“That’s going to be Anton.” My voice breaks. “He’s going to push our baby on a swing and make them laugh like that.”
“Yes. He is.”
“What if he doesn’t come back?”
Jasper turns me to face him. “Then you’ll push the swing yourself. And the baby will laugh anyway. Because kids don’t care if life is perfect. They just care if they’re loved.”
The tears spill over. I can’t stop them.
“But I want him here,” I whisper. “I want him to see this. I want him to be the dad pushing the swing.”
“I know.” Jasper pulls me into a hug. Right there in the middle of the park. “I know, buttercup.”
I cry into his shoulder. He doesn’t tell me to stop. Just holds me until I’m done.
When I finally pull back, I’m a mess. Mascara everywhere. Nose running. Attractive.
“You know what your problem is?” Jasper hands me a tissue from nowhere. How does he always have tissues?
“That my boyfriend is in Russia trying not to die?”
“Besides that.” He waits until I blow my nose. “You’ve made him your whole world. And I get it; he’s hot, he’s dangerous, he knocked you up, very romantic. But you’re losing yourself.”
“I’m not—”
“When’s the last time you did something just for you? Not for him. Not for the baby. Just you.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
“Exactly.” Jasper starts walking again. I follow. “You used to bake. Like, constantly. Your apartment always smelled like butter and vanilla. You had seventeen different types of flour.”
“Sixteen.”
“My point stands. You loved it. And then you met Anton, and everything became about survival. About staying alive. About loving him.” He stops, turns to me. “But you’re still here, Mary. You’re still you. And you need to remember what made you happy before all this.”
“Baking made me happy.”
“So bake.”
“I don’t have the energy—”
“Then find it. Because you need something that’s yours. Not his. Not the baby’s. Yours.” His voice softens. “For your own sanity. For your grandma, who’s going to want to visit and see you thriving. For the baby who’s going to need a mom who knows who she is.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know if I can.”
“You can. You’re literally growing a human while your mafia boyfriend fights his way through Moscow. You’re stronger than you think.”
“I don’t feel strong.”
“No one ever does. That’s the whole point of strength—it doesn’t announce itself.”
We sit on a bench. Watch the world move around us. Kids playing. Parents chasing. Dogs barking. Life happening.
“I miss him so much,” I whisper.
Jasper takes my hand. “I know.”
“It’s only been two days.”
