Page 12 of Baby for My Ex's Brother

Does she question my judgment when it comes to women? Yes.

Does she try to help me with them all the same? Also, yes.

Darya Banachek is a woman of complexity, and I stopped trying to figure her out a long time ago. She was a doctor in her youth, but found housekeeping was better for her nerves. Every now and then, she tells me tales of her former life, and it’s fascinating to see life and death from her perspective as opposed to my own.

In my world, life is cheap. In hers, it was everything.

Luna emerges forty minutes later.

She appears in the kitchen doorway in one of my blue button-downs, her dark hair loose and the white streak catching the morning light. She looks entirely unself-conscious about all of this. She takes in the kitchen, the coffee, Darya’s back, and me at the table, in that order, and says, “Good morning,” to the room at large.

“Good morning,” Darya says. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Luna says.

Darya pours. She sets the cup—one of the good ones—in front of the chair across from mine, and Luna sits down and wraps both hands around it and takes the first sip with the focus of someone for whom this is a sacred act.

“The bra is on the end table,” Darya tells her pleasantly. “Didn’t want to vacuum it up. In case you were looking.”

Luna blinks. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Darya picks up a dish towel and does something unnecessary with it near the sink. “It’s a very nice bra. Veryexpensive. Good construction. A woman should keep tabs on those things.”

She takes herself out of the kitchen with the particular energy of a woman who has said exactly what she intended to say and requires no response.

Luna watches her go, then looks at me. “I like her.”

“She’ll be insufferable about that. Don’t tell her.”

She drinks her coffee. “So. Last night.”

“Last night,” I agree. “And this morning.”

“That was—” She stops. Considers. “I was going to say unexpected, but I think I’d be lying. It felt pretty expected by the end of it.”

“By the elevator, at minimum.”

“By the second dance, honestly.” She says this without embarrassment, which I appreciate. There’s no pretense with her, no management of how she appears. It’s a nice change from what I’m used to. She wonders aloud, “Can I ask you something?”

“Always. Though I may not be able to answer all questions.”

“Hugo. You said he made difficulties for you at work. How bad is it?”

I look at her over the rim of my cup. She meets it evenly—not pushing, just asking, with the directness that appears to be her natural mode.

“Manageable,” I finally answer. “He’s recently made choices that complicate certain professional relationships. I’m in the process of addressing it.”

She nods. She doesn’t ask what choices, or which relationships, or what addressing it entails. She just takes another sip of coffee.

“Your candle shop. How long have you had it?”

“I take it that Hugo mentioned it?”

No. “Yes. In passing.”

“Four years. I opened it when I was twenty-four. My mother left me a small amount when she died, and I used it for the lease and the first round of equipment.” A beat. “Everyone told me it was a bad idea.”

“Was it?”