When I hear his car in the driveway, I’m still awake, curled up on the bed with a blanket around me and the laptop open. I should be working on an assignment, but actually, I’m just watching the cursor blink in judgment. Yet another entity who’s disappointed in me.
The front door opens. I can hear it all the way from here. Petyr’s keys hit the dish on the table, then his footsteps start climbing up the stairs.
When he walks in, he looks as exhausted as I feel. His tie is loosened, his jacket is slung over one arm, the bags under his eyes deep. But the moment his gaze lands on me, some of the sharpness fades.
“You’re up late,” he observes.
Guilt chokes me. Guilt for not doing the one thing I agreed to do, guilt for not even being sure if I want to succeed yet, guilt for wanting this man in ways that have nothing to do with what we promised each other.
Tell him,my mind urges.Tell him now.
If you don’t, Kira will.
That makes me snap my laptop shut. “I wanted to talk to you,” I begin.
Petyr’s expression tightens. “Something happened.”
“It’s not what you think,” I hurry to say. “Or—actually, I don’t know what you’re thinking, so it might be that.”
“Sima.” He walks over to me and sits on the edge of the bed. “Tell me.”
I swallow hard. “I’m not pregnant. This month, I mean.”
I brace for… something. Disappointment. Frustration. The dreaded lecture about time and biology. A threat to “look elsewhere,” as Kira so eloquently put it.
Instead, Petyr just nods. “Alright.”
I blink once. Twice. “That’s it?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything else. “Just ‘alright’?”
He shrugs. Honest-to-Godshrugs.“It’ll happen. We’ve only just started. Can’t expect results overnight.”
I don’t know why I’m suddenly so thrown. If it’s because I was bracing for an explosion and got a pat on the back instead, or because he’s suddenly talking about results like this is just a bad company quarter.
And yet, the knot in my chest comes loose. “So you’re okay with it?” I murmur. “Me not being pregnant, despite…?”
“Of course. I’m not in a hurry.” A wicked glint appears in his eye. “Means we’ll just have to try again. As many times as necessary.”
I groan into my pillow. “Don’t say that while I’ve got a giant ‘Out of Order’ sign down there.”
“Then I won’t say it.”
I glare at him. “If you keep making that face, you’re as good as saying it!”
He lies down next to me. We’re facing each other now, me with a pout, him with an expression I can’t decipher.
“You’re really not mad?” I whisper. “For real?”
He frowns. “That’s a very eighteenth-century expectation.”
“Anne Boleyn does live rent-free in my mind.”
“Wrong century.”
“Right. I forgot you’re a history buff.”
“And that’s not why she was killed.” He looks almost affronted. “She was the mother of the most famous Queen of England.”
“Okay, we’ve already established you’ve had the finest tutors in the land. No need to rub it in.”
