Today?I’m Mrs. Malikov. I’m carrying his child. And whatever I was before…
She’s dead.
1
Mary
A Hundred Days Earlier . Before Blood, Before Him.
“Uuuuun-break my heaaaart—”
Crack.
That’s not a vocal run. That’s my voice giving out mid-sob as I slam the mic button on Jasper’s karaoke machine like I’m headlining Coachella. In hell.
The mic cuts off with a whine. I pause, winded, cheeks streaked with wine and regret.
I’m barefoot, in a crumbling green face mask that smells vaguely like eucalyptus. My hair is piled on top of my head like a sad cinnamon bun, and I’m wearing Jasper’s old, worn-out hoodie—the oversized one that says“Daddy Issues & Discount Sushi”in rhinestones.No pants. No shame. One sock.
This is not how my twenties were supposed to end.
I take another sip from the wine bottle I’ve been cradling like a newborn. I don’t know what vintage it is, but it tastes like soft fruit and bad decisions. Definitely from Jasper’s “investor stash.”
I eye the karaoke machine again.
Jasper.My one ride-or-die since the seventh grade. We met when a group of popular girls made fun of my knockoff sneakers, and he stepped in wearing glitter-covered Crocs and said, “You bitches wouldn’t know style if it sat on your face.” Instant bond. Instant best friends. We’ve been trauma-bonded ever since.
Over the years, Jasper became, well,Jasper.A successful fashion designer who makes actual money dressing other people with names like “Nico” and “Phoenix” and “Lady Something.” I, on the other hand, became a personal banking associate who gets called “sweetie” by men named Gary who still write checks.
He owns the full setup. Machine, wireless mics, LED lights, and a speaker big enough to summon the cops. The whole system lives here, in his real, adult-owned apartment two buildings down from my glorified shoebox rental. My apartment has a “hall” that’s really just a three-foot space between the toilet and my bed. I pee with eye contact to my fridge.
Jasper, on the other hand, has taste. Style. A velvet couch that doesn’t make your butt stick to it in summer. A fridge with actual food. And this machine. The one I desperately need tonight because—
Evan.My boyfriend of six years dumped me. Over text. With a ring emoji.
Who does that? What kind of psychopath drops a ring after saying:
Evan: I’m sorry, Mare. I know exactly what you want. I don’t want it with you. I tried to. That should count for something. Please don’t make this messy. ??
I stared at that message for a full five minutes, rereading the emoji like it might start to make sense if I tilted my head.
Aring, Evan? Really?
I texted back, something like“Can we please talk? In person?”because I didn’t believe it. Not fully. Not after six years of late-night grocery runs and half-assembled IKEA furniture and knowing the exact sound he makes when he yawns. I wasn’t asking for a second chance. I just wanted him tosay it to my face.
But he didn’t.
Message: Delivered. Not Read.
Then it turned gray.
Has he seriously blocked me?
No. He wouldn’t. He’s not that cruel. He’s… he’s not the most romantic person, sure. I bought my own Valentine’s Day gift three years in a row. He never met my grandma. He forgot my birthday once and blamed it on daylight saving time.
But still.
I thought we were okay. Notperfect, but stable. I thought we werebuildingsomething. Or at least… surviving together. Isn’t that what love looks like after Year Five?
