by Anna Zaires
“You okay, my love?”
I nod, swallowing. Saliva is pooling unpleasantly in my mouth, and the churning in my stomach is reaching washing-machine speeds. “Just need the restroom,” I manage to say, and stepping around him, I dive for the open door.
I barely have time to slam it shut and kneel over the toilet before I lose the contents of my stomach.
Of course, it was too much to hope that Peter would hear the retching noises and slink away like most normal husbands would. I’m still heaving into the bowl when I feel his strong hands gathering my hair to hold it away from my face, and as soon as I lift my head, he helps me up and hands me a glass of water to rinse my mouth out at the sink.
I’m pathetically grateful for his support as I bend over the sink and grab a toothbrush with trembling fingers. My legs feel like they belong to a jellyfish, and my T-shirt is sticking to my sweaty back.
I brush my teeth twice, then wash my face while Peter flushes the toilet and wipes the lid with a paper towel, looking concerned but not the least bit grossed out.
“Come, my love, let’s get you to bed,” he says when I’m done. “You’re clearly not well.”
“No, I’m fine now,” I protest as he lifts me up against his chest. “Really, I feel better.”
“Uh-huh.” He carries me out of the bathroom and past my parents in the living room, who stare at us with round eyes. “You’re either severely upset or sick, and you need to be resting.”
“What happened?” Mom hurries after us as Peter heads for the stairs. “Is Sara sick?”
Peter nods grimly. “Yes, she—”
“May be pregnant,” I blurt out, then mentally curse myself as both Peter and my mom freeze in place with identical looks of shock on their faces.
This is not how I planned to share the news.
Well, possible news. I still haven’t taken the damn test.
Mom recovers first. “Pregnant? Oh, Sara!”
“I don’t know for certain yet,” I say quickly as tears—presumably of joy—appear in her eyes. “It’s just that my period is a few days late and—”
“You’re pregnant?” Peter’s voice is strained, and when I look up, I see the strangest expression on his face.
Bewilderment mixed with something very much like panic.
Is he actually freaked out by this?
Wasn’t this what he wanted?
“It’s a possibility,” I say carefully. “If you put me down, I’ll go pee-pee on a stick and let you know.”
Still looking shell-shocked, my husband slowly lowers me to my feet.
“Okay, good.” Extricating myself from his hold, I step back, grateful that my legs seem to have recovered. “Now give me a few minutes.”
“Chuck!” Mom yells, rushing to the living room as I head upstairs, with Peter on my heels. “Did you hear this? Our Sara might be pregnant!”
I wince, cursing myself yet again for blurting this out so impulsively, and with such bad timing. I can still hear the TV blaring with the latest developments in the deadly attack, and here I am, distracting everyone with something as mundane as a potential baby.
Mine and Peter’s baby.
My heart skips a beat as my husband follows me into the bathroom upstairs and takes out the pregnancy test box from the drawer. “Here you go, my love,” he says, handing it to me. His voice is still rough, but he seems to be recovering from the shock. “Do your thing.”
I walk over to the toilet and stop, looking at him expectantly.
“A little privacy, please?” I say wryly when he shows no sign of moving.
He stares at me, unblinking, then turns around. “Go ahead. I’m not going to look.”
I roll my eyes but decide it’s not worth arguing over. Boundaries are not my husband’s strong suit in the best of times, and right now, he’s probably worried I might faint as I pee.
I do my business on the stick, then set it on some clean toilet paper on the counter and wash my hands as Peter stares at the test like he’s trying to hypnotize it.
“It looks like a plus,” he says in a choked voice as I wipe my hands on the towel. “Wait—no, it’s definitely a plus. Sara, does that mean…?”
My heart swan-dives in my chest as I look at the test—where a small but unmistakable plus sign is now showing. “I think so.” I lift my gaze to Peter’s face. “I’ll do a blood test in my office to make sure, but—”
“You’re pregnant.”
It’s a statement, not a question, but I still nod, instinctively knowing he needs the confirmation. “About five weeks along if my calculations are correct.”
For a moment, my husband shows zero reaction, his metallic gaze shuttered as he stares at me. But just as I’m starting to worry that he’s changed his mind about wanting a child, he steps forward and grabs me in a huge hug.
“A baby,” he mutters against my hair, his powerful body all but trembling as he holds me against him, his embrace tight enough to squeeze the air from my lungs. “Holy shit. We’re having a baby.”
“You are?” My mom’s voice is shrill with excitement, and Peter releases me, letting me see my seventy-nine-year-old parent bouncing in the doorway like an overeager kid.
She must’ve come up just a second ago.
I start to reply, but before I can say a word, she runs out of the bathroom, yelling at the top of her voice, “Chuck, it’s positive! The test is positive! They’re having a baby!”
Her excitement must be contagious because I find myself grinning as I look up at Peter, who’s staring at me with an inscrutable expression.
“Are you okay?” I ask, reaching up to stroke his bristly jaw. “You are pleased about this, right?”
He captures my hand, pressing it against his cheek. “Are you?” His voice is low and husky. “Are you pleased, my love? Is this what you want?”
“I—yes.” I take a deep breath. “It is.”
And it’s true. I want this baby. I want it so badly I can taste it. I hadn’t admitted it to myself before, but when my period came as usual last month, I’d felt more than a little pang of disappointment.
Somewhere along our twisted journey, this baby has gone from being my worst nightmare to my most fervent wish.
“So no regrets?” Peter confirms. “No fear or hesitation?”
“No.” I hold his gaze without flinching. “None.”
And as a slow, incandescent smile breaks across his handsome face, I rise up on tiptoes and kiss him, overcome by a surge of love for this dark, complicated man.
For the father of my child.
24
Peter
When we come downstairs, we see that Sara’s parents have already found the bottle of Cristal I’ve been keeping in the refrigerator for a special occasion.
“Here, let me,” I say, noticing that Chuck is struggling to open it. Taking the bottle from him, I pop the cork and pour three glasses—one for everyone but Sara. For her, I take out a bottle of Perrier and pour some sparkling water into a champagne glass.
My ptichka won’t be able to have alcohol for the duration of her pregnancy and while she’s breastfeeding.
Breastfeeding our baby.
My ribcage tightens again, and my heartbeat skyrockets. I still can’t believe that this is real, that what I’ve wanted for so long is finally happening.
Sara willingly having my child.
The two of us as a real family.
My happiness is so absolute it’s terrifying. I can’t remember ever feeling like this before: overjoyed and deeply uneasy at the same time. All I want to do is grab Sara and lock her in a fortress, or barring that, wrap her in a padded safety suit and carry her with me everywhere, lest she and the baby get hurt in any way.
“To our grandchild,” Lorna says, lifting her glass of champagne, and I force myself to smile as I clink my glass against hers, then Chuck’s, then Sara’s. All three of them are grinning and laughing, completely caught up in the joy of the occasion. I should be too, but for so
me reason, I can’t let go of the worry that hangs over me like a malignant cloud.
Something feels off, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.
Someone’s phone dings with a notification, and Chuck puts down his champagne before reaching into his pocket to glance at the screen. “Twelve dead now.” He looks up, the smile gone from his face. “What a shame we had to find out about our grandson on such a dark day.”
“Could be a granddaughter,” Lorna says, but she sounds somber too.
Maybe this is it. Maybe this is what’s bothering me.
It is a dark day—for Ryson and his colleagues, at least. For me, it’s potentially a cause for celebration. If Ryson’s been blown into pieces, he’ll be out of our hair. But it does bother me that Sara and her parents are upset.
Stress is not good for pregnancy.
“Come, ptichka. Have a seat.” I carefully steer her to a chair by the kitchen table, and then I go into the living room, where the newscaster is loudly speculating on which terrorist organization may have been behind the attack. I look at the images of the burning building for a second, then power off the TV.
I don’t need Sara listening to this in her condition.
I return to find Sara’s parents in the foyer, getting ready to go. “Are you coming tomorrow as well?” Lorna asks Sara as she picks up her bag. “I was thinking the two of us could have some tea while Peter helps Chuck set up that new receiver.”
“Yes, of course,” Sara says, grinning. “You know I’ll be there, Mom.”
“Good.” She pecks Sara’s cheek. “Now get some rest, honey, okay?”
“Will do,” Sara says dutifully, and I nod, smiling, as Lorna pointedly catches my gaze. She doesn’t believe her daughter for a second, but she knows me well enough to know that I will make sure said resting happens.
“See you tomorrow,” Chuck says to me gruffly, and to my surprise, he pats my shoulder as he shuffles toward the exit.
“Have a safe drive home,” I say, and then I’m baffled again when Sara’s mother gives me a brief but warm hug before following her husband out.
I wait until the door closes behind them before turning to Sara. “Did they just—”
“Officially accept you as being a part of our family?” she says, beaming up at me. “Why yes, I believe they did. Congratulations, baby daddy.”
My heart squeezes into a tiny ball before expanding to fill my entire chest cavity. “I love you, ptichka,” I say thickly, pulling her toward me. “You can’t even imagine how much.”
And as she winds her slender arms around my neck, I kiss her, tasting the softness of her lips—and the love that she now gives back freely.
25
Sara
After my parents leave, Peter and I drive to my office, where I draw a vial of blood. As a favor to me, the lab technician comes in on his day off, and within thirty minutes, we have the official confirmation.
I’m five weeks pregnant.
I’m also ravenous, since I threw up the only food I’d eaten today. “I don’t think I can wait until we get home,” I tell Peter, so he stops by a small pizzeria on the way.
I’ve never been to this place before, and I’m pleased to discover that though we’re the only customers right now, their pizza is the real deal, as good as anything I’ve had in fancier places. The only fly in the ointment is that the TV is on, showing the aftermath of the attack, and the owner—a plump, middle-aged man who speaks with a strong Italian accent—keeps talking to us about it as we eat by the counter.
“Such an awful, awful event,” he says gloomily, kneading a ball of dough in front of us. “What is the world coming to? First 9/11, then the Boston Marathon, now this. At least it’s the FBI they targeted this time, not innocent citizens, you know? Not that those agents are guilty, but you know what I mean. If you have some kind of beef with America, makes way more sense to target them or the CIA or something else having to do with the government.”
I nod noncommittally as I stuff my face with the delicious pizza, and that’s all the encouragement the man needs to keep going.
“They say the explosive was something unusual, something really advanced,” he says, rolling out the dough with practiced movements. “I wonder what it is and how those terrorists got their hands on it. Sounds more like something Russia or China would have, or even our own military. I bet all the conspiracy theorists are going to come out in full force, claiming it’s an inside job or what-not.”
I bite into another slice, letting the man ramble on as I sneak a glance at Peter. I expect him to be calmly eating as well, but to my surprise, he’s frowning, his slice untouched in front of him as he stares intently at the TV.
“What is it?” I ask quietly as the owner turns away to get more flour. “Is anything the matter?”
He tears his gaze away from the TV and gives me a rueful smile. “Not really. Just old instincts nagging at me, that’s all.”
I want to question him further, but the owner is back to rolling the dough in front of us and speculating on who might be behind the explosion.
“Thank you very much. This was delicious,” I tell the man when I can’t eat another bite, and Peter swiftly pays our bill and hustles me out of the place. Despite his denials, he’s clearly worried about something—I can see it in the tense way he grips the wheel as we drive home—and the dark kernel of suspicion I’d suppressed returns, making my stomach roil anew.
Could it be?
What are the odds that this is all a terrible coincidence?
I fight the doubt for as long as I can, but finally, I can’t take it anymore.
The moment we’re inside the house, I turn to face my husband. “Peter… I need to ask you something.”
Even to my own ears, my voice sounds strange.
He immediately gives me his full attention. “What is it, ptichka?” He reaches out to clasp my shoulders. “Are you feeling okay?”
I nod, swallowing as I stare up at him. My heart is tapdancing in my chest, and I’m starting to feel sick again.
Maybe that pizza was a mistake.
Maybe bringing this up is a bigger mistake.
“What is it, my love?” Gently, he guides me to a loveseat by the entrance. “Here, sit down. You look pale.”
“No, I’m fine,” I say, but I sit anyway, because it’s easier to comply than to argue. He sits next to me and clasps my hands in both of his, massaging my palms with his thumbs as though I need soothing.
And maybe I do.
It all depends on how he answers my next question.
“Peter…” I reach for my courage. “I need to know. Did you—” I draw in a breath. “Did you have anything to do with what happened today? With that… explosion?”
He turns into a statue, neither blinking nor reacting for the next few moments. Finally, he says tonelessly, “No.” Releasing my hands, he stands up, and without saying another word, he walks back to the entrance to remove his shoes.
I stare after him, feeling both awful—and awfully relieved.
I believe him.
He’s never deceived me, has never denied his culpability in any crime.
My husband might be a killer, but he’s not a liar.
“I’m sorry,” I say when he walks by without looking at me. “Peter, I’m really sorry, but I had to ask. The third floor is where Ryson’s office is and—” I stop because he disappears into the kitchen.
I bite my lip, then walk over to the door to remove my shoes as well. I feel terrible that I asked—that I even entertained the idea in the first place. Not only is this attack a truly heinous act, but it’s also something that would’ve jeopardize our life together—something Peter has fought so hard for.
Something he’s given up his vengeance for.
I’m fully prepared to grovel when I enter the kitchen, but Peter is nowhere to be found. I go around the house, looking for him, and it’s not until I peek into the guestroom’s walk-in closet that I find him.
He’s crouched over a laptop, his fingers flying over the keyboard with record speed.
Frowning, I kneel next to him and peer at the screen. He’s typing up an email, but the interface of the program he’s using is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
He’s also writing it in Russian.
“What are you doing?” I ask cautiously. “Peter… why are you in here?”
“Hold on,” he says without looking up. “Let me finish.”
I shut up and watch him type. It takes him another couple of minutes, and then he shuts the laptop and taps at the wall in the closet.
It glides to the side, revealing another closet-sized space.
A space filled to the brim with military-grade weapons, including several rocket launchers and grenades… as well as spare laptops.
Speechless, I watch as Peter places his laptop on a shelf and taps another wall, causing the original wall to slide back into place, covering the opening.
I finally find my tongue. “Is that—”
“A hidden weapons locker? Yes.” He smoothly stands and extends a hand to help me get up. “But don’t worry, my love.” His eyes gleam with chilly amusement as I clasp his hand and rise to my feet. “I’m not planning to use it to commit any terrorist acts.”
I wince and release his hand. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, you should’ve.” He smooths my hair back from my face, the gesture as tender as ever even as his gaze remains that of a stranger. “I always want you to come to me if you have any doubts. Besides, you—and that pizzeria owner—helped me realize something.”
I blink up at him. “What’s that?”
“That I need to look into what happened. Because something about this stinks to high heaven.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know yet.” He lowers his hand and steps back. “But I just contacted our hackers, so I will have more information soon.”
He turns and walks out of the closet. I hurry after him, catching up right before he leaves the guestroom.