Page 40 of A Love Most Brutal (Morelli Family #2)
MARY
It is with no shortage of huffing, lingering, and hovering, that Maxim finally agrees to leave for the day. Just a stomach bug , I’ve been telling him. When he demands we call the doctor to check on me, I lie and say it was my period.
My period, which is a full ten days late.
Shit .
His eyebrows pinch together and I reach up and smooth the line there with the pad of my thumb.
“Stop worrying. I kill people for a living, I think I can handle a stomachache.”
“My sisters never threw up on their periods.” He presses a hand to my forehead. “You feel warm.”
“Ever heard of basal temperature? It goes up on your period.” I don’t know if that’s true, but Willa is always saying shit about her basal temperature to track her cycle, so I think I am maybe mostly right.
Right enough in guessing he didn’t know anything about basal body temperature, though, because he looks reluctantly convinced.
He presses his palm to my damp forehead one more time, then the side of my neck, and I’m almost annoyed at the pesky comfort that comes from his touch. I close my eyes for a second and lean into it until he pulls his hand away.
“I’ll be back this evening. Sooner if I can.”
“I’ve been dealing with a menstrual cycle since I was twelve. I’ll be fine.”
Sasha knocks on the door frame in gentle reminder of their pending engagements.
“Go,” I say.
Maxim halts for another moment, then squeezes my ankle through the comforter before leaving.
As soon as I hear them exit the apartment, I bolt to the bathroom and promptly retch over the toilet for another five minutes.
Nausea and vomiting has never been a premenstrual symptom of mine. Ever.
When I can finally stand without feeling like I’m going to heave, I make my way to the closet and go through the pockets of my long black coat until I find the three pink packets that Willa had made me take home after last week’s dinner when she said it was obvious we were fornicating again .
I stare down at the pregnancy tests, the wrapping covered in little smiles as if pregnancy is a thing everyone celebrates. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to remind myself that this was always the goal. Marry the Russian, tie him to my family forever by providing him an heir. Simple.
But the thought of actually having achieved that goal is nauseating for a whole different reason, one I don’t want to confront.
Shaking off the thought, I waste no more time before dashing to the bathroom and peeing on one of the tests. I turn it over so I can’t see the display and pace back and forth in the bathroom waiting for the timer to go off. Five minutes.
I belatedly remember not to bite on my hangnails, but I’m too late and have accidentally pulled too hard. Blood glides around the edge of my thumb’s nail bed.
I curse and run it under cold water, pressing on it to stop the bleeding of the tiny wound.
A positive test would be a good thing , I repeat in my mind again and again, though each time it sounds a little less convincing than the last. It would be good, and Maxim would be happy, and then . . . What? We’ve achieved our goal and can be celibate until we need to make another child?
Maxim loves sex with me, I am certain. If I said that we should keep it up like we have, we would veer directly into the path of real feelings , and that path leads in the exact opposite of my intention to never develop anything beyond fondness for him.
The timer goes off, and I exhale a breath through my mouth while the overturned test stares menacingly at me from the counter. It’s taunting me, I think. Greta has been sitting on the edge of the bathtub watching me, probably judging me too.
I put Neosporin and a Band-Aid on the bleeding hangnail before steadying both hands on the cool countertop directly next to the test.
I force my eyes to the mirror as if my own reflection will look steadier than I feel. My lips are pulled into a line and there’s a crease in the middle of my forehead that’s not unlike the one Maxim often has.
I also look like I’ve been puking. So basically, I’m looking just terrific.
I nod at Greta, making her my co-conspirator before I flip over the test.
I blink at the little stick, turn it over, and back again. The result is the same.
Two lines.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
My heart races, not like I’ve been exercising, but like I’ve just woken from one of my dreams again. I stuff the test back into the foil wrapper and immediately retrieve Maxim’s glass from his bedside table. I down the rest of his water before filling it up in the sink and draining it twice more.
My stomach jerks, and I almost heave again, but I close my eyes and take shallow breaths through my nose until it subsides. This is all too much commotion for the cat, apparently, who abandons me to work through this on my own, co-conspirator be damned.
An hour later, all three tests are used and stuffed back in their wrappings, each the same intensity of result as the one before it.
I feel different than I expected I would. For as long as I’ve believed I would be a bad mother, I don’t worry about that now. I have no acute anxiety, no impending doom, none of the horror I thought I would feel, but also none of the peace my sisters have always talked about.
I feel exceptionally queasy, and my heart is still too loud in my ears. I feel like I am on the brink of losing something I quite want to hold onto, even while these three tests are proof that I gained the one thing I promised: an heir.
I gather the tests and head downstairs to bury them in the bottom of the kitchen trash can. The one in our bathroom is too small and Maxim will see them and then we’ll have to confront what comes next.
We don’t need to do that yet, there’s still time. Nine months, even. Or as many months as it takes for the growth of life happening in my body to become visibly apparent. I have a few weeks, at least. Maybe more.
I am almost to the kitchen when I’m startled to find Elise setting up. I yelp, and she’s just as surprised by my shock as I am.
“Elise,” I say, and my brain detangles the image of her at the island wearing an apron, a slew of fresh ingredients in front of her. “It’s Thursday.”
“It is,” she says, and her smile is as kind as it’s always been. Her eyes catch on the packets in my hands and she gasps.
“Are you?—”
“Covid tests,” I lie. I force something of a smile. “Negative, no worries.” I stow the tests into the trash can and trust that she will believe me. If she doesn’t, I trust that she will have discretion .
I’m sure I look a mess. It’s 10 AM and I’m still wearing just one of Maxim’s shirts and a pair of thick socks. She doesn’t usually see me this way, but she doesn’t act affronted by it. For her part, Elise looks as soft and polished as usual.
“I didn’t realize you were under the weather.” Elise sounds regretful to hear this. That fucking perfect, lovely woman.
Maxim should’ve married her, she would be a graceful pregnant woman.
She’d probably record herself telling him the exciting news, both of them with happy tears in their eyes.
He’d spin her around in a hug. She’d post it on Instagram and she’d probably have a million followers because she’s a private chef married to a billionaire. Content gold.
“Would you like soup for lunch? I’m about to make some.”
There’s a rotisserie chicken on the counter that she points to with the tip of her knife, but the thought of eating it sends my stomach tumbling into the pits of Hell again.
I put my hand over my mouth, and swallow back the bile that threatened to make an appearance.
I haven’t even eaten anything, so it would just be more heaving.
“Sorry,” I say, and focus for ten seconds on getting myself in check. “No, but um. More green juice would be great. Extra?—”
“Extra ginger, extra lemon,” Elise recites with a soft smile.
“Thank you.”
From the base of the stairs, Greta lets out a long, squeaking meow, and we both turn to look at her. She blinks slowly at us, her fluffy tail rising and falling against the step.
“I’ll be upstairs,” I tell Elise as I head toward the cat. I’m a few steps up when I pause and look over my shoulder. “Thank you, Elise. For all your work.”
When I get back upstairs, I manage a shower, but do not feel well enough to go through the usual dealings of the day and decide that today I will let myself sit out. I send off a text to Leo to go on without me today and he sends back a series of question marks.
Mary
I’m sick, leave me alone.
Leo
You pregnant or something?
Mary
fuck off
Leo
Defensive much?
Mary
goodbyeee
I pull the blackout curtains closed and shut the bedroom door until it’s sufficiently cave-like in the room.
Greta doesn’t seem to mind; she sleeps constantly, except for the 2 AM cat-witching-hour where she sprints through the house like a demon is chasing her.
I crawl under the covers on Maxim’s side and close my eyes, forcing my breathing to slow until, eventually, I drift to sleep.
When I wake sometime later, I’m substantially less queasy than I was before, but now I’m starving which is a different kind of stomach discomfort.
My phone shows that I’ve been asleep for three hours, which is as long of a nap as I’ve taken in years.
Elise should be done or just about done by now, so I venture downstairs to find something in the fridge.
When I make it to the kitchen, I step on something that squishes underfoot.
I pause, slowly lifting to find a green smear on my sock.
A pea, I think. I take off the sock, because wet feet is a sensory experience I never enjoy, but as I step into the kitchen, I pause.
There wasn’t just one pea on the ground, but a whole cup’s worth spilled.
It’s not like Elise to make a mess, and much less like her to leave one. I look around for more signs of her and find her purple sleeve of chef’s knives still rolled up on the counter.