She covers her mouth as tears jump to her eyes.
For a few moments, she just sits there, eyes glistening. I have no idea what she’s thinking.
“Oh, Cass.”
“It’s early,” I say quickly. “Like, weeks. The blood test was positive. They’ll retest but—” I press my lips together because if I keep talking it will come out as a torrent of worries and doubt. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
She laughs. “Who would I tell? My large social calendar?” Her face crumples with everything at once—joy, terror, the bone-deep ache of a sister who loves me more than she loves her own life. “You’re going to be a mom,” she whispers, awe and fear braided tightly together. “Oh my God.”
“I know.” I squeeze her fingers. “I have to keep it safe.”
She nods too hard then winces because of the stitches. “Then you can’t be near him.”
“The cops can’t help,” I say before she can suggest the obvious. “They can’t touch him. And even if they try, I’m the one who gets squeezed. Or you. He wants legit fronts now, but that doesn’t mean his enemies do. There’s a war brewing, whether or not he invites it. I can’t be the easiest way to hurt him.”
Clara swallows. She is brave, my sister. Braver than I am most days. “Then leave him,” she says. “But don’t disappear. Stay close. Let me help. Please don’t do this alone.”
“If they find me with you, you become leverage.” The words taste like metal. “I can’t risk it.”
She studies my face, then delivers the truth I’ve been avoiding. “You love him.”
I open my mouth to deny it but a stupid laugh pops out instead. “Does it matter if I do? Loving him doesn’t stop bullets.”
“It matters to me.” She squeezes. “Because love makes you stupid and brave at the same time. If you’re going to run, at least admit what you’re running from.”
I drop my head and shake it once, helpless and honest. “Yeah. I love him.” The words unstick something in my chest, hurting in exactly the way they should. “But there’s no future there. Not with this. Not now.”
We sit in the noise of the room. The monitor ticking its gentle metronome. Voices floating in from the hallway and softening at the doorway.
“I don’t like this,” she says finally.
“Me either.”
“I’m mad.”
“Me too.”
“I’m also happy.” She sniffs, her smile crooked. “You’re having a freakingbaby!”
I huff a laugh that turns into a near sob.
She reaches for the tissues. The envelope peeks out from underneath the box. She pulls it free, weighs it, and eyes me. “How much?”
“Enough to let you breathe for a while.”
“I don’t like you owing anyone,” she says, the same line she used when I told her the bank “expedited” the loan. She knows that was all theater.
“I like you alive,” I say, and it’s the only argument I need.
Her lower lip trembles. “Promise me something.”
“Name it.”
“If whatever you try next doesn’t work, we go together. I don’t care what we leave behind.”
“Deal,” I say. We hook our pinkies, because that’s how we’ve always signed the contracts that count.
A gentle knock comes and the nurse leans in. “How are we doing?”
