Page 98 of Unravelling: Aria & Crispin
Chapter 51
Aria
The nausea was never far away. Aria would have a couple of good days and hope it was gone for good. Why was it called morning sickness when it could appear at any time of the day? The unpleasant metallic taste in her mouth persisted.
Crispin had taken to bringing her breakfast in bed. The whole village seemed to watch this unconventional courtship like it was a soap opera.
"The most entertainment we have had in months, yeah!" Aria had overheard one elderly pensioner discuss the latest events with Dana Ridges, the inn owner. In the afternoon, the tearoom was always packed with all eyes on the exotic pregnant housekeeper and the handsome young man following her around.
On that particular day, Aria had woken feeling like she'd swallowed seawater.
Outside, September had rolled in with grey defiance. The short summer had yielded with a last reluctant sigh to its flighty cousin, autumn, and the coast had begun to shift. Greens faded to tarnished gold, the crisp bite of sea wind sneaking under doors, rattling windows that had stood open just weeks before.
The mornings were darker now. Mornings like this-cloud-laden, grim and miserable. The kind of grey that pressed down on the world and made everything feel more difficult than it already was. Making menial tasks, like getting out of bed, impossible.
The sea, once glinting with silver sun, now churned pewter and restless. Mist hung low over the hills behind the inn, and the path down to the beach was littered with damp leaves and soft decay.
Aria's mood matched the sky.
The nausea, never truly gone, was back with a vengeance. Her body, already stretched and sore, now felt like it had turned against her entirely.
Crispin had started bringing her breakfast after catching her one morning in a particularly low moment, when her legs were too shaky to make it down the stairs and her eyes too red to pretend that she was fine. He hadn't said much that first time, just set the tray on her bedside table and left quietly. But then he'd done it again. And again. Always quietly, always early, always pretending it was no big deal.
It was irritating how thoughtful he could be when she was being a raging bitch to him.
The breakfast Crispin had pilfered from the chef first thing this morning, and carefully arranged on a tray-toast, fruit, and the exact peppermint tea she liked-made it as far as her nose before she clamped a hand over her mouth and bolted for the bathroom.
She returned, pushed the tray away with a trembling hand, the toast suddenly unbearable, the tea somehow too sweet.
"Just give me a minute," she snapped, voice frayed.
Crispin hovered by the door, silent. But she noticed the tightness of his mouth and how he clenched and unclenched his hands.
When she emerged, pale and dragging her cardigan over her uniform, he finally said, "You should rest."
There was an undertone in his voice that she couldn't quite identify.
"I have work."
"You're not well, Aria."
"I'll manage."
"Aria-"
"I said, I'll manage."
Crispin frowned, stepping closer, his voice still low but firm. He was not backing down this time. "You're nearly twenty-seven weeks pregnant. You've been sick all morning, your blood pressure was borderline last week, and you're working double shifts, all while on your feet. Should you even be working like this?"
The turned on him before he could finish, her eyes flashing with fury. "Should I be working? What else do you expect me to do, Crispin? Lounge around and live off your money?"
"That's not what I meant-"
"No? Because that's what it sounds like." Her voice rose, sharp and brittle. "I need this job. I need to know I can stand on my own two feet. What if you change your mind again? What if you decide I'm not worth it after all?"
His face twisted. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it? You left me behind once. You decided I wasn't good enough for the world to see. I am poor, and you let that dictate how you treated me. And now you're here, playing house like none of that happened."
