‘THIS WILL BE COLD, HONEY,’ the sonographer says as she squeezes the jelly-like substance onto my lower belly. I’m on my back, my white tee-shirt rolled up to below my breasts and my jeans unbuttoned at the top.
Pressing the handheld ultrasound to my skin, she begins to spread the gel around. She slides the camera with ease through the viscous fluid.
Max towers over us, his stare unreadable as it’s completely fixed on the camera. Not the monitor. The camera. The lady’s hand as she presses into my belly, searching for a sign of life. We wait, and with every second, with every tick of the clock in front of me, my pulse increases. Max clenches his jaw. The silence is uncomfortable and filled with fear that the test was wrong, that I already lost him, that-
‘Oh, there it is,’ she says, stopping just above my left hip. I drag a big breath in. Max’s eyes snap up to the monitor. I follow his locked stare and then we hear. . .a clock ticking underwater – the beating of a little heart. And I could dance a million performances, visit hundreds of cities, gorge in endless fine foods, and none would compare to this moment. I wasn’t prepared for it – the second I realise it’s possible to love someone I’ve never met. So completely. With all my pieces.
Studying the display, I see a little circle, where inside is a blob, and inside that blob is a pulsing cell – a heart. I swallow a lump so big it squeezes my throat all the way down to the pit of my stomach. I can’t look away. A sob breaks from me before my tears even release. And then the tears come on like a sprinkler shooting from my eyes.
‘Oh my God,’ I whisper. ‘Hi.’
Max’s hand moves up to my face, wiping away the tears. He would usually kiss them, but he’s struggling to look away from the screen as well. His hand freezes on my cheek. I rip my gaze away from that little heart and watch the man I love, the emotionally guarded Max Butcher, stare, eyes misting over, at the blob we made.
‘Max, you okay?’ I ask, reaching up and entwining our fingers.
‘Hm.’ Is all I get from him, which only makes me smile and cry a little harder.
The sonographer starts to talk about the different parts: the sack, the heart. She draws lines across the screen, measuring the different black and white and grey shapes. Because that is what they are. . . shapes. Circle. Shading. Blob. Beating dot.
It is all done within fifteen minutes. The lady gives me a picture: black and white and nothing much to look at at all. The name at the top: Cassidy Slater.
Me.
That is my blob. The picture itself is fine, a cute token. That sloshing beat though. . . The heart that represents the love Max and I share is my new favourite sound.
As we leave, I’m overwhelmed with emotion. Leaving the room where I got to see and hear him, evokes a little sadness. Now, as we move out into the shopping centre, we enter a world he’s not a part of yet, not really.
Max pulls me to his side in a possessive firm hold that I adore. While we walk past the shop fronts, not going anywhere in particular, Max stays silent. He’s usually broody, but this is more aloof than broody. A strange kind of emotional fatigue has settled around him. Like he’s done for the day. He has nothing left to give. Maybe for him that was like climbing a mountain. He needs to rest at the peak for a while before he descends or he might hurt himself – break something. More like, break someone.
He looks out of place, as usual. Even in his casual attire – jeans and a black shirt- he still seems larger than life. Too large to mix with commoners as they browse the discount clothing racks for a new outfit or pick the best oranges from the fruit stands.
We wander through the sliding doors and out into the piazza district. The warm wind hits me, bringing with it the smell from some of the nicest restaurants in Connolly. Garlic hits me first and I immediately crave Italian food.
It’s lunch time and there are people everywhere, but my line of sight is snatched by the children playing with the water and light show. A blue and cream floor mosaic shoots illuminated water high into the air while the children rush through it.
I smile.
I really want to do that.
The arm around me pulls me in tighter as the amount of people around us increases.
I place my hand against his chest, peering up at him. He glances down, catching my gaze. His eyes, like the first time I ever truly stared into them, tunnel beneath my layers. Searching. Owning me. Chaotic emotions are strangled and buried deep inside their grey-blue depths. Beautiful. They are beautiful.
His eyes narrow and he stops walking. ‘What is it?’
‘You’re beautiful.’
Raising his gaze, he continues walking. ‘Are you hungry?’
I giggle. ‘Subtle transition.’
‘Did you expect anything else?’
Shaking my head at him, I talk through a smile. ‘No, Master of the Subtle Transition. And yes, I’m hungry.’
He steers me into a little Italian restaurant, the kind with mismatched chairs and tables, the Italian flag over a beautiful wooden bar, and a ceramic Mother Mary by the cash register. It’s full of patrons.
As we enter, all eyes flick in our direction, bouncing away almost immediately as if the sight of us has scorched their irises. A man behind the bar smiles widely, but his lips are also pursed. The greeting both friendly and somehow not.
‘Let me guess,’ I whisper as Max guides me into a red cushioned booth. ‘Jimmy owns this place.’
He slides in beside me and opens a menu. He always sits next to me, not opposite me. ‘Bite your tongue. Jimmy is Sicilian and they hate being called Italian.’
Turning towards him, I cross my legs and hook my foot around his calf. A young brunette girl is suddenly beside us, pulling a pad from her apron and preparing herself to take our order. She looks younger than me. Maybe sixteen. The pen shakes in her hand, its tip bouncing on the sheet of paper. She beams at Max, making me realise that her nervous energy isn’t a result of fear or intimidation – she’s flustered.
Her cheeks glow the way mine still do when I see him. The way they did a few nights ago when he came home past midnight and I could smell the whiskey on his breath. See the hunger in his eyes. There was a lingering scent of perfume that night as well, which only made me want to show him why he had become monogamous. Made me want to connect us in a way only we fit together. More than sex. I’m his strength when he’s vulnerable. I lighten the hold the darkness has on him.
Max looks at me. ‘What do you feel like, little one?’
I peer up when the bartender appears beside our table and ushers the girl away. When her smile turns to a pout, I can’t help but stifle a giggle.
The man takes a big breath. ‘Ciao, Max. What can I get for you? Anything. It’s on the house.’
Max smirks, his eyes scanning the menu. ‘Stop sucking up, Giuseppe. I’m just here for lunch.’
He shuffles. ‘Ti devo delle scuse. I’ve been meaning to-‘
‘Stop,’ Max drawls. ‘Look beside me.’ Giuseppe glances at me, swallowing hard. I bite my bottom lip and smile awkwardly up at him. ‘Make her something special. If she fucking loves it, I’ll credit this month.’ Max finally raises his amused gaze to Giuseppe, a provocative curve to his lips. ‘Generous, right?’
Ugh, he’s such a menace.
Giuseppe brightens. ‘E per il tuo piatto principale?’
Max closes his menu and slides it to the other side of the table. ‘Gnocchi and a Jameson’s neat. For Cassidy, no unpasteurized cheese. Cook everything thoroughly. No alcohol!’
He nods knowingly. ‘Anything to drink, Miss?’
‘Champagne,’ I state teasingly and then grin at Max, who is now scowling at me. ‘Kidding. Orange juice, please.’
Giuseppe rushes away, his demeanour more relaxed than when he approached. Max spins to face me, hanging his arm over the headrest. His grey-blue eyes rake over my face. . . They are like a vacuum or a tornado or a tsunami, akin in both beauty and destruction. Whenever they focus on me, sense, rationality, and, well, my knickers fly away. . . I clear my throat. Clear my thoughts.
His lips pull to the side. ‘Did that bother you?’
I shrug nonchalantly. ‘What? The baby scan or the weird interaction I just witnessed?’
His hand encloses the curve of my neck, his fingers stroking my skin affectionately. ‘You have just saved him thousands of dollars, little one.’
Trying to remain cavalier, I say, ‘What if I don’t like the food?’
He grins wider, his left cheek indenting with a dimple which I just can’t resist.
I raise my finger, poking the little divot. ‘Boop.’
He shakes his head, veiling a chuckle despite his serious mood. ‘You will.’
I trace the outline of his unshaven jawline. ‘Can we talk about the baby?’
He nods, staring over my shoulder at his hand on my neck. ‘Sure.’
When my skin ignites under his featherlight caress, I roll my shoulder up to squeeze his hand against my cheek. I sigh and say, ‘What was that like for you? The scan?’
His eyes meet mine again. ‘I don’t have the words.’
I lift a blonde brow at him, thinking he’s copping out of answering. ‘Is Max Butcher speechless?’
He deadpans. ‘That’s what I said.’
Oh my God, he’s serious.
He’s speechless. . . My heart pirouettes. ‘Would you like me to give you some words?’ I ask.
Before he can answer or I can tell him anyway, a middle-aged waitress arrives at our table with a tray. She sets down an ice bucket, an empty tumbler, an entire bottle of Jameson’s, and an orange juice in a highball on the table. She then nods and quickly leaves.
Max prepares his own drink, adding the ice and then pouring the whiskey. He encloses the glass in his hand but doesn’t drink any. ‘Go ahead.’
I stare at my orange juice in contemplation before murmuring through a smile, ‘Magical. Privileged. Thankful. Real. Love.’
His finger taps at his whiskey glass. ‘Love?’
‘Of course. I’m in love with him. I didn’t think it was possible to love a strang. . .’ I trail off when Max’s face tightens.
He presses the glass to his mouth, looking at me over the rim before draining it entirely. He sets it down, his eyes still trained on me. They narrow, suppressing something too strong for him to show. It’s an intense stare that is veiled with pride and guarded with warning. ‘Is he going to take you away from me?’
My breath catches and I falter. ‘No. No, Max. Never.’ It dawns on me in this moment that I may be the only female who has ever truly loved him. For all his pieces – good and bad. Sharing my love with another, just as important, might truly distress him.
It’s a different kind of love.
Of course, I know that. But how could he possibly know? How could he know that when he’s never felt the love of a mother? My heart breaks for him. Like it always does when I think about that kind of emotional neglect.
‘It’s a different kind of love, Max.’ Pressing my hands to his cheeks, I bring my lips to his. His are stiff with defiance at first, so I coax them with mine. Coax the concern from them. From him. His hand drops to the lowest part of my back, pushing me closer, as he accepts my kiss. My mouth moves over his lovingly. My tongue sweeps out to massage his. I can feel his frown on my forehead. Feel his rough exhales against my chest. The longer we kiss, the looser his body becomes, the steadier his breaths. He succumbs to our affections – submits to them.
Like I do.
Our food arrives and Max growls quietly at the interruption. We break our connection, and I stare down at creamy chicken and mushroom risotto with freshly grated parmesan cheese, lemon, and truffle. I immediately salivate. I smile at Max. ‘I think he gets his credit.’
After I finish all of my risotto and a piece of garlic bread, we exit the restaurant. Max’s arm is draped over my shoulder but in no way relaxed on it.
I notice Carter from across the piazza and smile, but then my face falls at his expression. I follow his piercing stare. An elderly Italian lady is suddenly blocking our path, bowed slightly with her hands clasped together in a prayer-like position.
When she reaches for Max’s arm, he forces me behind him, blocking me with his tall strong body. Her fingers cling to him with desperation, as if he is the only thing tethering her to earth. Twisting his free arm behind his back, he touches the gun I know is tucked down his jeans. I nearly lunge to stop him, but he’s not drawing it out. Just tapping it with his finger.
This little lady must be in her eighties. Speaking in Italian and English, her words are expelled between sobs and whimpers.
She wails. ‘Please! Please. Tis to implorando. Where is my Marco?’ She won’t look Max directly in the eyes, instead gazing at his shoes. As if he were God and could actually smite her down. ‘Lui e un bravo ragazzo!’
I shuffle backwards. Max tries to gently shake her off, but then Carter is upon her, dragging her away. Her fingers slip from Max’s arm. The tether broken. She reaches out for him with desperation, her gaze rising to meet his. Her face crumbles and with trembling fingers, she makes the sign of the cross over her chest before clasping her hands together again.
My heart races.
My breath stops abruptly in my throat when she glances past Max and spears me with her bloodshot eyes. ‘Please,’ she cries. ‘Tis to implorando.’
I suck at the thick hot air as tears flood my face. Wanting to rush to her, to hold her, to help her, I dig my heels into the pavement to stop them from moving. Max whirls around to face me, grips me by the elbow, and steers me in the opposite direction.
My eyes are torn from hers.
But I can still hear her.
Hear her wailing with absolute heartbreak behind me. ‘Mafioso. Mafioso.’
Mafioso.
