21. Melody
Melody
I 'm late. My period is officially late.
I didn't take the test when Marie and Helena told me to, but I feel like I can't put it off any longer.
Dante is sure to notice—he tracked my last period before the appointment with Doctor Hamish.
But one in eight pregnancies ends in miscarriage.
The statistic rolls around my head, knocking loose emotions I didn't know I had.
Fear. Anxiety. Dread. What if this is the one in eight?
I've never been pregnant before; I don't know how my body will handle it.
And how will Dante handle it? Will it hurt him?
Will he feel the same sense of loss? I don't even know if this is real or not, not yet, but I'm already scared.
I never thought this would be something that I'd want so badly.
Call it Stockholm syndrome or whatever, but I do want this.
But maybe it's for the best that I don't know for certain. I'll wait another week or so, see how it goes. If my period shows up, then it was a fluke. And if it doesn't… I guess that's that.
I go through the motions of sketching a floral arrangement with Helena while all the thoughts crash around my mind.
I know she can tell something is up, obviously.
She's been sending me sideways glances all day.
Marie isn't here, otherwise I'm sure the both of them would lock me in the bathroom with a pee stick and not let me out until I've used it.
On the plus side, though, my nausea has gone away. I even watched Helena eat a whole banana to be sure. And I wolfed down a nearly identical bowl of fruit and yogurt that Marie lovingly prepared. It was fantastic, by the way. The joy was short-lived as I remembered the contract, though.
The goddamn contract. Produce an heir. Take my money and run.
But… I don't think I want to run. Not anymore.
But the thought of telling him that is honestly a bit mortifying.
I like to think that I have some sense of self-awareness.
He followed me, stalked me, terrorized me.
And I fought him tooth and nail at every turn, until… I guess I just stopped.
I started enjoying it. And now I enjoy him . I like sitting with him in silence, each of us focused on our own little tasks. I like talking with him about everything and nothing. And everyone in a five-block radius knows how much I like our other activities together.
He didn't shy away from my… episodes. When I cried drunk to him about my motherhood fears, about passing on my fucked-up genes, he didn't just placate me.
He encouraged me. And the way he looks at me when I'm covered in someone else's blood is downright sinful.
Adoration. Veneration. I don't know if I'd call it love, not yet, but definitely like .
Shit, I'm gonna have to pee on a stick.
"So," Helena says, interrupting my wildly offtrack trains of thought. "Any news for me? Or Dante? Or anyone?"
"Yeah, I want a bacon, egg, and cheese." I think for a second. "On rye. With muenster cheese."
"Okay, definitely not what I was talking about." She gives me an exasperated look.
"I know. But can we like, not? Just for a bit? I'll take the test by the end of the week. I just want… a little extra time." I sigh. "One in eight pregnancies ends in miscarriage, you know."
She falls silent and puts down her sketching pencil. "Yeah. Yeah, we can wait. But if he asks me outright if I think you're pregnant, I'll have to tell him."
"I know." I chew my lip and stare at the sloppy drawing I've produced. I can't tell a hydrangea from a tulip. "Will you talk to me about… I don't know, literally anything else? Did you get up to any nonsense in high school? College?"
She breaks into a sheepish grin. "Oh, hell yes, I did. One time, me and my friends jammed the doors in the stairwell so we could hotbox the whole thing. We didn't think too far ahead, of course, we were stupid kids. And hotboxing usually works best in small enclosed spaces, right?"
"Oh, my god. You did not," I cackle.
"We did! And we were so confused as to why it wasn't having as much of an effect!
My sister, Randi, thought she accounted for that.
Twelve stupid teenagers smoking as much as we could.
But the only thing it did was set off the fire alarm, and our friend Shayla's dad was in the fire department.
So, imagine his surprise when they battered open one of the doors to find his baby, his angel, his straight-A student daughter holding the fattest blunt we'd ever rolled. "
"No! Why didn't you run when the alarm went off?"
"Well, remember when I said we were stupid? The best part, or maybe the worst part, was that when we jammed the doors… we did it so badly that we didn't just lock everyone out. We locked ourselves in, too."
Helena's polite professionalism is long gone, fully thrown out the window.
Tears run down her cheeks as she laughs, holding her stomach.
I love this, too. I don't want to leave after I pop out a baby.
I want to stay . I want to stay with Dante, with Marie, with Helena.
Even with stoic Roman. For once, I fit in perfectly. And I love it.
"Do you still talk to Randi?" I ask as I stifle my giggles.
Helena smiles, but the mirth is gone from her eyes. "Sometimes. She changed a lot after high school. I mean, we all did—that's how growing up works. She married a boy from our class and didn't go to college. I went into the military, as you know. She didn't approve."
"Why not? Conscientious objection?"
"You could call it that. Not on political grounds.
I mean, not political grounds like, she opposes the military-industrial complex.
More like political grounds as in she opposes women doing anything outside of the home.
" Helena's words hang in the air between us, and I can't quite put the two stories together.
The same woman who hotboxed a stairwell disowned her sister for… having a life?
"Wait, wait. What happened? The hotboxer went tradwife?" I'm honestly shocked.
"Yeah, kind of. That boy—man, I mean, she married had a lot of influence over her. He has some weird views, and she just kind of latched on to them." She doesn't look up at me. She stares at the art supplies in front of her, and I swear I can see a glimmer of a tear in her eye.
"You want me to kill him?"
"Ha. You're funny." Helena gives me a sad smile.
"Not joking. I will literally kill him. Does he have life insurance?
Can we get life insurance for him?" I hop out of my seat and pace around the kitchen.
"Seriously, we could set your sister up with a couple hundred thousand, if we do this right.
I mean, that's how my mom cashed out and fucked off to wherever. "
"Wait, what do you mean?" Helena grabs my forearm and furrows her brow.
"Uh—nothing. I mean, her husband died, and she collected the life insurance check. Then she quit her job and moved to a tropical island somewhere, I assume." I twine my fingers between hers. "Helena, I am deadly serious. I could kill that guy. And your sister would be set."
She gently pulls her hands away and shakes her head. "No, I couldn't. I mean… I mean, no. That's crazy." Her gaze drops to the floor again as she fidgets with the hem of her shirt. "Actually, can I get back to you on that?"
"Abso-fuckin-lutely, babe." I grin at her. "Wanna go down to the basement and practice shooting?"
"I don't love the face you made while asking me that, but yes.
Your aim is awful, and we need to work on that.
" Helena stands and carefully organizes her sketching pencils in the cute little case I got for her.
The bright pink cartoon frogs happily smile up at her, a stark contrast from the heavy conversation.
I quickly scamper to the basement door and wait for her to follow.
"Melody, love," Dante sings out as he steps through the door. "We have an event, I'm afraid."
"Oh?" I look up from my cross-stitch on the sofa. Another of my new hobbies. It's ugly and doesn't look anything like the pattern I found, but it's mine. "What's the dress code?"
He hums thoughtfully. "We'll call it… murderously chic."
Now that catches my attention. "Do I get to play tonight?"
"No, unfortunately." He laughs. "I'm going to introduce you to my mother."
Shit. Fuck. I am not good with parents. I killed my own stepdad, haven't heard from my mom in nearly a year, and this lady is probably ultra-rich and snobby as hell. I can feel my skin start to itch with anxiety. "Y-your mother?"
"Yes indeed, love. Roman brought to my attention the fact that I have not seen her in… well, a while." He leans down to slick his hair back in the reflection of a window. "And, you're my wife. Of course, my mother should meet my wife."
"Right. Of course." I swallow. "So, dress? Heels?"
He looks me up and down. "You look perfect as-is."
A smile creeps across my face before I even know it's there. Ugh, I'm honestly disgusting about this. Perfect? I'm in jeans and a sweatshirt. He expects me to show up to his mother's house , next to him in a full suit? Absolutely not. But still, the compliment makes me feel a little giddy.
"No way. Ten minutes," I say and point at him. "Ten!"
"Ten minutes," he agrees.
I dash up the stairs and yank open the closet door, selecting a tasteful black dress with a higher neckline than I usually wear.
Paired with some ankle boots and a delicate gold chain necklace, I'm miles above my couch-rotting outfit already.
I twist my hair into a claw clip and swipe on some tinted lip balm.
Just enough to look put together, but not like I'm trying to fit in at a red carpet.
Tumbling down the stairs, I clear my throat and Dante looks up from his phone with a devilish grin that makes him look positively diabolical.
"None of that!" I admonish him. "We're going to see your mother—I'm not showing up with just-been-fucked hair."