31. April

31

APRIL

For the first time in a long time, I wake up refreshed. Like, actually refreshed. I thought it was a myth, but who knew? A good bath, a nice meal, and now, I'm positively glowing.

Of course, it wasn't just the bath and meal, but still.

As I walk around the kitchen, humming to myself and picking out a particularly mouthwatering box of Madagascar vanilla cookies, last night's conversation comes back to me. Or rather, last night's monologue.

I still can't believe I did that. Things like that… I'd never said them to anyone. Aside from June and Corey, who know my sad backstory like the back of their hands because they were there for most of it, I'd never felt the urge to tell anybody else. To… confide in anybody else.

But I did. And now, there's this floaty feeling inside of me, this lightness, that makes me want to do things. Things I never did before.

Things like calling my mom.

The kettle whistles. I pour myself a generous cup of who-knows-what million-dollar tea from Japan and munch on a cookie, lost in thought.

It's been a while since I've heard my mother's voice. I tell myself I don't miss it. That the woman gave birth to me and that's just about all she did. I have no reason to expect anything else from this stranger who never even wanted to share my name.

And yet.

And yet… right now, I'm expecting . I have a child growing inside me. A child who's going to call me "Mom," and I still don't know what that means.

But Eleanor does. She has a son.

And maybe, just maybe…

With trembling fingers, I pick up my phone and dial.

For a bit, it rings out. I listen to those dull, electronic beeps with a growing sense of relief. She's not going to pick up. She's not. I'll be able to say I did my part and save myself the trouble of this uncomfortable conversation. Scolding at best, indifference at worst.

But what if she's happy for you?

And then, at the last ring?—

"What."

No question mark this time, either. "Hi, Mom."

Eleanor's voice is clipped, factual. In the background, I can hear the clattering of pots and pans, the rush of running water. "Get to the point, shortcake. Momma's got dishes."

You've also got a husband with two functioning arms , I think but don't say. Who knows? Maybe Tom's hands fell off the same wagon he did. It's been a while since I last saw him—anything's possible.

"I just wanted to catch up, see how you're doing," I answer as meekly as I can. "If this is a bad time?—"

"Every time is a bad time," my mother dismisses. "Out with it. Poker night ain't gonna clean up after itself."

Don't I know it. "I've actually got kind of a big news. We could meet, if that's better."

On the other end of the line, Eleanor scoffs. "Yeah, right. ‘Cause I've got that kind of time on my hands."

My smile falters a little more. I shake myself. I'm the one who wanted to do this. If I don't give it my best, then what's the point? "Well, I'm a bit freer right now. I'm on leave from work for a bit, so maybe I could come and see you?—"

Eleanor's barking laughter cuts me right off. "Oh, sweetie. Don't you know better than that? If it's about money, I don't have it."

For a second, I have to reboot my brain. "Money?" I repeat stupidly. "No, I wasn't?—"

"Why don't you ask your father?" Eleanor suggests, spitting the last word out with ill-concealed contempt. "I'm sure Nella can do without a new Birkin this season."

"Nora," I correct automatically.

"Whatever," Eleanor scoffs. "If that's all?—"

"Mom," I cut her off. "It's not about money."

It's a herculean effort to snap my sentence in half there. Because the other half would be a huge, long overdue rant: I've never asked you for money in my life. I could've—I should've —but I didn't. So why in the everlasting hell would you think that's why I called you now?!

"Oh," Eleanor breathes. "Well, if that's not it, then?—"

"I'm pregnant."

Silence falls over the line. For a second, I think I might've lost signal. I hold my phone away to check?—

"HAHAHAHA!"

—and Eleanor bursts into laughter.

"Oh, sweetie," she wheezes, as if she's drying away a tear or something, "you didn't tell me you were going into comedy."

"I'm really not." Nothing about this conversation strikes me even remotely as funny. "Glad you're enjoying yourself, though."

"Honey," she gasps, still between bursts of hilarity, "come on. There's no way you're pregnant."

"I kind of am, though."

"Please. Since when?"

I take a deep breath. Without thinking, I've started rubbing circles into my belly. "Nine months, actually," I exhale at last, fighting to keep my tone even. "The baby's due any day now. And since it's your grandchild, I thought you should know."

There , I huff mentally. Done. Whatever Eleanor chooses to do with the information, I don't give a rat's ass. I did my part.

What I don't expect is for her to keep laughing . "Aw, shortcakes. Where'd you leave your math? Either you're pregnant, or it's been nine months. In which case, the little munchkin would already be out and about."

"Seriously? You've been post-term twice !"

"And that's already rare enough," Eleanor retorts. "Besides, you'd know the sex by now. But no—you said ‘it', ‘grandchild'…"

My eyes keep bulging. I can't believe what I'm hearing: is my mother playing detective? Trying to catch me in a lie? I just told her I'm goddamn pregnant. And that's what she does with it?

"Mom," I try, "you can't possibly think?—"

But she tuts me halfway through. "Please, dear. Let's not insult Mommy's intelligence. This prank is just like you: sloppy."

My heart sinks. All my hopes for this—hopes I should've known better than to nurture—shatter into a million pieces at my feet. All these years…

All these years, and my mom still has no idea who I am.

"Tell you what," Eleanor says with forced benevolence. "You wanted my attention, you got it; we had a nice chat?—"

"Attention?" I splutter. "You think I'd make up a pregnancy for attention ?"

"If the shoe fits, dear."

Hang up , urges my last scrap of self-respect. Hang up and never call again.

But I'm not fast enough.

"Besides," Eleanor remarks knowingly, readying her coup-de-grace, "you can't be pregnant. You'd need a man for that."

My mother, ladies and gentlemen. The woman who gave birth to me. Gave birth , and nothing else.

"And I couldn't possibly get that, right?" I laugh bitterly, voice shaking. At this point, I don't care anymore. "A man? A partner?"

"You're not blind, shortcake. Surely you can answer that yourself."

"Right," I mutter. "Guess I know where I got my good genes from, then."

I can hear the air freeze on the other end of the line. "Careful, dear," Eleanor warns, fractals in her smiling voice. "Mommy's patience isn't infinite."

Neither is mine , I begin to say but can't. The words get stuck in my throat, somewhere around the huge lump there.

"Alright, good chat," Eleanor says briskly. "Talk soon, bye!"

"Mom, I?—"

And she hangs up.

… I need you.

By the time the food cart comes, I've gone from heartbroken to furious.

The poor waiter seems to sense it, because he retreats with a short bow and a quick step. It's not unlike when Matvey's here. Have I turned into a scary mobster, too? Perhaps I should be so lucky.

Then Eleanor wouldn't fucking dare .

"Faking my pregnancy," I mutter, disbelief in every word as I pace up and down the living room. "Faking my—the nerve on that woman! Can you believe it, Nugget?"

From its warm nest, Nugget doesn't offer a comment. Probably for the best. I wouldn't want its first memory to be its bitch of a grandmother.

Grandmother. It's insane, how different it is. Eleanor as a grandma, versus…

I shake my head, drying a stray tear. It's no use thinking of her. Maia isn't here. I'm here.

And I'll protect my child for the both of us.

Just as I'm readying another rant in my head, the doorbell rings. I can practically feel Matvey on the other side: his confident stride, tendrils of his cologne sneaking in through the gap under the door. Everything about him makes me hungry.

You can't be pregnant. You'd need a man for that.

When I answer the door, I don't let Matvey speak. I grab his tie and yank it down, claiming those rough lips with mine. Matvey makes a surprised sound in his throat, but it doesn't take a second before he starts kissing back. Just as passionate, just as hungry.

This man wants me , I want to scream through the phone. This man claimed me in the only way that matters.

When I finally break away, panting against Matvey's chest, big hands slide down my hips. With a firm pull, they bring us flush together.

Immediately, I feel how hard he is. How badly he desires me. With a gasp, I run my hands everywhere, itching to claw and own and touch.

Usually, that's his role. Right now, though, I don't care who leads this dance. I just want to move until I can't think.

"Someone's impatient tonight," Matvey growls against my ear, making me shiver from head to toe.

"Yes," I breathe. "So come and take me."

We stumble back into the penthouse, every step a hazard. Through our kisses, we can't see anything but each other. The only care we take is not to squish what's between us—the evidence my mother wouldn't believe. Our child.

The child we made just like this.

Once we're at the couch, I push Matvey down on it. I have no illusions: if he wanted to, he could flip me around like a ragdoll. Take me on my back, on my knees.

But he doesn't. Instead, he sits back and lets me climb into his lap, lets my hands roam all over his firm, taut body. Until he's half-naked and so am I.

"Something happened, didn't it?" Matvey asks, eyes dark and hooded. It looks like it's taking everything—every ounce of self-control—just to push the words out.

I don't want them. Tonight, I don't want a single thought to cross my mind. "Just fuck me."

"April."

"Fuck me," I rasp. "Please."

Matvey groans into my neck. A big palm comes to gather my wrists together, pinning them behind my back.

I let out a whine. "Matvey…"

But then I feel his other hand start to work. It slides between us, where it matters, popping buttons and yanking flies, pushing my panties aside so his thick cock can sink?—

"You want this?" Matvey snarls, all animal, showing me how it works. Showing me how to move my hips just right, how to ride him. "Then come and get it."

And by God, I do.