Then there’s the other wave. The other bundle. Specifically, the bundle of nerves that is me.
Because money may not be an issue anymore, but my past sure is.
The two waves intertwine as I weave my way through class, until they’re impossible to tell apart. The butterflies start pogoing from my chest to my stomach.
On one hand, I keep reminding myself of what Petyr said last night: that he wants me, wantsus.
On the other hand…
OhmygodwhathaveIdone.
My pregnancy ties us together. Forever. As in, ties our bloodlines. And while I haven’t been letting myself think of that when the plan was still to split with the cash and never set foot in this city again, I sure as hell am thinking about it now.
The cursed Gubarev-Danilo baby is growing inside me, and guess who’s responsible for that unholy mix of genes? Hint: she’s got two thumbs, sore boobs, and a strong urge to disappear into the wilderness.
Tonight, I have to talk to him. Before Petyr disappears into whatever Bratva business he’s got lined up for the night. Waterboarding enemies, threatening bodega cats, stealing candies from a baby at gunpoint or what-the-fuck-ever.
I’m going to have to come clean.
And it isn’t some impulse shopping charge on his credit card I’m nervous to spill the beans about. It’s my whole freaking identity. It’s Juliet masquerading as a no-name peasant and finally blurting out on the wedding night,“By the way, the name’s Capulet. With a C. Yeah, those ones. Funny how the world works, right?”
I dig my nails into my palms. The thought of tonight’s conversation alone is enough to make my stomach drop into the bowels of the Earth.
Open communication between spouses. Way more terrifying than taxes.
With a sigh, I drop into my usual seat, notebook open, pen in hand, determined to push all Petyr-related thoughts out of my mind.
But it’s easier said than done. Brittany isn’t here yet, so I can’t even distract myself with her daily cup of tea about our classmates. Not that I was looking forward to finding out who Kevin’s high-school-aged sister is taking to prom, but anything would have been better than his.
That’s when I feel it: a cold, prickling sensation at the back of my neck, like I’m being watched.
I whip around in my chair lightning-fast to catch whoever’s doing it. I’ll give them a piece of my mind, or maybe a picture with both middle fingers up, whichever makes them stop sooner. I’ve got raging pregnant lady hormones in me and I’m not afraid to use them.
But when I turn, there’s no one. Just a couple of sleepy-looking college students snoozing on their desks.
The knot in my gut doesn’t ease, though. My pen starts tapping against the margin like a tiny sledgehammer.
I’m just being paranoid. Right? No one’s there, so who exactly should even be watching me? From inside my own classroom, miles away from home, with Luka standing right outside?
Maybe itisthe pregnancy. Hormones are wild things. I’m already anxious as it is. Now my anxiety is taking physical form and making me see ghosts where there are none.
Still, the crawling sensation at the back of my neck stays. Like someone’s gaze is glued to me.
I shift in my seat and pretend to crane towards the clock, like I’m bored with this class that hasn’t even started yet. As I do, I take another peek all around me.
But again, there’s no one suspicious.
It’s all in my head.I force myself to take a deep breath. Pregnancy, school stress, and living with a young, hot, Russian version of Vito Corleone… It’s a cocktail for paranoia if there ever was one.
Yet the feeling sticks, deeper the longer I sit there.
The professor arrives. Class starts.
Brittany slips in fifteen minutes later with the proverbial Starbucks latte and sits in the back. She gives me a tiny wave, then shrinks when the professor glares at her and diligently cracks open her laptop.
I force myself to pay attention and jot down notes like I usually would. But my handwriting is jagged, uneven. I can’t focus. I’m too aware of the way my heart is racing for no good reason.
I need a break. I really do.I can’t imagine this state of mine is good for the baby, either, and it’s definitely not good for me.
