18. Bruno
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bruno
My phone vibrates on the seat next to me, the screen lighting up with a familiar name: babi?ka.
“Ahoj, Bruno. You sound heavy today,” she says, her voice warm and familiar, like a comforting embrace.
I let out a small chuckle despite the weight pressing on my chest. “You always know,” I reply, a hint of awe in my voice.
“Of course. I’m your babi?ka,” she asserts gently. She doesn’t pry or probe, just offers, “Come eat. I made kapustnica. We’ll talk.”
I almost refuse, my mind racing with excuses about being too tired or promising to visit tomorrow. But the mere thought of her cozy kitchen, filled with the rich aroma of that beloved stew, tugs at my heartstrings.
“I’ll be there in an hour,” I concede, picturing the warmth and comfort waiting for me.
“Drive safe,” she replies. I press the accelerator and head toward the solace of her home.
Babi?ka’s house greets me with the familiar aroma of garlic and bay leaves, wafting through the air even before I reach the creaky wooden porch steps. I knock gently, a token gesture, before pushing open the worn, squeaky door just as I’ve always done.
In the cozy kitchen, Babi?ka’s petite frame is hunched over the counter, her hands expertly chopping fresh parsley with a rhythmic precision. She turns, her face lighting up with a smile that deepens the lines around her twinkling eyes, her apron bearing the evidence of years of culinary adventures.
“Sit, honey,” she says, and she gestures toward the kitchen table.
Even here, the absence of Jinx is palpable.
The last time we were here, she sat in that chair, her laughter filling the room as she pointed out the silly magnets and faded photos on the fridge. My gaze lingers on the empty chair, a tightness squeezing my chest.
“Still no word from her?” Babi?ka asks, her spoon moving in slow circles as she stirs the simmering pot.
I shake my head. “She’s doing her thing. Says she needs space.”
A low hum escapes Babi?ka’s lips. “She is strong. Independent. Sometimes girls like that build walls so high they don’t even realize they’re alone behind them.”
I nod silently, my teeth gently worrying the inside of my cheek.
“She liked you,” Babi?ka adds with a soft reassurance. “I could see it. But maybe she hasn’t learned how to let someone love her.”
Her words resonate deeply, striking a chord I didn’t know was there. Together, we move to the stove, and she ladles the hearty stew into two heavy ceramic bowls.
The aroma is intoxicating—a mixture of tender pork, tangy cabbage, and the warmth of paprika. As the steam rises, it fills the kitchen with a comforting warmth, wrapping around us like a familiar embrace.
We sit at the small kitchen table, the wooden surface scarred from years of use. Our hands brush briefly as I help her straighten the embroidered napkins. Each bite is a journey back in time, a taste of Sunday dinners and family gatherings.
“I don’t know what to do,” I confess after a few hesitant spoonfuls. “I want to wait for her, but what if she never comes back?” My eyes linger on the steam curling from my bowl.
Babi?ka stirs her stew with deliberate slowness, her silver spoon clinking softly against the ceramic. She pauses, lifts her wise eyes to meet mine.
“Then you wait until you can’t anymore. That is what love is, no? Risk.”
“But what if I’m wasting my time?” I feel a tightness in my throat as I push the spoon through the broth, the pieces of sausage and cabbage swirling aimlessly. The thought of Jinx leaving as if we were inconsequential gnaws at me, stealing my appetite. “She left like we didn’t matter.”
“Or maybe,” she suggests softly, her voice like a gentle balm, “she left because it mattered too much, too fast.”
I blink, caught off guard by her perspective, struggling to find words.
“You are old enough now,” she says, her hand resting on mine, her touch warm and reassuring, “to learn that some things take time. If you rush a stew, it has no flavor.”
I chuckle, tears brimming in my eyes. “You’re comparing my love life to soup?”
She grins, her smile a comforting anchor. “It’s working, isn’t it?”
I nod, sniffling as emotions swirl within me. “Yeah. It’s working.”
Uncertainty lingers about what the future holds with Jinx.
Maybe she’ll find her way back to me, maybe she won’t.
But right now, I allow myself to be held by her memory, the comforting heat of the stew, and the unwavering love of the woman who taught me not just resilience, but how to love fiercely.
Babi?ka dabs the corners of her lips with the embroidered cloth napkin, leans back in her worn, wooden chair, and fixes me with that familiar gaze. It’s the look that signals I’m about to hear a story, whether I asked for one or not.
“When I met your grandfather, I didn’t want to be married,” she begins, her eyes sparkling with the warmth of old memories. “I was working at that tiny shop on Cinder Street, you know the one, with the colorful scarves, delicate linens, and hand-painted bowls. We had just moved into town, hardly knew anyone. He would stroll in every week, acting as if he needed something for his mother. One week it was handkerchiefs, the next it was aprons. There was even a time he bought three candles, claiming they were for his sister’s birthday. He didn’t even have a sister.”
She chuckles softly, her spoon clinking gently against the edge of her blue-and-white ceramic bowl.
“He showed up every week for almost a year,” she continues. “He’d flash that charming smile, ask how my day was, and insist on carrying my baskets when I headed to catch the tram. And each time he asked me out for a coffee, I turned him down. Until one day, without quite knowing why, I said yes.”
“Why?” I ask, eager to understand.
“Because someone who waits for you that long and still gazes at you like you’re made of sunlight—how can you not give that person a chance?” she replies, lifting her cup of tea, the delicate china rattling gently against the saucer as she takes a sip. “If Jinx is your sunlight, Bruno…then wait for her. Just like your grandfather waited for me.”
Her words linger in the warm kitchen air, and a knot forms in my chest. Her tale unfolds beautifully, but there’s no mention of an unexpected pregnancy, no whisper of a life-altering secret.
The spoon clinks against the inside of my bowl as I stir the rich stew I have no appetite for. It feels deceitful just sitting here, nodding along as if this were merely a slow-burn romance, when in reality, the truth is a live grenade poised to explode.
I force a smile when expected, but inside, my thoughts tumble over one another like dominoes. My fingers tap nervously on my thigh, a restless rhythm.
Jinx is pregnant. I’m going to be a father. Or… one of us is. But deep down, a visceral certainty tells me it’s me. I feel it twisting in my gut, tightening in my chest.
“Scuza,” I murmur, my chair scraping the floor as I push back from the table. My voice, which comes out rough, betrays my inner turmoil. “I just need to use the bathroom.”
She dismisses me with a gentle wave, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watches me retreat.
In the bathroom, I shut the door with a soft click, lean heavily against the sink, and grip its cool porcelain edges as if they might anchor me. The mirror reflects my wide, guilt-ridden eyes, and I hardly recognize myself.
I splash cold water on my face, droplets cascading down my cheeks, but the reflection remains unchanged—still just as terrified.
How do I tell her that her grandson has gotten a woman pregnant—a woman who might not even want him in her life?
When I return to the table, Babi?ka sits there, her delicate teacup balanced in her hand, eyes as sharp and steady as ever. She doesn’t say anything at first—just waits with a patience that feels heavier than words.
That silent expectation is somehow worse.
She places her teacup down on the saucer with a gentle clink and says, “What is it, Bru? I know that face. You wear it whenever you’re about to tell me something I won’t like.”
Her voice is calm, yet the familiarity of her words tightens the knot in my stomach. My throat feels parched, and I find myself staring at the intricate patterns in the old wood grain of the floor before mustering the courage to meet her gaze.
Her eyes are so kind, yet so damn knowing.
I lower myself into the chair, my hands resting on my knees like a child seeking comfort. The words tumble out of my mouth. “Jinx is pregnant.”
My voice is soft, but it feels like the confession echoes in the room. The air thickens, as if the entire kitchen just inhaled sharply and forgot to exhale.
Her brows arch slightly, but her expression remains composed. She holds the silence for a moment too long, an unspoken weight that hits me in the gut.
“I don’t know for sure if it’s mine,” I rush to add, feeling a desperation to fill the quiet. “But… I think it is. And even if it’s not, I want to be there. For her. For the baby.” My words hang in the air like fragile promises.
Babi?ka doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, she reaches across the table and wraps her warm, steady hand around mine.
“Bruno,” she says softly, her voice a gentle balm, “I raised you to be strong. But also to be good. If you love her and that baby, then what’s left to be afraid of?”
I nod, my eyes stinging with emotion, and squeeze her fingers as if they’re the only tether keeping me from drifting away.
Babi?ka’s hand holds mine with a firm, comforting grip, her thumb gently tracing circles over my knuckles. There’s a serene wisdom in her touch, as if she wears her patience like a suit of armor.
She gives me a reassuring nod and says, “I knew when she was here. I could tell.”
I stare at her, surprised. “You… could tell?”
She flashes a sly, self-satisfied grin. “Bruno, I’ve been around a long time. A woman knows. It was in the way she cradled her stomach absentmindedly, the weariness etched into her eyes. You think I wouldn’t recognize morning sickness when I’ve experienced it myself?”
I let out a groan, burying my face in my hand. “She didn’t tell me. She didn’t tell any of us. Just dropped the news on us casually, like it was an item on a grocery list.”
She hums softly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, allowing me to indulge in my dramatics before she inevitably brings me back down to earth.
“I’m serious,” I mumble. “I should be mad. You didn’t tell me either.”
She gives me that look—the one with the raised eyebrow and the slight press of her lips.
“That,” she says, patting my arm twice with a knowing touch, “was part of you learning patience.”
I roll my eyes, exasperated. “Feels more like getting punished for not being psychic.”
“You’ll live,” she replies, a twinkle in her eye.
I stand up and begin pacing in the cozy kitchen, the worn floorboards creaking beneath my heavy boots, a sound that somehow keeps me tethered to reality.
“I’m furious, Babi?ka,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “She waits until she’s practically out the door to drop a bombshell like that? I don’t care if she’s scared; she made me care about her, and then she vanishes as if we mean nothing.”
She watches me with her wise eyes, arms crossed, a faded tea towel draped over her shoulder as if it belongs there.
“She made me fall in love with her,” I continue, gesturing wildly, “and then acted like it was all just a game. Like she never intended to let us be part of her world.”
My grandma listens patiently, letting me pour out my frustration before she speaks with her familiar steeliness.
“Did you ever consider that she didn’t plan any of this, either? She’s pregnant, Bruno,” she says, her voice steady. “She probably doesn’t know how it happened or what she wants to do about it, let alone how to process your feelings in all of this.”
I pause in my pacing, the anger simmering inside me feeling suddenly more like confusion. “Still, she didn’t have to deceive us.”
“She didn’t lie,” she counters, shaking her head. “She just wasn’t ready. And you’re not helping by throwing a tantrum like a child who dropped his ice cream cone.”
I let out a long, weary breath, my shoulders slumping as the tension seeps from them. “So what do I do? Just sit around and wait? Again?”
“Yes,” she replies with a firmness that brooks no argument. “But this time, wait with kindness, not anger. She’ll notice, and it might just make all the difference.”
I drop back into the worn wooden kitchen chair like a balloon losing air. The stew in front of me sits nearly untouched, its surface now matte and congealed, but the warmth of my grandma’s words still hums in the air between us like the comforting crackle of a distant fire.
“You’re right,” I mutter, fingers raking through my disheveled hair. “I’ve been terrible at giving her space, barging in like I’m entitled to explanations, like she owes me something.”
Babi?ka’s eyes, wise and unwavering, fix on me with a steady, no-nonsense gaze.
“Every man’s downfall is emotional maturity,” she remarks. “But that’s where you get the chance to be better. It’s not about winning her over, Bruno. It’s about showing her you can be solid. Steady.”
I nod slowly, the inside of my cheek caught between my teeth as I try to steady my breath. My throat feels constricted, raw with unspoken words.
She envelops me in a hug that speaks volumes, her embrace infused with the comforting scents of fresh thyme and the soft, familiar wool of her well-worn sweater.
Her hands, small yet deceptively strong, fold around me with a strength that’s as constant as the tides. I lean my forehead against her shoulder.
I don’t know what’s next with Jinx. But I do know this: I’m going to wait.
Not because it’s an obligation, but because she’s worth every moment of patience I can muster.