Page 68 of Emerald Malice

“No, I mean, maybe… urgh… I don’t know!” I melt deeper into the couch. “I don’t know what I want.”

Mila sits down beside me and gives me a sympathetic pat on the knee. “It’s okay. You’ve got time to figure it out.”

“Do I, though?” I look down at my belly, which is no longer as flat as it used to be. “Because from where I’m sitting, I have a few months at best before I have to get my act together.”

“I’m sure this is all very confusing for you. And the hormones can’t be helping?—”

“I lied,” I interrupt. “I lied earlier when I said I didn’t know what I want. I do know what I want. I’ve known since I was five years old and I watched my parents dancing in the living room when I was supposed to be sleeping.”

Mila smiles. “Did they do that often?”

I nod. “Most nights. Sometimes, I used to stay awake just so I could watch them. They looked at each other like they were the only two people in the world.”

“I imagine that’s exactly what it’s like,” Mila murmurs. “When you’re in love.”

Sighing, I pull at my locket. “I know this is an odd question, considering you’re married, but… have you ever been in love?”

Mila laughs, but it’s sad. “I thought I was in love once. I was sixteen and he worked for my father. It was very clandestine, real hush-hush. First time I ever fancied myself a rebel.”

Judging from the bite in her tone, her clandestine romance didn’t have a happy ending.

“My dad found out, of course. Turns out we weren’t as subtle as we thought we were. My father paid him off and he decided that five thousand dollars was worth more than I was. He took the money—and all the promises he made me—and ran. Never saw him again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It was the hard knock I needed to clear my head of all those romantic notions I had. I learned to be practical, independent. I learned to take care of myself.” She turns to face me. “You’ve got to rely on yourself, Nat. There’s no point in putting your faith in men. More often than not, they turn out to be disappointing.”

I nod as though I understand what she’s telling me. And I do—to a point.

It’s just that my own experience has taught me differently. It’s a hard thing to unlearn hope when you’ve grown to rely on it.

“My father wasn’t, though,” I hear myself rasping. “He was an amazing husband. He would have died for my mother. He—” I just stop short of saying, He did die for my mother. Instead, I finish, “—would have done anything for her.”

Mila presses her lips into a tight line. “Must have been a nice childhood.”

Sure. What I had of it, at least.

“They were great parents.” I take care not to let my voice falter. I have no desire to trudge into my parents’ tragic demise today. It’s neither the time nor the place for that kind of mood killer. “They used to squeeze me between them at the piano. They stole kisses over my head while I practiced.”

Still, to this day, it’s one of my brightest and most vivid memories of them. I can smell the wood of the piano, my mother’s perfume, my father’s cologne. All of it in one perfect mélange.

“You play the piano?”

“I used to.”

I haven’t played since I was a teenager. And that was only because Aunt Annie used to insist I play every time we got within a stone’s throw of one. Once I was out of her house, though, there was no one pushing me to play.

Sometimes, it’s easier to forget than it is to move on. The difference between the two is enormous.

I sigh, relapsing back into my forlorn mood from this morning.

“So that’s it then? You want what your parents had?”

I wince. “Is that asking too much?”

The look on her face is an unequivocal yes. But she takes pity on me and shrugs one shoulder. “You want real love. That’s no crime.”

“I’m not gonna get that with Andrey,” I say softly.

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