Rooted (Pagano Family #3)(55)

“It’s not so far. She’ll be home almost as much as she ever was. And it’s a good job for Eli—he wants to be a chef, and this is an apprentice thing, I guess. Anyway, he’s excited. And she’s got interviews lined up. She has to tell Pop soon, though.”

“Yeah. It’s weird to think about the little Peanut growing up and starting a life. Doesn’t seem like that long ago you and I were playing Mom and Dad for her and Joey.”

“Carlo, I’m pregnant.” The words had been jumping on her tongue since she’d asked Carlo to come outside with her, but they’d surprised her almost as much as him by coming out right then.

“What?”

She didn’t say it again.

“Carm, are you sure? How? When? Who?”

“I’m sure. Took the test twice, and I’ve already been to the doctor. I’m a little more than ten weeks. In Paris, with Theo. I can’t be more specific than that. I guess we got sloppy.”

“You guess?”

“There was…” Shit. She hated admitting this. “We were drunk sometimes. I guess we must have forgotten and not noticed that we had. I honestly have no idea when.”

“Jesus, Carm. Since when are you ‘sloppy’? And you were drinking? That much? Since when do you drink like that? You were pregnant and drinking? Jesus!”

“Carlo, stop. All of these thoughts are already in my head. There’s nothing I can do about what happened in Paris, because it already happened. What I need to think about now is what happens next.”

“Does he know?”

“No. I texted him, and he didn’t respond. So no. And I don’t want him to know.”

The sound he made at that was somewhere between a scoff and a snort. “Carmen, that’s insane. Our sister is about to move in with his son. How do you think he’s not going to know?”

“I know. I know! But I need to figure this out first. Please don’t tell anybody. Not even Sabina. Please. Give me some time to figure it out. Theo is in Paris until the end of the year, and then he’ll be in Maine. Rosa and Eli will be in New York, and we probably won’t see them until the holidays—if they last that long. I have weeks to work all this out. Okay? Please.” Her heart was doing at least triple time now, and her stomach rolled. Man, she was tired of nausea.

“Are you hoping Eli will dump her so that he doesn’t find out about this and tell his dad?”

She hit his arm. “No! Jesus, what do you think I am? I just need some time. I f*cked everything up, Carlo, and I need a minute to catch my breath and see what’s left. Please.”

He put his arm around her and brought her close. She fought it for a second, but she wanted the comfort, so she laid her head on his shoulder.

“Okay. I wish you could find a way to be happy, Caramel. I just want to see you happy someday.”

She didn’t respond; she didn’t know how to.

“You know I have to tell Bina. Spouse clause. She won’t tell anyone else. You know that, too.”

It wouldn’t be so bad to be able to talk to Sabina about it, too. She nodded. “Nobody else, though. Let me tell everybody else. In my time.”

“Okay, sis. Okay.”





14



Paris was beautiful and lively any time of the year. Though summer was over and fall was aging, the city remained spectacularly beautiful and abuzz with people. But Theo felt a heavy November pall even so. He’d been alone now for more than two months and, despite Eli and Jordan’s frequent calls and Skyping, he was more lonely than he’d ever been. Though he’d been living here for seven months, he’d never gotten around to making friends among his neighbors or with any other residents. He’d had his sons, and then he’d had Carmen.

And then he’d had bourbon.

He still had bourbon. So he was alone.

But he was writing. Six, seven, eight, twelve hours a day, the words flew from his fingers. Sometimes he wrote on the memoir, sometimes he wrote poetry, in his journal. And sometimes he wrote letters. Long letters, in longhand. To Carmen. They were all stuffed in the back of his journal.

He thought there might be a way to bring some of them into the memoir, but the thought of baring those rawest of thoughts to the world stopped him from trying. In those letters, Theo was naked.

On this chilly, rainy day, Theo was sitting at the kitchen table. He’d designated the table by the Eiffel Tower window, where his Mac sat, to be his memoir writing place. When he wrote a letter, he sat in the bedroom, where he felt the sharpest ache of Carmen. When he wrote poetry, he sat in the kitchen, with coffee going.

He’d had the idea to open every chapter of the memoir with a short poem. Focusing his poetry so thematically at the initial stage had always been a challenge for him, but it was a good exercise, too, one he could abandon if it didn’t work. The freedom to change paths completely could be empowering.

He read over what he’d been working on today, while raindrops pelted the windows and ran down in long streams.

What Wants to Grow



She wrapped her hand

tightly,

clutched tender leaves

and stems,

firm fingers brushing

rich soil,

and said: “Not here.”



Her arm rigid, she pulled