on her palm with my finger. “Di-dit, I. Di-dah-di-dit, L. Dah-dah-dah, O.”
“I think I know where you’re going with this,” she says.
I tap out the rest of I love you. She glances at Indy, whom Paul has wrapped his arms around while they watch the east. “Look at the four of us. We’re officially the most annoying rooftop in all of Manhattan right now.”
“In all of the world,” Indy counters, though she doesn’t appear disturbed by that fact.
“One truck, coming down Tenth from 34th,” Mo says over the radio.
We watch the west until a truck cruises along Tenth Avenue, heading south. “Just passed 23rd,” I report back.
“Was it StuyTown?” Indy asks.
“I think so,” Sylvie says.
A few minutes later, Kate calls in from 14th Street, “We’re not seeing it in any direction. They must have stopped.”
Paul lifts his small pack onto his back with a curse. It was hard enough for him to leave The Standard, and he’s not about to wait and see if they attack the building where Leo sits. None of us will.
“Checking it out,” I say into the radio. They’ll spread out and send replacements to our roof.
We run down the twenty-some flights of stairs to our bikes. Minutes later, we come upon the SUV parked beside a staircase to the High Line. The mesh that covers the first flight keeps out Lexers, but the SUV’s roof provided the boost they needed to the second flight.
We can’t follow. We have no clue where they’ve gone, and they might see us before we see them. “The condos,” Indy says.
We speed down to 16th Street, then cut under the tracks and into the entrance of the brick and glass building. We drop our bikes in the lobby and climb stairs to wait in the rental office at High Line level.
Quiet voices come first, then four people appear on the wide path. I remember the big guy with the beard and greased hair as the one who pushed me to the river, and the wiry guy was the one who kept us in line while Walt slaughtered people. The other two, a ponytailed woman and a white-bearded older guy, I don’t recognize. Sylvie and Indy melt into the shadows, and Paul and I crouch with our weapons out.
Footsteps near our space, and the big guy fills the doorway. “Nothing in here but a bunch of crap.”
“Are you talking about your skull or the room?” the woman asks.
“Funny.” He moves from the door. “I say we check out that hotel down the way, then get the hell out of here.”
“I say we don’t even do that,” she answers.
“Cross the T’s and dot the I’s,” another man says. “Hotel and then we go.”
Once their
footsteps are distant, I send Farina a message. Four coming down tracks to you. I can hear the tension in the four letters she sends back at a frantic pace: Copy.
“We can’t let them get there,” Sylvie whispers.
“No, we can’t,” Paul says. “Let’s go say hi.” He turns to me. “Stay back a little but stay close.”
We leave the office for the High Line. Sylvie, Indy, and Paul head left, following the four to where Chelsea Market’s overhang makes a tunnel. I take the lower level through the tunnel and stay in step with them.
The four from StuyTown speak, but I can’t make out what their echoing voices say until one calls, “Look at this.”
I line myself up with their voices. They must be at the door to Chelsea Market. Jorge waits inside with Guillermo, protecting our arsenal. I hope they’re well-hidden.
“Hey, what are you guys doing here?” Paul yells, his voice friendly.
I move to where my path meets a staircase to the upper level, then mount two steps and peer into the end of the overhang. The StuyTown people stand twenty feet away with their backs to me, watching Paul, Indy, and Sylvie approach.
“We could ask you the same thing,” the woman says, though her voice is more playful than suspicious.
“Figured since it was cold, we’d see what we could find up here. Walt sent you on a run?”
“We’re looking for those people.” The woman holsters her gun and throws her hands in the air. “Because it’s so easy to hunt down some random guy in this huge city. He could be anywhere. We could actually be finding good stuff instead of doing this.”
Sylvie and Indy make sympathetic noises. “He’s not in there.” Indy motions at the Chelsea Market door. “We were inside a little while ago. There’s nothing good, either.”
“Yeah,” the woman says. “Roger said not to bother with anything here. But we figured we’d check for people anyway.”
“Where is Roger?” Sylvie asks. Her eyes move to the water, skimming over me on their way, and she sets her hand on her thigh holster like an afterthought. I’m impressed at her composure.
The City Series (Book 3): Instauration Page 69
