The drive back home is long and I’m grateful to be alone. I’m thinking. Counting. Over and over again, I count days. And like an echo, Sergio’s father’s words keep repeating in the backdrop. I’m not paying attention to the scenery, the other cars on the highway. The man driving is stone-faced and the few times I catch his eyes in the rear-view mirror, I see a hardness inside them, and I know he’s more than a driver.

“Accident up ahead. We’ll have to take a different exit.”

They’re the only words he speaks to me. I’m startled by the intrusion and confused for a moment. But as the car slows and veers off toward an exit, I nod.

“That’s fine. Thanks.”

The sky is strange. Heavy clouds drop rain then briefly allow the sun to shine through spectacularly only to turn over another bucketful moments later. I turn on my cell phone—I’d kept it off on purpose—but Sergio hasn’t called. I scroll to Drew’s number, almost hit the button to call him, but change my mind and switch it off again. Tuck it back into my purse.

First thing I need to do is pick up a test. Confirm one way or another because maybe I’m not pregnant. Maybe I’m just late. Why am I letting Dominic’s strange poke at my belly upset me so much? How would he know before me? He’s just a jerk, like Sergio said.

“I don’t give a fuck if you have that whore lick your floors clean day in and day fucking out. You do what you need to do with Natalie, but this is my final word.”

Shit.

The way Franco Benedetti talks about Lucia DeMarco, the way he talks about me, what does he think? What does he envision for his son? That he’d be with me and have her too? In what capacity? And how firm is his word? Is Sergio bound by it?

We slow to a stop at a red light. There are no other cars around and the traffic light is useless. I don’t know this part of the city at all. It’s run down. Somewhere I wouldn’t want to be alone at night or in the day.

There’s a gas station on the corner. I glance into the main building. A man is standing behind the register, his attention on whatever is flashing on the little TV on the counter. A row of houses stands vacant across the street, graffiti on its walls, boards on its windows and doors. Black marks the upstairs walls and part of the roof is missing. Must have been a fire.

I wonder how much longer the traffic light will be red. It’s a strange place, this.