Page 154 of Nine Months to Bear
“This is… Fuck, this is incredible. This is everything. The timing’s perfect. We can?—”
“I need to sit down.”
She pulls away from me and wobbles into the bedroom on unsteady legs. I follow, still buzzing with adrenaline.
“We should celebrate. Champagne. Well, not for you, obviously, but?—”
“Stefan, stop.”
But I can’t stop. “Babushka’s gonna lose her mind. She’s been wanting great-grandkids for years. And the nursery—we’ll need to figure out which room?—”
“Stop!” Louder this time.
She’s at the dresser now, pulling out clothes. Folding them. Refolding them. Her hands shake with each precise crease.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Organizing.”
“Your clothes are already organized.”
“They’re not right.” She unfolds a shirt, starts over. “Nothing’s right.”
I move behind her and try to still her frantic hands. “Olivia… talk to me.”
“About what?” She laughs, but it’s all wrong. Sharp and brittle and on the verge of collapse. “About how I agreed to grow your baby and hand it over like I’m Amazon fucking Prime? About how I signed a contract to give away my own child?”
“Ourchild,” I correct.
“No.” She turns to face me, tears streaming now. “According to our agreement, it’syourchild. I’m just the incubator, remember? The glorified oven. The—” She stops and spins away again. “God, I actually thought I could do this. I thought I could be so fucking calm about it. Detached. But now, it’s real and I can’t… I can’t breathe when I think about handing over my baby and walking away.”
She’s still facing away from me, shoulders shaking. I watch her fold that same shirt for the third time.
“Olivia.”
“Don’t.” She drops the shirt. “Just… don’t say whatever you’re about to say.”
“You don’t know what I’m about to say.”
“Sure I do. You’re going to remind me about the contract. This is exactly what we planned and I have no right to get upset, no right whatsoever.”
I move closer. Not touching, just proximity. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
“Then what?”
The words sit in my throat. Heavy, dangerous. The old me would swallow them down, retreat behind lawyers and legal clauses and cold, merciless logic. The old me would remind her that she signed her name, took my money, made a deal.
But the old me is dead.
“This baby is as much yours as it is mine.”
She goes completely still. Even her breathing stops. “What?”
“You heard me.”
She turns slowly. Her eyes are red and puffy, mascara tracking down her cheeks. She looks wrecked. Beautiful. “The contract says?—”
“Fuck the contract.”
