My phone rings, sending my stomach into my throat. With shaky hands, I pull it out of my purse to see the word Vox flash across my screen.
Shit.
I don't answer, letting it go to voicemail. There's no way I can talk to him right now. I'm a damn mess. My head is all over the place, I feel like I'm going to throw up again. Tears rest on the sharp edges of my lids, ready to break away the second I blink.
I can't have a conversation with Lyle right now, not like this. But he calls back.
Settling my nerves, I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Answering the call, I keep the tremble out of my voice the best I can. “Hey,” I say.
“What time are you coming back? You left in such a hurry, and you didn't say where you were going.”
Come back? I can't come back.
“I'm really not feeling good.” It's not a complete lie, there is some truth in it. I threw up on the sidewalk and was feeling dizzy. It's not why I stormed out like I did, but the fact I left so abruptly is reason enough for them to fire me.
I can't lose this job.
“No problem. You did seem really off. You know what, take the rest of the day, and we'll see you tomorrow.” To my surprise, Lyle sounds understanding, and somewhat relaxed to think I'm sick.
Of course he does. You were a sobbing, emotional mess. He probably thinks I got my period.
“Thanks, that'll be good.”
“Sandy's here too, and she says you guys can talk in the morning about the changes she asked for.”
“Oh, um, right.”
What did you say to her?
I don't ask him, the question lingers in my head. Voiceless, mute, a question I can't ask because she's right beside him.
“Get some rest, and I hope you feel better tomorrow.”
“I will, thanks.” Hitting end, I drop the phone back inside my purse.
Pressing my fingers to my forehead, I massage my head with small circles. This is information I'm not ready to process.
How the hell is Lyle going to take it?
The thought makes my chest hurt and my brain pound like it's going to explode.
Tomorrow I have to go to work and either tell him the truth or keep it a secret until the time is right. I'm not sure what option is best.
Secrets have a way of getting out, and the truth can sometimes be too much to hear.
Either way, our lives are never going to be same.
9
Dalia
Tapping the pen against my desk, I stare off into space. I haven't been able to focus on anything. All I keep thinking about is the baby in my belly, and how the hell I'm going to find the words to tell Lyle.
The phone on my desk rings, causing me to jump. “Hello?” I ask, holding the receiver tightly against my ear. I don't know who I expect on the other end, but my voice holds a slight edge.
“Ms. Greene? Mr. Vox would like to see you in his office.”
“I'm on my way.”
I take a moment, fixing the stuff on my desk. I don't need to, but I do it to postpone having to see Lyle in person. I move the pens, I adjust the papers, I fix the little snow globe I got in Italy when Kira and I went one summer during college.
The phone rings again. “Hello?”
“Mr. Vox is waiting.”
“Right, sorry. I'm going now.”
Standing up, I run my palms down the front of my dress, pulling on the fabric. Straightening my back, I try to push the pregnancy to the back of my mind. I'll tell him, I'm just not sure if today is the day.
The walk to his office is quiet and cold. The hall feels smaller, like the walls are closing in around me the closer I get. I'm not sure I can do this. I'm not sure I can face him without blurting it out with no warning.
I stop outside his door, resting my hand on my stomach as I inhale a big breath. My belly expands with air, and a flash of the future bursts behind my eyes. Shaking the image away, I slowly walk to his door.
Lyle's face is buried in a pile of papers. He has a look of concentration with a hint of frustration in his wrinkled brows.
Taking a step in, I knock at the same time. He lifts his eyes to me, and smiles. It's a warm smile, a happy smile. And I can't help myself, I smile back.
“Hey,” he says. “You're looking better. How do you feel today?” His eyes fall back to the pile of papers.
“Better, thanks for not getting pissed that I left.”
“It's fine, I could tell something was wrong.” He looks up at me briefly and smiles again, then drops his gaze back to the paper. “You see this yet?” he asks, holding up a few of the papers. “Did you get a chance to look over the new ads?”
“No, actually I didn't.” Stepping to his desk, I lift one of them up to look at it when something else catches my eye. Quirking a brow, I push a couple more out of the way, and pull out a paper from the bottom. “Is this. . .” My voice trails off as I stare at the doodles and inked designs.
I recognize it instantly. It's my handwriting, my designs.
Lyle nods, leaning back in his chair. “It is.”
It's the page from my sketch book, the one I had drawn our names together on in hearts and scribbles of little love notes. I even wrote my name as if I was married to him. Dalia Vox. Mrs. Dalia Vox. Mr. and Mrs. Lyle Vox.
“I can't believe you have this.”
“Yeah, I've kept it for years. I was going to give it back to you at prom, but then the fire alarm happened, and well, I just kept it for myself. I never could get myself to
