lorenzadimatteo:
Leaning against the back of the chair, Lorenza stretched her legs out under the table, accidentally brushing up against Carlo’s pant leg. In a sense, she was in her own little world. She could see his mouth moving, but she couldn’t make out the words. Fighting the urge to rub her burning eyes, she tucked her hands under her thighs and focused her gaze on his clenched jaw. He was openly weeping as he spoke, something that had completely startled her when they first met. Before Carlo, she’d been used to a certain type of man- no tears, all masculinity. Even her war-torn father struggled to show that kind of emotion in front of her and her mother.
Blinking, she noticed Carlo had stopped speaking, though his face seemed as if he was waiting for an answer. His eyes, though still welled with tears, conveyed compassion, adoration, and even patience. Of course, she thought, he’s always patient. Over the past few years, Lorenza had done quite a few things that would’ve driven any other man over the edge… but not Carlo. Never Carlo. It wasn’t hard to see that he held Lorenza on the highest possible pedestal, and while it was something she occasionally enjoyed, the fear of disappointing him was overwhelming. Living up to his expectations of her was almost daunting to say the least, and she often felt like she wasn’t actually good enough for him. He was everything she wasn’t, and she wondered if being polar opposites truly helped shape a marriage. “I-uh, sorry… I zoned out,” she mumbled, heat rising to her cheeks out of embarrassment, “But this isn’t something you need to worry about. It… It’s still early. I’m only about a month long, and I don’t think I’m telling anyone else until after the first trimester,” she breathed in, hoping to God that what she was saying answered the questions Carlo asked her, “for obvious reasons.”
Carlo was mostly aware that she had zoned out of their conversation, but he couldn’t bring himself to be concerned about it. He couldn’t imagine the thoughts within her head, the fear. He would never have to endure anything like pregnancy, and it wasn’t that he lacked gratitude for it, but he knew that whatever pain his wife swallowed within the next nine months was indirectly caused by him. But then his thoughts shifted, and he wondered what would become of these next nine months. Out of all the things in the world that he saw himself having, a baby certainly hadn’t been one of them. Money, a mansion, a 401K, yes, maybe, but a child? His own brand of fear stretched its long, icy fingers, caressing his heart, causing his breath to catch in his chest. When Lorenza spoke, he only half-listened, examining the few wet spots on his sleeves where his tears had landed. What kind of father would he be? He never wanted to think about it before; never had he assumed it would be an issue.
Wiping his eyes like a sleepy child, his head beginning to ache with the intensity of his crying, Carlo squeezed his wife’s hand, attempting to recompose himself. “You don’t have to tell anyone if you don’t want to,” he said quickly, though his words came out uneven. “I mean, I’m happy you told me, of course, I’m...” he trailed off, unable to find words to describe exactly what he was feeling. “I don’t know what I’m feeling, honestly. I’m overjoyed, of course, I... We’ll have somebody that’s... completely ours. For eighteen years, at least,” he chuckled half-heartedly. “I’m... also scared, of course. I’m sure you must be, too. I’ve never, uh... really considered what kind of father I’d be.” Thoughts of his own father crept in unnoticed, becoming manifest in a sudden and intense wave of nausea that swept over him. He let go of Lorenza’s hand, stood from the table, and crossed to the window, jamming it roughly open. Face in hands, he stood at the window for a moment, breathing the New York City which, to him, was as fresh as any other air in the world. He counted in his head, a coping mechanism left over from childhood. His aunt had once told him that you could survive anything for ten seconds; once you got to ten, you simply started over. He looked back at his wife, wondering what exactly she must be thinking. His red eyes, his trembling hands... “Would you, uh,” he began, a small smirk coming to his lips, “would you kill me if I lit a cigarette on the fire escape? Just one? I think I might pass out.”
