Cry For Me

Chapter 8

Andrea stared at the board as her history tutor droned on and on about some crappy events that happened in the past by some dead people. She still had no idea how she'd ended up ding advanced history, but it was probably due to the fact that she pretty much aced all her subjects back in the 11th grade. Her hazel eyes flew to the clock that sat above the whiteboard, signifying that it was almost two thirty. Today was a Wednesday and the day of her appointment.

She bounced her knee in angst, not at all prepared to make the trip to get an ultrasound and it was for two reasons. Firstly, seeing the actual being growing inside of her scared the living daylights out of her and secondly, she would be going with Omar this time around. After their last encounter, she really wasn't up to the task.

That breakfast had turned out to be an absolute shitshow, and the rippling effects were still in effect. Her mother, who for the first time flipped her lid, was not exactly speaking to her father and they had both even resorted to not sharing a room. They'd left the house that morning and spent nearly the whole day blowing cash on clothing, shoes and jewellery. It goes without saying that the pricey purchases might or might have not made a dent in someone's bank account...

Her father, being the stubborn man he was, refused to apologise or even acknowledge he was wrong. Instead, he kept to himself in his office or out with his friends. He had always been a recluse but it seemed to only have worsened over a span of three days. Dolores was strongly against her marriage with Omar, and by the looks of it, the chances of it happening when now slim.

Truth be told, Andrea did not want to be married to Omar, especially not when she hated him with every fibre of her being. She didn't mind having his child, seeing that it was more or less inevitable now, but being tied to him by holy matrimony? She was deeply averse to the idea. There was something off about him, now that she thought of it and something nagged her to believe that he truly could not be trusted.

"Your homework is on page 230, do those six questions," Mr Fitch told her and she nodded her head as she scribbled that in her notebook. "Your father informed me that you would be needing to be excused by half two so I'll let you go now. I'll see you tomorrow, Miss Dos Ramos."

Andrea muttered a goodbye to him and then began to put her stuff away. "Are you ready to go?" a voice erupted from the door, and her eyes flew up to come face to face with a poker-faced Omar. She pressed her lips into a grim line and nodded stiffly, standing up and hoisting the back pack over her shoulder.

"Yeah, let me just put this upstairs and we can leave," she said and slid past him, catching a whiff of his masculine scent of oak and citrus. She hated to admit it, but Omar always smelled so divine and it interrupted her thought process most times.

Once in her room, she changed out of her skinny jeans and plain tee into a long burgundy turtle neck sleeved dress, paired with black Valentino heeled boots. She sprayed a bit of her favourite Dior perfume, took her phone and a small clutch before making her way back downstairs. She neared the lower stairs and found Omar and her father conversing about something in hushed tones, but they abruptly stopped as she neared them. They both shared a final look, and then turned to regard her.

"What were you two talking about," she questioned curiously and stepped onto the marble floor from the stairs.

Emilio cleared his throat. "Nothing, Andrea," he replied plainly, but she could easily tell that he was lying.

She tilted her head to the side. "That didn't look like nothing," she pushed and even crossed her arms on her chest. She wasn't sure where the courage was coming from, most probably from her pregnancy hormones.

Omar walked towards her and placed his hand on the small of her back. "We're cutting it real close, let's hit the road, love," he told her gently and ushered her towards the door. She eyed him with suspicion but decided to let it slide.