We barely speak after what happened that day.
Michael brings me a radio the next day, so I don't really have that paranoid feeling that he's not coming back anymore.
We eat, mostly in silence. Then it's off to bed. There's a cool gap of mattress between us every night. No touching. He doesn't even bother taking hold of my hand while leading me up the stairs anymore.
The mornings are the worst. Every day I wake up around seven or eight to the gentle light of the sun, and Michael hops in the shower. On days he doesn't have work, I take a bath or a shower while he goes downstairs to make breakfast. Always something filling because I am eating for two now.
I guess I should feel more comfortable with this change between us but... awkward tension is a very different flavor from sexual tension. A much more bitter taste that lingers in your memory for forever. It sometimes gets so bad my stomach cringes every time our eyes accidentally meet for even a brief moment.
A small part of me wants to talk to him. Really talk. At this point it can be about anything. But I'm sure as hell not going to be the one to initiate it.
The weeks pass, and the only tells are the radio when a certain holiday hits. I have to change the station every few songs to escape the overly cheery DJs and their repetitive Christmas music. But then it gets deeper into December and I have to switch the damn radio off for a good long while.
I'm just about to switch the station again when Michael comes downstairs. Looking up at him, I notice how wet and red his face is.
"Cold outside?" Small talk. The only kind I'm going to throw him these days. Not that he deserves even that much.
Rather than saying anything, Michael just comes over to me, not breaking eye contact. I refuse to yield a step, forwards or backwards. The feeling of his freezing fingers (so much colder than usual) against my cheeks causes me to flinch away.
"That answer your question," he asks with an awkward huff of a laugh, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. "It's almost Christmas. So the weather outside is frightful," he sings really off key.
I swear to god! Christmas music is driving me nuts!
"Not funny." My words are hardly more than a murmur. As I turn to go back to my book, Michael grips my arm causing me to gasp at the cold. I pull away, batting at his hands. My arms fold across my body like a barrier as I look up at him. "Really. Not. Funny."
"September, please talk to me." There's a certain sincerity in his tone.
I feel the air between us stiffen and struggle to enter my my throat. "What do you want me to say?" I snap, tossing him a hard glare. "What the hell are we supposed to talk about?"
"How are you feeling?"
I sigh in exasperation. "Fine." I go over and sit down on my bed.
Michael removes his coat and tosses it to the floor. "Any cravings?" He sits down next to me and braces his arms on his knees. When I shake my head, he starts unbuttoning his shirt.
My muscles lock instantly. "What are you doing?"
"Relax, Morning Bird." The shirt comes off and he folds it before setting it down beside him. He grabs my hand and guides it to his upper arm. Right against the scar I gave him the night he killed my dad. "You have to start talking to me." I shoot him a look. "You gave me this scar. You're still alive." His eyes raise to mine as he slides my hand down to the scar from Nancy. "I could've just let the old bat kill you."
I try to pull away, but Michael's grip is like steel. "You've given me scars too," I snap. "The cigarette burns, my crooked nose..." I sigh. "Those are just the physical ones."
Michael heaves a sigh as his eyes run over his handy work. Before I can react, his cool hand comes up and feels my belly. "You know the worst isn't over yet." I don't move as the knuckles on his free hand brush along my cheekbone. "But I'm trying to make you more comfortable." He shrugs. "None of your clothes fit properly anymore. You wanna borrow one of my shirts? I don't want your tummy to get cold."
"I said I'm fine." Then I push his hand away, despite his possessive glare. "And it's only cold when you put your freezing hands against it."
"It's been almost four months. We're halfway there." He sighs. "September, you know it's gon' hurt. And I'm sorry it will. So I need to ask you now..." His voice trails off.
"What?" Why can't he just spit it out?
"I need to be prepared in case there are... complications."
I stiffen. "What are you saying, Michael?"
His eyes stare off into space with empty intensity. "That I need to train myself to perform an emergency caesarean if needed."
Oh god! He's gonna cut me open and yank his baby out! Probably gonna leave me to bleed out after. Have his cake and eat it too.
My stomach churns and I think the baby can sense how uneasy I am, because I can feel the it move a bit inside me. It feels like the baby is tossing and turning from a bad dream. If only this was a dream...
The feeling pulls my fingers to rub my belly gently, trying to calm the baby down... like that'll help.
"How..." I swallow hard. "How, exactly, are you gonna prepare yourself," I ask, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
Those cold blue eyes drift over to me, trapping me in his gaze. "Well, Morning Bird," his lips suddenly curl into a cheshire smile. "it's been awhile since we've had company."