Page 103 of 10 Days to Surrender

As we approach the two-week mark until the twins make their debut, I feel like I’m hyper-aware of everyone’s movements. Maybe it’s some primitive maternal instinct kicking in, this constant tracking of where bodies are in space.

Right now, I can’t stop watching how Jasmine keeps drifting backward whenever someone steps closer to her, maintaining this precise bubble around her that no one else seems to notice. She’s been weird all night—quiet, shy, face drawn and shadowed. The longer we all hang out after dinner, the more she keeps turning in toward herself.

I frown and file it away to ask about later.

The garden smells incredible tonight. The day’s heat is dissipating as the sun sets. I breathe in deep, letting the mingled scents of oregano and mint wash over me as I waddle around with the wine bottle.

“More?” I offer, holding up the Chianti that Marco brought over.

Lora accepts with a smile, but Gina waves me off. “None for me, thanks.”

My brain takes a second to process what I’m seeing: Gina’s hand protectively curved over her still-flat stomach, that telltale glow in her cheeks that I recognize from my own mirror.

I almost drop the bottle.

“Oh my God.” The words come out as aCalvin & the Chipmunkssqueak. “Gee, are you…?”

Her face splits into the biggest grin I’ve ever seen. “Eight weeks!”

I wrap her up like an anaconda and squeeze as hard as I can. “Why didn’t you tell me the second you got here, you jerk?!”

“I wanted to wait for the right moment!” She hugs me back, careful of my belly. “Plus, you know, there was the whole dramatic rainstorm entrance to coordinate. You know me. I never shirk on drama.”

“Details,” I demand, grabbing her hands. “I want every single detail.”

As Gina launches into the story of how she found out, I catch Jasmine shifting further into the shadows of the herb garden. The movement is so subtle that I doubt anyone else notices.

But I do.

I want to go to her, to pull her into our circle of joy. But something in her face says to let her be for now.

“—and then Feliks actually fainted,” Gina is saying, dissolving into giggles. “Like, full-on passed out on the bathroom floor when I showed him the test.”

“That tracks,” I snort. “Big, bad mobster, brought down by a plastic stick with two lines on it.”

“Our men are ridiculous,” she agrees, then sobers slightly. “But… they’re ours.”

I clutch her hand, understanding everything she’s not saying. Complicated men are not all sunshine and rainbows. But they are ours, aren’t they?

“Our babies are going to be best friends,” I tell her, my voice thick with hormones and happiness. “Just like their mamas.”

“But enough about me,” Lora interjects dreamily, propping her chin on her hands.

We all laugh. “Don’t make jokes!” I chide her. “I’m dying to know about you, too. How’s it going with Mr. Musclehead in there?”

“Ugh, ‘fabulous’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.” She fans herself and does another soap opera sigh of delight. “He’s just an angel. I know that’s not always easy with me. I can be… tough.”

Gina fake-gasps. “You? ‘Tough’? Never!”

“But,” continues Lora with a teasing scowl, “you just gotta find the one who likes your brand of spice, you know? When I showed Pav the portrait I painted of him after our first date, he hung it up on his wall then and there. He’s my kind of crazy.”

I smile at Lora’s lovey-dovey eyes, but my attention keeps drifting to the shadowy edges of the garden where Jasmine lurks.

“Now,” I say, “I just need you two lovebugs to infect my sister. Right, Jas? What’s your preferred kind of crazy these days?”

My sister startles at being addressed directly, like a deer caught in headlights. For a moment, I think she might bolt entirely. Then she laughs. But it’s light, practiced. Perfect. Too perfect. “Oh, you know me—married to my music. The only man in my life is Johann Sebastian Bach.”

But I see the way her fingers clench around the wine stem until her knuckles bleach white. The way her shoulders tighten imperceptibly under her flowing dress.

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