Page 57 of Sold to the Bratva
“Yeah, I’m sure all the other babies in the hospital will mock ours for wearing the wrong outfit home,” I joke.
We laugh, and for a moment everything feels light and simple. With only a few weeks left before Baby Kozlov makes an entrance, I know these carefree afternoons are numbered. My back aches constantly, and the baby has very strong opinions about when I should be awake, usually around three in the morning. I crave bizarre food pairings that would otherwise make me gag. In spite of all that, this pregnancy has been almost easy, and that ease terrifies me because I feel wholly unprepared for what comes next.
Evie catches my gaze. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I nod with a soft smile. “I’m just thinking about what it’ll be like when I’m a mom. This pregnancy has been so easy I almost feel lucky.”
She smirks. “Lucky, huh? Like when you decided to eat banana peppers in your ice cream?” she asks, wrinkling her nose.
I groan. “Don’t remind me. I still have heartburn from that night.” I shudder. “And poor Isaac thinks I’ve lost my mind. Hecaught me in the kitchen last week, trying to toast marshmallows on the stove at two a.m.”
Evie bursts out laughing. “Did he toast a marshmallow with you or offer to commit you?”
He never said a word. He simply poured me a glass of water and walked away as if he hadn’t seen a thing.
She laughs. “He’s a smart man.” She tilts her head. “How’s he handling everything?”
I rest a gentle hand on my belly as the baby kicks, and I smile. “He’s honestly amazing,” I admit. “When this started, I thought I was walking into a prison sentence, but he’s become the best husband I could have asked for.”
I think back over the past few months, cataloging the big and small moments that prove how much he cares. One afternoon I sat on the nursery floor, sobbing because I was terrified I’d choose the wrong wall color and our baby would hate us forever.
“Katya, we have enough money to repaint if our kid doesn’t like the color,” he’d said gently, as though my meltdown weren’t completely insane.
“I know,” I’d wept. “But what if there are psychological effects we don’t even understand until they’re adults and they resent us forever because I picked olive green for the nursery?”
He grabbed the paint samples, tore out every green swatch, and handed the rest back to me.
“There,” he said. “Green is out, and our child isn’t going to hate us.”
It was such a ridiculously sweet thing for him to do that I pinned him down and straddled him.
Then there was the day we were picking out car seats. When we got in the car to go to the baby store, he handed me a folder with several printed-out car seat ads he’d found online. Each page was annotated with his thoughts, and he’d highlighted safety specifications.
“I know you want to choose it together, so I wanted to give you my thoughts up front,” he’d said, all business.
“You are such a nerd!” I’d laughed, kissing his cheek.
Evie lays a gentle hand on my arm, drawing me back to the boutique. “I need you to stop having sex fantasies about Isaac while we’re talking,” she teases.
“I was not,” I grumble.
She shoots me a look that says she isn’t buying it.
“I wasn’t!” I defend. “I was just thinking about how sweet Isaac’s been these last few months.”
“Ugh, even worse!” she exclaims, pretending to gag. “You’re all lovey-dovey with your husband. It’s disgusting and personally offensive!”
“Somehow, I think you will survive,” I tease, rolling my eyes. “Did you think I got pregnant by not being lovey-dovey with my husband?”
She stops walking and pretends to puke in the middle of the store. “I don’t want to hear anything about how lovey or dovey you and Isaac are. I’ll never be able to look at him the same way!”
We linger in the aisles until our baskets are full and my ankles are swollen. At checkout, the baby kicks again, sharp and strong, and I suck in a startled breath.
“You okay?” Evie asks, concerned.
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing at my stomach and trying to catch my breath. “My baby is apparently trying out for the soccer team in there.”
She laughs and traces the air above my bump. “Or maybe you’ll be a prima ballerina in the Russian ballet,” she coos to my belly.
