10. Natalia

10

NATALIA

THREE MONTHS LATER

I've gotta hand it to Kat: she's trying.

Short of chaining herself to my apartment door like a climate change activist, she's made every attempt to right her wrong—well, wrong s, multiple—from the night of the Kuznetsov wedding fiasco.

She's sent flowers, chocolates, skincare products. She even bought a special edition of Wuthering Heights that I've had on my wishlist for years. After I slammed the door in her face and told her that my forgiveness couldn't be bought and our friendship was long overdue for a break and a serious reevaluation, she showed up with a neon yellow boombox and a stack of massive flash cards. While The Goo Goo Dolls' song " Iris " blasted through the speakers, she flipped one large card after the other, Love Actually style.

I know I've been a bad friend.

I know I'm a stubborn bitch with bad judgment.

I know I crossed a line and I will forever regret it.

I took things too far and I'm sorry I dragged you into it.

I can only stand here now and promise to do better.

To be better.

To be the kind of friend you deserve.

Please, Nat, forgive me.

I'll admit, that one made me soften up a little.

It took a lot of nerve and determination to shut my window on the serenade and turn off the lights.

The music shut off a minute later and she started yelling at my window. "Please, Nat! Just talk to me! I'll let you punch me in the face if that makes us even!"

She only let up when Mrs. Drummond from #501—that crotchety old witch—opened her window to scream, "There are people trying to sleep here! Save the drama for daylight, you crazy lesbians!"

I watched from the shadows as Kat gathered her placards and her boombox and slumped down the street.

The whole next day, my hand kept straying toward the phone. Call her. Forgive her. Go back to the way things were.

But there was no going back. The soreness in my thighs, even as it faded, was a reminder that things had changed in a permanent kind of way. So maybe it's Andrey I have to thank for this newfound stubbornness of mine.

I see him everywhere in my apartment. Staring at my pictures. Cornering me by the sink.

Fucking me on my thrifted couch…

I don't even enjoy sitting there anymore. Partly because it smells like him now. But also because of what those few minutes of so-called "bravery" cost me.

My pride.

My dignity.

My denial.

And worst of all…

My period.

I don't have to glance at a calendar or check the menstrual cycle app on my phone to know that, as of yesterday, I have missed not one, not two, but three —count ‘em— three periods.

Which means I'm either in early menopause at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. Or…

I'm pregnant.

I spent the first month in a state of blissful ignorance. I spent the second month in complete denial. Now, here we are—month number three, and I'm fresh out of both ignorance and denial.

Which is why my weekly haul from the grocery store includes six pregnancy tests, all of which promise to deliver results that are ninety-nine percent accurate. One even assures me it'll do a happy little jingle when the result is ready. Just what this tragedy needs: a theme song.

It's my own fault, really. Why the hell did I think being brave would actually pay off? I'm not some heroine in a gothic romance; I'm a member of the real world where there are real world consequences.

I should've learned that lesson already. My father was brave when he stepped out of the car to confront the carjacker. He got murdered as a reward.

Because in the real world , you can't just go around confronting armed men and expect not to get hurt.

And in the real world, you can't have unprotected sex with handsome Bratva bosses and expect not to get pregnant.

A fact that I conveniently forgot the night Andrey Kuznetsov darkened my doorstep.

My phone starts blaring, and I grab it, grateful for the distraction. I'm so desperate not to take these tests and prove my worst theories true that I'd be willing to talk to Katya. But it's Aunt Annie instead. Much less problematic.

"Hi, Aunt Annie."

"How's my little Nic-Nat?"

Doing miserably, thank you. But instead of pouring my heart out like I want to, I go for a breezy lie. "Doing fine. How are you? How are things at the hospital?"

"Oh, the usual, honey. People get sick and I do my best to help get them better again." She shuffles around in the background and I long to be back in her tiny two-bedroom cottage with the cherry tree out back. "Is everything alright with you?"

Avoiding the couch, I slump down on the carpet by the coffee table. "Of course. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. It's just, you've called quite a bit the last few weeks. Not that I don't love hearing from you," she assures me quickly. "But I usually get a call once a week. And yesterday, I had three missed calls from you."

I cringe. "Oh, yeah, I'm sorry about that?—"

"Don't you dare be!" she scolds lightly. "I just want to make sure everything's good with you. I would've called back yesterday, but I had a late shift."

"I figured you were at work. I was just… a little lonely, that's all."

There's a pause. "Everything okay with you and Katya?"

I don't know how she managed to put two and two together so quickly. Although, Aunt Annie knows I have exactly one friend and no one else in my life to speak of, so maybe it's not that big a stretch.

God, I'm pathetic.

"Katya and I are taking a… break."

"Oh, dear."

"It's not a big deal, seriously." I have to play it down. Aunt Annie is a worrier and the last thing I want is to stress her out about my troubles when she has people with real problems to take care of. "We just had a little fight. I'm sure we'll get over it soon."

"Has she been roping you into more of her crackpot schemes?"

I laugh. "You could say that."

"You wanna talk about it?" I can practically see Aunt Annie's brows pinched together in worry. "Or, if you need an outing, you can come spend next weekend with me?"

"Don't you have to work?"

"I can see about moving around a few shifts. Meryl's got her daughter's engagement next month, so she might be willing to swap with me."

My stomach plummets as I realize that I have succeeded in worrying my aunt. "No, no. Totally not necessary," I say as nonchalantly as I can manage. "I'm busy this weekend anyway."

"Busy doing what?"

I poke at the pregnancy tests lying on the glass coffee table. "Fun, exciting stuff! Stuff only a single woman living life to the fullest can do in the big city."

Aunt Annie laughs. "Well, have fun. Just use protection."

Now, she tells me.

I can only laugh before saying our goodbyes and hanging up.

"God," I mutter to my empty apartment. "Kill me. Kill me now."

No higher power seems to want to waste energy smiting me today, so I drag myself off the carpet, scoop up the pregnancy tests, and fumble my way to the bathroom. I pee on one test after another.

Six rounds later, my bladder is empty and my spirits are low.

I arrange the six tests in a toilet paper nest around the sink, but the doorbell rings before I can start my nervous pacing. I dash out of the bathroom to answer, once again grateful for the universe intervening to keep me from my own thoughts.

But my gratitude is short-lived. I open the door, only to come face to face with?—

"Katya."

Her smile falters. She's got a beanie pulled down over her eyes. But she can't adjust it because her arms are supporting a huge gift basket filled with fruit, chocolates, and nuts.

I'm in the process of closing the door on her, but her foot shoots into the gap. "Wait!"

I scowl at her expectantly.

"Um… there's a cake, too."

She gestures to the floor, where there is indeed a pink cake box from one of my favorite bakeries in Brooklyn.

"I had it custom-made."

Sighing, I bend down and flip the lid up. Inside sits a beautiful cake in vanilla buttercream frosting with the words I'M THE WORST AND I'M SORRY AND I HATE ME, TOO in deep blue frosting.

One look in her earnest eyes and my resolve wavers.

How easy it would be to forgive her. How easy it would be to pull her into my apartment and pick up where we left off.

I could tell her about my little secret. I wouldn't have to deal with this on my own.

"Nat…"

No.

We've done this before. Too many times.

"You can keep the cake," I say instead. "I'm cutting back on sugar."

Katya withers. "Nat, please . I know you hate me and I deserve that. But I love you! You're my best friend and I hate that we're not talking. It's been months?—"

"I'm not a pushover, Kat!" I explode as the very real pressure of those pregnancy tests in the sink weighs on our friendship. Then my anger deflates. "You know what? I can't even be mad at you for thinking that. Because I am a pushover. I do go along with things I'm not comfortable with. That's on me. That's not on you."

"Listen, Nat?—"

"No, you listen for a change. I'm done being your sidekick, Katya. I'm done being the pawn in your games. I'm just done , period."

Her eyes are filled with tears. "I really am sorry."

"I know you are. But it doesn't change the fact that I went through something that night. And I'm not sure it can be undone."

Taking advantage of her shock, I push the door closed and deadbolt it.

I walk back to the bathroom, but I'm so preoccupied with seeing Katya again that I don't understand what the soft, tinny music coming from the sink is until I see the six pregnancy tests…

All winking up at me with big, fat, undeniable positive signs.