Page 12 of 10 Days to Surrender

I look up to see the crêpe guy holding out a Nutella-drenched monstrosity for me. “Merci,”I tell him as I take it off his hands and give him a fistful of euros.

We go find a bench and sit. In the distance, seagulls chatter and families laugh. I lick Nutella off my thumb.

“You’re spacing out a lot lately,” Jasmine says, bumping me with an elbow. “Something new on your mind?”

“Checkbook trauma.” I lift the crêpe. “These things are bleeding me dry, but I just can’t stop.”

“He’s ripping us off because we don’t haggle,” she tells me. “Act like prey and they’ll eat you alive.”

“Said the sheep in wolf’s clothing.”

“A sheep would’ve fainted at your first pelvic exam.”

I can’t decide whether to chuckle or shudder at the memory. Both seem appropriate.The most fun you never want to have again,promised the doctor who performed it. I think she might’ve slightly upsold the procedure.

My crêpe disappears in the blink of an eye and I’m left mournfully picking crumbs from the wrapper. Jas eyes mewarily, but she knows better than to begrudge a pregnant woman her sweet treats, so she says nothing.

When she’s done with hers, we start the slow walk home. We pause at a crosswalk to wait for the light to change. Across the street, two kids are arguing over a melted gelato. A terrier pees on a hydrant. Normalcy settles over me like a too-small sweater.

It’s not New York, but I’ve learned to love that about it. Sometimes, you don’t realize how much you’ve started to call your cage “home” until you finally get the chance to walk around outside the bars a little bit.

“Uh-oh. We’ve been spotted,” Jasmine mutters.

Madame Duvall hobbles toward us with the grim determination of a gossip bloodhound. Her toy poodle, Pierre, beats her to us, circling around and furiously yapping at our ankles.

“Mes chéries!How is the little whale today?” Her knuckles dig into my belly before I can dodge.

“Great,” I grit out.

“You must rest more! My niece’s neighbor’s cousin, she ignored her hypertension and…pop!” She mimes an explosion.

Jasmine steps between us, forcing a polite smile. “We’re heading home for a nap right now, actually.”

“Good, good. Remember, rosemary tea with?—”

“—with honey and lemon, twice daily. Got it.”

We escape into a side alley clogged with linen dresses flapping on twine. Jasmine fake-gags. “Only eleven more weeks of that.”

“Sounds like hell.”

“No, hell would be Baba breathing down your neck all the time, telling you to—” She stops. “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

“It’s okay.”

The grief comes at odd moments. Usually, it’s manageable, but every now and then, the weight of the lives we left behind hits us like a truck with the brakes cut.

That’s when theWhat ifgame becomes harder and harder to ignore.

We resume walking. Jasmine’s quiet for a while. “You could call him, you know.”

“Pass.”

“It’s not just your secret, Ari.”

My toes scrunch in my sandals. “I don’t owe him a damn thing.”

“Fair. But you might owethemsomething.” She taps my stomach. “He’s still their father.”

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