Page 69 of Knocked-up Bratva Bride
Chapter 22 – Elena
We were sitting under that half-broken maple tree behind the school cafeteria, the one with a trunk fat enough to lean on and shade just barely big enough to protect our peanut butter sandwiches from the wrath of Los Angeles sun.
We had both our hair in pigtails and wore matching white shirts and plaid uniform skirts.
Katya held a Capri Sun in one hand, her legs stretched out as if she owned the entire lawn, and a dramatic sigh poised on her lips.
“I swear,” she said, dragging out the words like she was narrating a romance audiobook, “if I don’t marry someone who looks like Alan Ritchson, I’m suing the universe.”
I choked on my bite of sandwich and tried to speak around a mouthful of peanut butter. “Alan Ritchson? You mean, like, full-on muscles, jawline of a demigod, and height that defies normal doorways?”
She nodded, smug. “Exactly. I want to feel like I’m dating a Marvel character. Like you, you like Superman, don’t you?”
“Yeah, and he’s not Marvel. He’s D.C. Everyone loves Superman, but I’m reconsidering because of the muscles.” I snorted. “You’ll feel like you’re dating a vending machine. One wrong hug, and your ribs will crack.”
“Worth it,” she said, eyes gleaming. “A beautiful death.”
That made me laugh so hard I dropped a grape. Katya reached over, snatched it before it rolled too far, and popped it into her mouth like a gremlin. “Five-second rule,” she said proudly.
We were ridiculous, and I loved every second of it.
“Okay, Miss Avengers,” I said, brushing crumbs off my lap, “what kind of guy do you think I’ll end up with, besides Henry Cavill?”
Katya tilted her head like she was consulting the cosmos. “Hmm. Someone with sad poet energy. Quiet. Mysterious. Deeply obsessed with you but in a ‘I wrote you thirty sonnets and learned how to cook just to impress you’ kind of way. Or maybe a businessman who only cracks a smile once in a blue moon because he’s, you know, very professional and all about working hard, like you.”
I squinted. “So, a golden retriever with a tortured soul.”
She grinned. “Exactly.”
I smiled, but I felt a tiny flutter in my chest. I wasn’t the type to map out my dream wedding or envision Mr. Right, but the idea of someone out there who might adore me just because I laughed too loud and cried during dog food commercials…it didn’t sound half bad.
“You better be at my wedding,” I said, nudging her ankle with mine.
Katya looked mock-offended. “Better be? Girl, I’ll be your maid of honor, hype squad, and emergency cake taster all in one.”
I laughed, eyes stinging a little from joy. “Promise?”
She held up her pinky. “Promise. And you’ll be at mine. Front row. Crying into a handkerchief while I walk down the aisle with Alan Ritchson 2.0.”
“Deal,” I whispered, locking my pinky with hers.
I blinked back the tears, staring through the window at the maple tree beside our bedroom. The memories with Katya automatically sprang up, and, as always, the tears flowed.
It had been one full week since I received the news of Katya’s recovery with dread and happiness. One week since I wanted to run away and hide from the shame of what I’d done. One week to prepare for her wrath.
But I wasn’t ready to face her.
I wrapped my hair in a ponytail, wore my baggy sweater dress, and put on the flip-flops to head downstairs.
I sat in the living room, and the silence was so thick, I could feel it pressing into my chest. The cushions beneath me did nothing to soften the dread that pooled in my stomach.
I kept smoothing my hands over my dress, over and over, as if I could press the creases out of my soul while I was at it.
Our friendship is strong enough to survive anything,I reminded myself. We had both said it once before.
I pressed my palm to my stomach, instinctively to protect our baby, and the sharp tick of the antique clock on the wall made me flinch. Any second now, they’d walk through those doors. Katya and Damien. Father and daughter. And I would have to look her in the eye.
What would I even say?
