Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
“I’m already regretting it,” he informs me as he carries me up the stairs and into our bedroom. “The books in the shower will probably mold.”
“I’ll waterproof them.”
“The ones in the kitchen may catch on fire.”
“I’ll fireproof them.”
He presses a kiss to the tip of my nose. “Is it exactly how you wanted it?”
“Even better.”
Romeo
A year later.
Romeo Costa: Rain check for tonight. For some reason, my wife has locked herself in her reading room with three pints of Morgenstern’s egg custard ice cream.
Zach Sun: Maybe she is homesick?
Romeo Costa: Maybe your brain is homesick. THIS IS HER HOME.
Ollie vB: Take Daytona to eat KFC. She’ll cheer right up.
Romeo Costa: She’s from Georgia, not Kentucky, you uncultured buffoon.
Zach Sun: Is there really a difference?
Ollie vB: KFC = KOREAN Fried Chicken.
Ollie vB: You uncultured buffoon.
I pocket my phone, taking large strides to Dallas’s former bedroom. Loud wails seep into the hallway from the crack beneath the double doors. My wife, who has only cried when I almost died, is bawling.
“Dallas?” My palms meet the wood, slamming down. “Open up.”
No answer.
“Dallas.”
Still nothing.
My fists pound harder, but they’re drowned out by her cries.
“Dallas Maryanne Costa.”
Wretched panic sails down my throat, sinking to my gut like an oversized anchor.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
And still. No answer.
“Damn it, Dallas. I will blow down this door if you do not open it right now.”
She doesn’t.
True to my word, I lift my leg and kick it at the seam, splintering the wood into pieces.
Splayed across the floor, surrounded by a séance circle of ice cream tubs, Dallas clutches a clear glass display box. The one with the fourteenth Henry Plotkin book inside. She usually keeps it on the opposite side of the room, hanging beside the pressed petal painting Vernon made from the remnants of her white rose.
Sheets of tears shoot past her cheeks and ricochet on the pearl marble, where they plunge into an ocean of their peers. Okay, not really. But my legs don’t get the memo as they lurch forward at the sight of three tiny tears chasing one another down her cheek.
I take the box from her, set it aside, and lift her onto my lap, her legs on either side of my thighs. “What happened, baby?”
“Yes.”
Huh?
I tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear. “Yes, what?”
“Exactly.”
“Dallas, you’re not making any sense.”
As if she just realized I’m here, she squeals, launching her arms around my neck, almost strangling me to death. “A baby. We’re having a baby.”
“A what?”
“I’m pregnant, Romeo. Pregnant.”
“But we just started trying three weeks ago.” Re-started, more like. After I was poisoned, Shortbread and I decided we weren’t quite ready to expand our family and wanted to enjoy one another a little more before we devoted ourselves to someone else.
“I know. Isn’t it wonderful?” She leans down and pats my dick, speaking directly to it. “Thank you for your wonderful contribution to this family.” Her head tips back, addressing the ceiling this time. “I can’t believe they worked.”
Dread churns in my gut. “Who are they?”
But it’s too late. My personal agent of chaos is already sprinting down the halls toward our bedroom. I run a hand down my face, a little concerned about how hectic this house/library/whatever will be in nine months if my child takes after their mother.
I’m still dumbstruck. It must have happened during our sixth honeymoon—the redo of our Parisian one. The shock soon molds into excitement. Shortbread is going to be a mother. I’m going to be a father.
Within minutes, I’m on FaceTime with Oliver and Zach, who started the call.
I frown at Zach. “How did you know already?”
“Decatur called to thank Mom.” Zach is in Korea on business, brushing his teeth in his lavish hotel room.
“For?”
“Mom took Davenport to a temple to get Guan Yin talismans.” At my blank expression, he adds, “Fertility talismans.”
Of course, she did.
Helpful as always, Oliver chimes in, “If it’s a boy, you should name him Romeo Costa the Third.”
“Kindly go fuck yourself.”
“Good idea. I haven’t man handled the ham candle in sixteen hours now.”
Is he even speaking in English?
Zach sinks into a couch, the camera shaking with the movement. “At least we found out within a reasonable timeframe this time.”
“Three seconds is actually unreasonable,” I point out.
They ignore me, still bitter about what happened a few months ago.
In fact, Zach cuts right to it. “Is there a reason we found out your father died on the six o’clock news?”
“It wasn’t newsworthy enough for the nine o’clock cycle?”
Oliver scratches his temple. “Zach, don’t you ever worry that Romeo’s a sociopath?”
“I’m not a sociopath.” Why am I speaking to these people instead of being with my pregnant wife right now? Oh. That’s right. Because I can hear her and Hettie gushing downstairs and know it will be at least ten minutes before I can safely approach her.