Page 134 of Nine Months to Bear
Taras is questioning my every move. Mikayla seems to have forgotten that I plucked her out of obscurity and gave her a life that she never dared dream of having.
“Fucking ingrates,” I mutter as I pull open my desk drawer and get a crisp piece of paper.
The world may have moved onto spreadsheets and excel charts, but when you need clarity, there’s nothing like a piece of paper and a sleek ballpoint pen.
My father taught me that.
Write down your thoughts, Stefan. Workshop your feelings. It helps to put it all down on paper.
I pull out the Mont Blanc I stole from his collection before my mother could destroy it and start scribbling. But I don’t find clarity at the end of the paper.
I find only guilt.
The chessboard in the den set up for a new game takes me by surprise.
Olivia is sitting in one of the armchairs next to it, her hair still damp from a shower. “Hi,” she whispers when she hears me come in. She doesn’t look up and her voice is flat and lifeless, but it’s still an olive branch I don’t deserve.
I point at the game. “Waiting for someone to join you?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Just sitting.”
The vodka bottle in the far corner tempts me, but I go to her instead and take the empty seat. I move a white pawn forward. Two squares. Nothing fancy.
After a moment of thought, Olivia mirrors the move with her own pawn. Her fingers hesitate on the piece before releasing it, like she’s not sure she wants to play at all.
“You came back to the room,” I say, pointing my chin at her change of clothes.
“I live there now, apparently.” She moves her knight out. “My shoes are there. My toothbrush. That ugly painting my mother gave me for my twenty-fifth birthday.”
“The one with the daisies?”
“Irises,” she corrects. “She knows I hate irises.”
I advance another pawn. “Why?”
“They’re funeral flowers.” She captures my pawn with her knight. “Every funeral I’ve ever been to, there were irises. My grandfather’s. My college roommate’s.” A pause. “The babies that don’t make it.” Olivia nudges the knight she just played, then leaves it crooked on the square. “Every funeral had them. Always the same smell.” She rubs her palms together like she’s trying to get it off her skin. “I can’t look at irises anymore without thinking of loss.”
I don’t know what to say, so I move another pawn. The click of wood on wood fills the pause.
She finally lifts her eyes. “Funny thing is, my mother loves them. Sends them every birthday like it’s some kind of joke.” Her mouth twitches, but it isn’t a smile.
I reach for my bishop. “I shouldn’t have said those things last night.”
“But you did.”
“I was—” What? What was I? What thefuckwas I, hm? “I was angry. About something else.”
“And you took it out on me.”
“Yes.”
She nods slowly. “My mother does that. Takes her bad days out on me. Failed surgery? My fault for existing. Dad working late again? Should have been a son who’d make him proud enough to come home.”
“That’s not—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Isn’t it?” She finally meets my eyes. “You had a bad day, so you reminded me of my place. That I’m just the hired help. The rented womb.”
“You’renot?—”
