Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
“There,” he said. “Green is out, and our child isn’t going to hate us.”
It was such a ridiculously sweet thing for him to do that I pinned him down and straddled him.
Then there was the day we were picking out car seats. When we got in the car to go to the baby store, he handed me a folder with several printed-out car seat ads he’d found online. Each page was annotated with his thoughts, and he’d highlighted safety specifications.
“I know you want to choose it together, so I wanted to give you my thoughts up front,” he’d said, all business.
“You are such a nerd!” I’d laughed, kissing his cheek.
Evie lays a gentle hand on my arm, drawing me back to the boutique. “I need you to stop having sex fantasies about Isaac while we’re talking,” she teases.
“I was not,” I grumble.
She shoots me a look that says she isn’t buying it.
“I wasn’t!” I defend. “I was just thinking about how sweet Isaac’s been these last few months.”
“Ugh, even worse!” she exclaims, pretending to gag. “You’re all lovey-dovey with your husband. It’s disgusting and personally offensive!”
“Somehow, I think you will survive,” I tease, rolling my eyes. “Did you think I got pregnant by not being lovey-dovey with my husband?”
She stops walking and pretends to puke in the middle of the store. “I don’t want to hear anything about how lovey or dovey you and Isaac are. I’ll never be able to look at him the same way!”
We linger in the aisles until our baskets are full and my ankles are swollen. At checkout, the baby kicks again, sharp and strong, and I suck in a startled breath.
“You okay?” Evie asks, concerned.
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing at my stomach and trying to catch my breath. “My baby is apparently trying out for the soccer team in there.”
She laughs and traces the air above my bump. “Or maybe you’ll be a prima ballerina in the Russian ballet,” she coos to my belly.
Ever since I started showing, Evie has loved talking to my unborn baby. She says it’s so she’ll be the favorite aunt when the baby arrives. Considering neither Isaac nor I have any siblings, she’ll actually be the only aunt, but her enthusiasm comforts me and reminds me I’ll have a support system.
After we pay and leave the boutique, Evie loops her arm through mine, our bags swaying and our hearts a little lighter. Spending time with my best friend feels good. Isaac must have known. Yesterday, after one of my more emotional nights, he called Evie and arranged today. It’s been perfect.
She casts me a sideways glance. “You’re glowing,” she says with a smile.
“That’s probably just sweat.” I laugh.
“No, seriously.” She levels me with a look. “You’re happier than I’ve ever seen you.”
I pause as we step up to the corner, waiting for the light to change. It hits me how right she is. Despite the whirlwind of the past several months, I feel like I have everything I didn’t even know I wanted. A few months ago, I was terrified of being married to some mafia brute. But Isaac isn’t who I thought he was. He may actually be my soulmate, and I would have missed him if I’d kept digging my heels in.
“I am happy,” I admit. “I never thought I would be. Not with how this started. But Isaac makes it easy. He treats me like a queen.”
Evie nods thoughtfully as we cross the street. “And your dad? Has he come around since you told him you’re pregnant?”
A wave of nausea rolls through me, and it has nothing to do with pregnancy. Nothing explicitly bad has happened with my father, yet something between us has shifted these last few months.
“He’s been busy,” I say offhandedly.
I assume that’s true. We’ve barely spoken, so I can’t say for sure. He’s probably playing good little soldier for Oleg, doing whatever he asks. Since I stopped feeding him updates on Isaac, he’s stopped calling. If he won’t make an effort with me, I’m not making one with him.
I’ll be a mother soon enough. I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to get tangled in his bullshit. My baby and my husband come first, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to protect them.
“So he forced you into this marriage and then just forgot about you?” she asks, sarcasm dripping. “He really is a piece of work!”
My heart swells. She’s always been such a good friend, feeling upset on my behalf even when I couldn’t care less. When it comes to my father, it is what it is.
“I’m a married woman now,” I answer in an exaggeratedly haughty tone. “I am no longer my father’s property.”
She lets out a laugh so loud it’s practically a cackle, and the weight on my shoulders lifts, if only a fraction.