Page 153 of Nine Months to Bear
“Guest room, I think. Told me to serve dinner without her.” Babushka studies my face. “You should go check on her.”
I start toward the stairs, but her hand catches my arm.
“Stefan.”
“What?”
“I like her.”
That stops me cold. Babushka doesn’tlikepeople. She tolerates them. Endures them. Occasionally, she doesn’t actively wish them harm.
But liking? That’s reserved for approximately three people on the planet, and two of them are dead.
“You barely know her.”
“I know enough.” She pats my cheek. “She’s good for you. Don’t fuck it up.”
“I don’t?—”
“You do. You always do when things get real.” She can’t hear for shit anymore, but her eyes see as much as they always have. Too much, in my opinion. “This one’s different, Stefushka. This one matters.”
I want to argue. The right thing to do would be to tell her she’s wrong, that Olivia means nothing and she shouldn’t get attached because soon, Olivia will be gone.
But the words won’t come.
Because Babushka’s right. She usually is.
Olivia matters.
I leave my grandmother behind and run. I take the stairs two at a time.
The guest room door is cracked open. I push through without knocking. “Olivia?”
The bathroom light spills into the bedroom. She’s in there, bent over the sink, gripping the marble edge so hard her knuckles are white.
“Hey.” I move toward her. “You okay?”
She straightens too fast, spinning to face me. Her face is blotchy. Eyes red. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I just… The meat smell, you know? It made me nauseous.”
I step closer—and that’s when I see it. Right there on the counter between our sinks.
White plastic stick. Two pink lines.
“So it’s real. You’re pregnant,” I whisper. “You’re actually pregnant.”
She nods once, barely visible.
Everything inside me explodes. Pure, unfiltered joy crashes through my chest like a fucking tsunami. I’m grinning. Can’t stop grinning. My face might actually crack from how hard I’m smiling.
“Holy shit.” I grab her shoulders. “Holyshit, Olivia. We did it. We actually—” My voice booms off the bathroom walls. “I’m gonna be a father!”
She flinches. Whether at my volume, at my hands on her, or the prospect of what’s happening, I’m not sure.
“Yeah.” Her voice is tiny. “You are.”
