13. Jinx
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jinx
The moment we step inside, the cozy warmth of Bruno’s grandmother’s home wraps around us.
She immediately sweeps me into a hug, her arms strong yet gentle, and I have to admit—it’s nice. Her scent is a comforting mix of cinnamon and a floral perfume, like a comforting potpourri.
She pats my back with a tenderness that makes me feel welcome, then pulls away just enough to scrutinize me with kind, twinkling eyes.
“You’re even prettier than Bruno said,” she declares in a thick Slovak accent, her voice rich with genuine warmth. “And you have good taste, too,” she adds, nodding approvingly at my white cable-knit dress.
I laugh, a pleasant warmth spreading through my chest like a gentle fire. “Thank you. I try,” I reply, feeling a bit more at home.
She ushers us into the dining room, where a breathtaking feast is laid out. The table is full of dishes: bryndzové halu?ky, little potato dumplings smothered in creamy sheep’s cheese and topped with crispy bacon; kapustnica, a rich sauerkraut soup dotted with hearty chunks of smoked sausage; roast duck with a glossy, caramelized skin, nestled beside tangy red cabbage; and for dessert, a makovy závin, a poppy seed roll that sends a heavenly aroma wafting through the room.
Bruno pulls out a chair for me, his hand brushing mine for a moment, and I sit, determined to at least try everything laid out before us. But as enticing as the spread is, my stomach twists with nerves, and though the food smells divine, my appetite is stubbornly absent.
I take small, cautious bites, each chew deliberate as I focus on keeping everything settled in my stomach.
Meanwhile, Bruno’s grandmother launches into an animated story, her hands gesturing expressively as she recalls how Bruno once broke into a neighbor’s barn as a curious child, convinced there was hidden treasure inside.
Her eyes dance with mischief as she recounts how the startled farmer mistook him for a thief and nearly shot him before Bruno managed to stammer out a panicked explanation.
Bruno groans, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Babika, please,” he pleads with both amusement and exasperation.
His grandmother winks at me, her smile broad and knowing. “He was always trouble,” she teases, her affection for him evident.
I smile back, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease, and let myself relax into the warmth of the evening.
After dinner, we move into the cozy living room. Bruno’s grandmother, a petite woman with silvery hair tied in a neat bun, gestures toward a small half-bathroom tucked at the end of the hallway.
“Bruno, the sink is dripping again. Go tighten it,” she instructs in a firm yet affectionate tone.
Bruno lets out a long sigh, rising from his chair and rolling up the sleeves of his plaid shirt with a resigned expression. “Babika, when will you let me buy you a new sink? That thing never stops dripping!”
“Ah, Bruno, you know I love that sink. It’s an old heirloom—your grandfather pulled it out of our first home because I liked it so much!”
“Yes, Babika,” he replies.
As he disappears down the narrow hallway, I find myself awkwardly perched on the edge of the well-worn couch, my eyes wandering around the room.
The space exudes warmth and nostalgia, with crocheted blankets draped lovingly over the furniture and old family photos in mismatched frames adorning the walls.
One particular photograph catches my eye—an image of a young Bruno, perhaps ten years old, clutching a hockey stick that towers over him, standing beside his grandfather. Both are beaming with joy, their smiles frozen in time.
From the bathroom, I hear the low murmur of voices, Bruno’s grumbling mingling with his grandmother’s gentle yet persistent scolding about his infrequent visits. I can’t help but smile, recognizing the familiar dynamic.
He’s definitely a mama’s boy, or grandma’s boy, rather.
A few minutes later, his grandmother emerges, wiping her hands on her flour-dusted apron with a satisfied nod. “Come help me make tea,” she instructs.
I follow her into the small, cluttered kitchen, where she begins to gather mugs and a tin of loose-leaf tea from the cupboard. The soothing scent of chamomile fills the air as she measures the tea leaves with a practiced hand.
“You take care of him?” she asks, her sharp eyes flicking to me with curiosity and concern.
Caught off guard, I blink and stammer, “Bruno?”
She nods, her movements precise and deliberate as she adds the tea leaves to the steaming pot. “He needs someone to keep him grounded. He has a gentleman’s heart, but he doesn’t trust easy.”
I chew my lip, wrestling with her words, unsure of how to respond. Finally, I manage to say, “I’m trying.”
Her eyes beam, and she gives me a knowing look, her hand reaching out to pat mine gently.
“Good,” she says simply, a warm smile playing on her lips. “He needs that. He needs a good woman like you.”
I smile, a little, feeling my cheeks redden at her words.
Bruno’s grandmother moves around the kitchen with the grace of someone who has spent a lifetime mastering the space.
“When Bruno was eight, he stumbled upon a stray puppy by the roadside,” she says, and her voice is soothing. “The poor thing was barely clinging to life, its little body shivering and caked in layers of mud. Everyone said it was a lost cause, that it wouldn’t survive the night, but Bruno refused to listen. He spent hours feeding it with an eyedropper, his small hands cradling it gently, and stayed up all night, whispering words of comfort as he kept it swaddled in blankets like a newborn.”
I glance toward the hallway, where I can hear the clanking of tools and the sound of Bruno’s low hum as he wrestles with the stubborn sink. “That sounds just like him,” I admit, imagining the determination etched on his face.
She chuckles, a light, knowing laugh that echoes through the room. “Oh, he’s as stubborn as a mule. But his heart?” She places a hand over her chest. “It’s as big as they come. He puts on a tough exterior, but he feels everything so deeply. He’d rather suffer in silence than let anyone see his vulnerability.”
Her words awaken a warmth in my chest, stirring emotions I can’t quite name. I take a sip of the fragrant tea, feeling its warmth spread through me, unsure of how to express the feelings her story has evoked.
A few minutes later, she returns to the kitchen with a small plastic bag filled with dried leaves that rustle as she hands it to me.
“This will help with the morning sickness,” she says casually, her eyes sparkling with a knowing glance that seems to delve past my facade.
I freeze mid-sip, my fingers clenching the warm ceramic mug as if it could anchor me, while a knot tightens in my stomach. The herbal aroma wafts up, mingling with the smell of freshly brewed tea, but I can’t focus on anything except the pounding in my chest.
I don’t ask how she knows. Maybe it’s just that grandmother’s intuition thing, or perhaps my subtle hints weren’t as subtle as I believed. Her knowing gaze seems to peel back the layers of my carefully constructed composure.
Still, my lungs feel constricted, each breath a struggle. I can’t confirm it with her yet, not before I gather the courage to tell the boys. And how can I tell her when uncertainty hangs over me, when I don’t even know if Bruno is the father?
Summoning every ounce of calm, I force a small smile. “Thank you,” I manage.
She winks at me, her expression one of conspiratorial understanding, as though we’ve entered into a silent pact. I nod, pretending my whole body isn’t alive with a storm of nerves.
For the rest of the evening, we both pretend the earlier conversation never happened. Bruno eventually joins us, settling beside me on the couch, his arm casually draping over my shoulders and pulling me into his warmth as we watch a crime drama unfolding on the TV screen. The flickering lights from the screen create a simple, domestic scene that feels unexpectedly comforting.
As the night winds down, his grandmother rises and approaches me, her arms opening wide. She hugs me tightly, her embrace warm and reassuring, whispering something in Slovak that I don’t understand.
But the gentle emotion in her voice is unmistakable—she approves of me, she wants me here.
By the time we return to the house, my mind feels like a tangled mess of thoughts. The image of the baby keeps flashing before me, the boys’ laughter echoes in my ears, and uncertainty about what my role should be gnaws at me.
It all feels overwhelming, like I’m standing on the edge of a precipice about to crumble.
My thoughts refuse to settle, so I decide to push them aside entirely. The moment we step inside, I reach out and clasp Bruno’s arm, pulling him toward me. His brow furrows in confusion, his dark eyes searching mine, but I hold on tightly.
“Bedroom,” I say, my voice leaving no room for argument.
Understanding flickers across his face, his lips curling into a teasing grin. “Oh?”
Ignoring his playful tone, I move toward the kitchen where Rowan is adjusting his hoodie in front of the open fridge. I latch onto his wrist next, feeling the warmth of his pulse beneath my fingers.
“Okay,” Rowan chuckles, a note of curiosity in his voice, “what’s happening?”
I glance across the room to the living area, where Thomas is lounging on the couch, eyes glued to his phone screen. He looks up when he hears us, one eyebrow arched in silent inquiry.
“Let’s go,” I say, the simplicity of the words conveying more than any explanation could.
Thomas’s face splits into a wide grin. “Hell yeah.”
I no longer want to dwell on the chaos in my mind. I just want to immerse myself in the comfort and presence of them, losing myself in the joy of being together.