“Kiara!” she gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t I?”
She pointed a warning finger at me. “If you so much as whisper the word ‘baby’ in that man’s presence—”
“BABY?!” Kartik sprinted into view, eyes wide, hair tousled, holding an empty cake plate like a sword. “Who’s having a baby?! Are we adopting another dog?”
Meeta clutched her face. “No, you idiot. I’m pregnant.”
Silence.
Kartik blinked. Slowly.
Then, like someone hit fast-forward, he screamed, dropped the plate (RIP ceramic), and ran in a circle before grabbing Meeta and twirling her around.
“I’M GONNA BE A DAD?! I NEED TO GOOGLE STUFF. I NEED A BOOK. I NEED—OH GOD—I NEED A DIAPER BAG.”
“Slow down!” Meeta shouted between laughs. “You’re scaring the baby already.”
“Technically, the baby is the size of a peanut right now.” I teased.
“Then I’ll name herPeanut! Until further notice!” Kartik kissed Meeta’s forehead.
Manav walked over, slid an arm around my waist, and whispered, “Your next batch of cheeseballs is ready.”
I leaned against him, smiling at the chaos unfolding around us—Kartik crying, Meeta trying not to puke, Myra recording all of it on her phone.
____________
“You seriously didn’t get me any gift?” I threw a cucumber slice at Manav.
We were finally gathered around the dining table after Kartik’s dangerously weird dance of joy over Meeta’s pregnancy announcement. It was chaos. Happy, hilarious chaos. But chaos nonetheless.
Everyone was buzzing about this mysteriousthree-tiered cakethat Manav baked after some hush-hush phone call. Which—side note—was wild considering he didn’t even laugh at my tomato jokes earlier while I was dramatically monologuing to the potatoes.
He’d been quiet all evening. Too quiet.
At one point, he held my hand while I was stirring the pan, looked at me like I was made of something fragile, and said softly,
“Letme…”
No context. Just that. Like he needed to carry some weight, I hadn’t even realized I was holding.
Now, around the table, everyone’s talking gibberish. Meeta and Kartik are arguing over baby names (I’m voting against “Peanut”), while Roy and Myra—God help us—were deep in what looked like a genuine, serious argument. That never happens. Roy was red-faced, Myra was defensive.
Meanwhile, Manav kept holding my hand. Like it was sacred. Like it was keepinghimgrounded.
Dinner ended. I smiled, made a half-hearted joke, and excused myself to get some fresh air. Not because I was upset. No.
Okay, maybeslightlybecause I was upset.
I mean, I’m a grown-up. A responsible adult. A published author. I write about stoic heartbreak, healing and slow-burn desire. I shouldn’t care this much about a stupid party, right?
Right?
The elevator pinged on the eighth floor.
Yes, eighth floor.
