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“Why?” said Peter in Swedish, staring at the vegetables. His jaw was rigid.

“Det räcker,” she replied in kind. “Enough already. Let me go.”

Peter, unmoving, still persisted in their native Swedish, “We’re not staying here much longer.”

Bridget made a sound of annoyance. “English. Please?” To Ronja, she said, “You and I could move in together.”

Ronja ignored her, but avoided Peter’s eyes when she continued, “Nothing has changed.”

“Sure about that?” he branded the question into her.

Ronja stared at the meatloaf cooling on the stovetop.

Bridget touched her shoulder. “You look like you’re about to cry. Geez, Peter, what did you say to her?”

Ronja stole to the bedroom, but doing so did nothing to shake Peter from her skin.

On Christmas Eve, Leo returned to the apartment with a plastic drugstore bag of scant holiday decorations, carryout from the neighborhood Thai restaurant, and two bottles of Smirnoff. He gently tapped Ronja’s belly with the glass bottle and spoke loudly at it. “Just because you can’t have any fun, little bambino, doesn’t mean we can’t! Ha!”

Ronja hugged the oversized cardigan over her mumu dress. She’d spent all day cleaning and re-cleaning the bathroom, re-organizing the cupboards, and packing her belongings. The frenzied chores kept her from stopping to think. Stopping to cry. “Where are Peter and Bridget?”

“Don’t know,” said Leo.

Ronja made herself useful by fetching a few spotless dishes for the food, along with various shot glasses in painted logos of sports teams. Leo bypassed the food and poured himself a shot. He tossed it back with a satisfied cringe and smacked, “Ahhh!” He rubbed his shiny, tattooed head and asked Ronja, “So tell me. Is the dad ever coming back into the picture or what?”

Ronja blocked his question from taking a foothold in her mind, to keep the sorrow from tearing out her heart. She sat at the cardboard foldout table and caressed her stomach. Right where she imagined the baby’s head to be. And though she could picture holding a baby, nursing a baby, and changing a diaper, it never solidified as something that would actually come to pass. The birth of her baby, like her own death, was inevitable, a force she could not prevent, yet could not wrap her mind around.

Bridget had treated the pregnancy as a fun accessory to their friendship. We’ll live together! Take turns playing with the baby! But there was a visible crack in her bond with Bridget: Peter. Ronja noticed Bridget’s cheeks color when Peter was near. She found ways to sidle next to him, laugh out of proportion at his comments. Ronja despised her simmer of jealousy over Bridget and Peter still gone—together.

Leo poured another shot. “No answer? Why do you always keep things so mysterious?”

“Can I eat?” Ronja asked, trying to generate enthusiasm for the Thai food that was losing its appeal.

“Mangia. Eat, eat!” He flapped his hand in the direction of the rising, curried steam.

Ronja savored the food. Anything that wasn’t pre-packaged or thawed was heavenly. Everything in America seemed to come in a can. Or a box. Still, it didn’t poison her.

There didn’t seem to be enough food for four people, so she made a concerted effort to slow down.

But Leo only seemed interested in his drink. When he got drunk, he was harmless and only grew more enamored with his jokes that veered into a Pole, a Jew, and a Blonde. The alcohol tonight must have gone straight to his head, though, because he confessed, “I only ask about your baby’s dad because Peter won’t like the competition. He’s got a little crush on you.” Then in a loud whisper, “Don’t tell Bridge’. She’s got a nasty temper.”

She heard Bridget’s high-pitched giggle before the door opened. Bridget walked through with Peter, hefting presents, beaming at him. He held a small fake Christmas tree under one arm like a football. In the other he balanced three large boxes. Bridget had bits of silver tinsel in her hair, and she was svelte in high-heeled boots and a leather jacket. Her lips shimmered. Ronja touched her own naked, chapped lips and stared at her fat belly and swollen ankles. She pushed the food away and headed for the bathroom.

“What’s with Ronnie?” she heard Bridget murmur, and then louder so Ronja could hear, “You’re gonna love the presents we picked for you! Hurry up!”

Ronja examined herself in the mirror, the puffy face and untamed waves that were escaping her loose braid. She interrogated her reflection. What are you doing with your life? She palmed the glass as if keeping her past—with its confusion and heartbreak—from pushing through. She thought of the Dalahäst safe at the bank and wanted it in her hands. To feel its comfort and courage.

There was a knock on the door. It was Bridget. “Ronnie, everything okay? You’re not having the baby yet, are you?”

Ronja inhaled a full breath through her nose and opened the door with a wide smile. “I did not know we were having presents,” she said in her still-thick accent. Most of her Christmas traditions were German. The past years with Peter, they’d blended their own traditions, mostly consisting of drinking rum and eating decadent chocolates for twenty-four days straight.

Bridget had shed her coat to reveal an exposed-shoulder sweater, and her full wine glass dangled in her manicured hand. She tilted her head. “Peter insisted. He’s so sweet. He even taught me to say God Jul.”

“Hm,” Ronja replied, zapped of any Christmas spirit this year, and followed Bridget. Her body hummed when she saw Peter placing large packages around the small tree. His blue oxford stretched across his muscular back. When he turned around, his expression was boyish and apprehensive.

Leo held up the box of Thai food he was eating from and said with a mouthful, “Eat up, kids!”

After the meal, Ronja discovered most of the presents weren’t for her. She opened miniature clothes, hats, blankets, and a small bassinet that required assembling. With each present, she felt a tug grounding her to where she was, and yet there was guilt. What kind of mother was she going to be, having not yet bought any clothes for her own baby? In the middle of winter? Ronja looked at Peter as Leo and Bridget did shots by the kitchen sink. “Where is your family?” she asked him.