Page 80 of Convenient Vows

That’s how I learned.

Needle to skin. Thread to wound. Pain to peace.

Now, I apply the same precision to silk, tulle, and high-end illusion mesh.

Celeste notices my precision. “You sew like a surgeon,” she says one afternoon, raising an eyebrow as I adjust the delicate neckline of a Dior gown.

I nod, but I don’t tell her I an expert in putting torn men together.

The days begin to fall into rhythm, and I make enough to pay rent, eat well, and keep the lights on. No security detail. No private chef. No guarded estate. Just solitude and routine.

I don’t talk to many people. Even though my Spanish is fluent, I only speak when necessary, and my smile remains guarded. Idon’t linger in cafés or make friends at the market. I keep to myself. Let the world turn around me, but not through me.

Six weeks have passed since I relocated to Alicante, and my body is finally reacting to the change in environment. But after two weeks of these awful symptoms not letting up, I start to wonder if there could be more to it.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, the possibility of something I don’t want to name springs up, and I immediately start calculating the date of my last period.

My last period was five weeks ago, and it was very light, lasting only two days. I initially chalked up it to stress, but now I’m not so sure. I walk to the pharmacy three streets away, the one that doesn’t recognize me yet, and buy a home pregnancy test.

Back at my apartment, I pace for almost twenty minutes before I muster the courage to use the strip. I step into the small bathroom, a cracked shutter window letting in sunlight so warm it feels almost sarcastic. I set the test down on the sink. Wash my hands. Dry them. Pick it up. Set it down again.

When I finally take it, I don’t look at the result right away. Instead, I rinse my face first, then slowly, I glance at the small plastic stick, and see two pink lines.

“Fuck.”

I just slide down the wall and sit on the cool tile floor, my knees bent, arms limp at my sides, the test still in my hand.

How can I be fucking Pregnant?

Well, I know how, and I sure do know who I did it with. I ran away from him. But I didn’t leave him behind. He’s still here, rooted within my body. In my blood. In the quiet rhythm of something new growing inside me. A secret heartbeat layered beneath my own.

For a while, I don’t think about anything. I simply stare at the soft sunlight spilling across the floor. After what feels like ages, I get up and walk to the bedroom. I lie in bed and gaze at the ceiling while my mind drifts back to the last time I was in Zasha’s arms.

He’d held me like I was the only thing anchoring him to earth. Touched me like he was afraid I might disappear. We didn’t speak much. We didn’t have to. The silence between us had always been thick—but that night, it felt like something else. Like we were about to finally cross that line. And then I heard him say to someone he couldn’t wait to see me gone.

I wish I could erase that conversation from my memory, especially how eager he sounded to end ‘our sham of a marriage.” But since I can't unhear it, I decided to do the only thing within my control, which is to walk away. And now, I’ve walked away with a part of him blooming inside me.

Damn! I know I should tell someone, but I won’t. The moment I say it aloud, my parents will inform Zasha about it. And I’m just not ready for that.

Every few days, I take out the small notebook in which I wrote some numbers before burning my phone. I run my fingers over the inked names, lingering on Zasha’s.

I imagine what his voice would sound like if I called. What he’d say. What I’d say. But I never dial. I close the book and put it back in the drawer every time, like some sacred object I’m not yet worthy to use.

As the weeks go by, I purchase maternity clothes and other items one at a time, replacing my trousers with ones that have elastic waistbands. On one of my solo shopping trips for baby items, my mind drifts back to a few months ago when I shopped with the girls. Tears slide down my cheeks at the memory.

Would they have come with me for my own shopping? Would we have become friends by now and be seen as one of them? I’m sure they would have doted on Zasha’s kid.

These thoughts flood my mind, and the pain of what could have been wells up in my eyes and streams down my cheeks.

But I wipe them away, knowing I have to be enough for my baby and myself.

The months fly by in a rush, and before long, I am in my third trimester. My midwife had tried to prepare me for the aches but this shit is worse than I expected. It starts in my lower back, moves into my ribs, and settles in my heart. I’m currently sitting on the edge of my bed wishing someone could massage my feet and back. But off course, there is no one to do so. My hands instinctively go to my stomach and gently start to rub my bump. The ultrasound at my twenty-four-week appointment had shown that I would be having a boy, and as I sit here, I can’t help but wonder if he will look like his father or me.

“I’m sorry.” I whisper to my baby, “I’m sorry I made you grow in loneliness. But this is what is best for us.”

Two weeks later, I feel a slow, dull cramp at dawn, so I get out of bed and walk to the kitchen. I’m making tea when the pain strikes again. It feels like something is tugging from the inside out. I pause and place my hands on the counter, waiting for it to pass.

It doesn’t.

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