“Say that again.”
“I’m pregnant.” I’m wringing my hands in front of me. “It’s yours.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Raymond hasn’t— He hasn’t been near me in five months. Not in any way that could —” I flop a vague hand at my abdomen. “— dothat.So, yes. I’m sure.”
I can practically hear his brain rebooting, like one of those old computers with the spinning rainbow wheel.Please wait. Matvei Satyrin is processing.
“Look,” I blurt, “I know. Believe me, I know. The timing is criminal, no pun intended, and I really, really did not plan to spring it on you with a loaded gun in your waistband, but —”
“How long have you known?”
“Two weeks.”
His jaw works from side to side. “Two weeks.”
“Here, I have a— I have something else. Just— hold on.” I scrabble at the clasp of my clutch with hands that won’t quite cooperate. The little gold catch keeps slipping. I curse at it under my breath. “Here. Here, it’s —”
I pull out the sonogram. It’s been folded into quarters and refolded and unfolded so many times the creases are starting to fuzz. I’ve kept it tucked in the lining of my clutch behind a tampon and a tube of Chanel, the two things in my bag that Raymond won’t touch with a ten-foot pole.
I press it into Matvei’s hand.
He looks down.
And just like that, I watch the operator mask crack down the middle.
It’s such a small thing. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A tiny softening at the outer edge of his eye. His thumb smooths over the paper like it might tear if he isn’t careful, like it’s not a Xerox of a Xerox of something that was barely discernible in the first place.
His other hand drifts up, very slowly, and presses against his ribs. Right where Mr. Refrigerator stuck him.
I don’t think he knows he’s doing it.
“That dot,” I explain. I have to clear my throat. “The little black blob in the middle. That’s the gestational sac. The white speck inside it is the yolk sac. There’s no, um, no heartbeat yet. It’s too early. I go back in two weeks. To ‘confirm viability.’”
He hasn’t uttered a word.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. And again, this timing sucks. I get that. But I neededyouto know. Before you went in there. So that whatever you do next, you do it knowing that there’s two of us now. Three. Whatever. I can’t do math right now.”
He looks up from the sonogram. He steps in close.
“Change of plans,” he murmurs.
I stop breathing. “What? What does that mean?”
“It means we’re not doing it tonight.”
“What?”
“Not like this.”
“Mat.Mat, no. No, no, no. We arethirty secondsfrom done. He is in thereright now. He’s drunk, he’s alone, he’s?—”
“I need to think.”
“You need tothink?” My voice has climbed half an octave. I drag it back down by force. “Matvei.Matvei.This was a mistake; I’m sorry. I should’ve waited, but?—
“Dikarka.” His other hand comes up to cup my face. The sonogram is pinned between his palm and my cheek, slick paper against skin. Our first family group hug. “I need you to trust me.”