Page 28 of Emerald Malice

I know I crossed a line and I will forever regret it.

I took things too far and I’m sorry I dragged you into it.

I can only stand here now and promise to do better.

To be better.

To be the kind of friend you deserve.

Please, Nat, forgive me.

I’ll admit, that one made me soften up a little.

It took a lot of nerve and determination to shut my window on the serenade and turn off the lights.

The music shut off a minute later and she started yelling at my window. “Please, Nat! Just talk to me! I’ll let you punch me in the face if that makes us even!”

She only let up when Mrs. Drummond from #501—that crotchety old witch—opened her window to scream, “There are people trying to sleep here! Save the drama for daylight, you crazy lesbians!”

I watched from the shadows as Kat gathered her placards and her boombox and slumped down the street.

The whole next day, my hand kept straying toward the phone. Call her. Forgive her. Go back to the way things were.

But there was no going back. The soreness in my thighs, even as it faded, was a reminder that things had changed in a permanent kind of way. So maybe it’s Andrey I have to thank for this newfound stubbornness of mine.

I see him everywhere in my apartment. Staring at my pictures. Cornering me by the sink.

Fucking me on my thrifted couch…

I don’t even enjoy sitting there anymore. Partly because it smells like him now. But also because of what those few minutes of so-called “bravery” cost me.

My pride.

My dignity.

My denial.

And worst of all…

My period.

I don’t have to glance at a calendar or check the menstrual cycle app on my phone to know that, as of yesterday, I have missed not one, not two, but three—count ‘em—three periods.

Which means I’m either in early menopause at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. Or…

I’m pregnant.

I spent the first month in a state of blissful ignorance. I spent the second month in complete denial. Now, here we are—month number three, and I’m fresh out of both ignorance and denial.

Which is why my weekly haul from the grocery store includes six pregnancy tests, all of which promise to deliver results that are ninety-nine percent accurate. One even assures me it’ll do a happy little jingle when the result is ready. Just what this tragedy needs: a theme song.

It’s my own fault, really. Why the hell did I think being brave would actually pay off? I’m not some heroine in a gothic romance; I’m a member of the real world where there are real world consequences.

I should’ve learned that lesson already. My father was brave when he stepped out of the car to confront the carjacker. He got murdered as a reward.

Because in the real world, you can’t just go around confronting armed men and expect not to get hurt.

And in the real world, you can’t have unprotected sex with handsome Bratva bosses and expect not to get pregnant.

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