Page 172 of Nine Months to Bear
Then again, she doesn’t really have to.
Nor does it matter. Because even if I know what she’s going to say, her blind optimism doesn’t change anything.
This morning—this good morning, thisbestmorning—was never going to last. It felt like stepping into someone else’s life. Someone who deserved good things.
For a few naive hours, I let myself believe I could be that man.
But daylight has a way of burning through fantasies. And the truth is, I have more to lose now than I’ve ever had in my life. Olivia. Our child. This fragile thing we’re building that feels too good to last.
I don’t know how to protect it without destroying it.
As I slide into the driver’s seat, I catch a glimpse of Olivia through the kitchen window. She’s laughing at something Babushka said, one hand resting unconsciously on her stomach.
Beautiful. Perfect.Mine.
And I’m walking away from it all.
Then the engine purrs to life, and I’m gone.
62
OLIVIA
As I drive to the clinic on autopilot, my mind is ping-ponging back and forth between the joy of landing the Mass General partnership and the hurt of Stefan walking out the door.
The steering wheel feels weird under my hands. Too mundane. It’s like I should be floating or something after the roller coaster strangeness of the morning.
The clinic is quiet when I unlock the door. Camille’s not here to greet me with her usual commentary about my sex hair or the hickey I definitely have on my neck. Right—she has a dentist appointment this morning. Root canal or something equally awful.
I flip on the lights and the waiting room comes to life. Everything looks exactly the same as yesterday, but it’s not.
We got the partnership. We’re having a baby. Stefan said he wants to try being together for real.
So why do I feel so unsettled?
I drop my purse on my desk and boot up my computer. Seventeen emails already. Three from Mass General’s legal team with preliminary contracts and one from my mother with the subject line“Heard the news!”because of course she already knows.
Nothing from Stefan.
Not that I expected anything. He’s dealing with whatever emergency Taras called about. That’s his job, his life. The whole “Russian mob boss” thing isn’t exactly a nine-to-five situation.
I open the first Mass Gen attachment, but the words blur together.Partnership agreement… fiscal responsibilities… patient care standards…I read the same sentence a bazillion times in a row before I sigh and look elsewhere.
My phone remains silent on the desk.
“Get it together, Aster,” I mutter to myself. “You’re being ridiculous.”
I try reading the contract again. I make it through two paragraphs before I’m once more checking my phone. Still nothing.
This is stupid. I’m acting like some clingy girlfriend who can’t handle her boyfriend having a job.
Except Stefan’s job involves people shooting at him. At us. That changes things, right? Surely? Doesn’t it?
I get up and walk to the window to straighten the orchids that don’t need straightening. One of them has a new bud forming.
Usually, that would make me happy—new growth, good luck, all that superstitious nonsense I pretend not to believe in. So why don’t I feel quite so thrilled?
“This is pathetic,” I tell the orchids.
