9. Valentina
VALENTINA
I blame the sushi.
That’s my first thought when I wake up on a Tuesday morning and my stomach immediately and enthusiastically disagrees with the concept of me being vertical.
Bad fish. It happens.
I’ve eaten at that restaurant a hundred times, but there’s always a risk with the yellowtail. I knew that, but I ate it anyway because Cillian had ordered it and it looked good and I wanted some.
That’s a whole separate problem I’ll deal with later, because right now I’m thinking about how quickly I can get to the bathroom.
Very quickly, as it turns out. I make it, but barely.
I’m on my knees on the cold tile when I hear him behind me.
“What’s going on?” His voice is rough with sleep then sharper, awake all at once.
His hand finds my hair before I’ve registered he’s crouched down, pulling it back and gathering it out of the way.
I want to tell him to go away because this is humiliating and I would like to be sick in private like a dignified person, but another wave hits and the dignified person option is not currently available.
To my surprise, he stays.
He doesn’t say anything or make it weird.
Instead, he holds my hair and puts his other hand flat on my back, warm through my pajamas, and waits.
When it’s over, I sit back on my heels and press the back of my hand to my mouth, staring at the wall. I feel very sorry for myself.
“The sushi,” I croak, wincing at the acidic taste in my mouth.
“Probably,” he agrees, his hand still on my back.
“It was the yellowtail. I know it is. I said to myself, Val, the yellowtail is a risk—”
Cillian makes a sound that’s between a scoff and a laugh. “You didn’t say that.”
“I thought it very loudly.” I accept the glass of water he’s somehow already holding—when did he get up?—and rinse my mouth. I breathe through my nose and try to recover some shred of composure after vomiting my guts out. “I’m fine. Go to your meeting.”
He looks at me, blue eyes moving over my face with that unhurried attention he has. “I can reschedule—”
“Cillian.” I give him a look. “It’s bad fish. I’m not dying. Go.”
He reluctantly goes, but twice he stops in the doorway and looks back at me. I wave him off both times.
By the time I hear the elevator doors shut, I’ve managed to get myself upright and back into bed where I lie very still and breathe.
It’s the yellowtail. I’ll be fine by lunchtime.
I am not fine by lunchtime.
I’m not fine the next morning either, when I wake up and make the same sprint to the same bathroom, and I’m definitely not fine on the third morning, when I’m kneeling on the tile again at 6:00 a.m. cursing the yellowtail’s existence.
But wait. It hits me that the last time I had sushi was three days ago.
There’s no way this is still food poisoning, right?
Three days of morning nausea is something else entirely and it makes my stomach lurch for reasons other than…that.
My mind immediately goes to the math that every girl has been doing since they hit puberty, and I do it three times because there’s no way I’m wrong.
There’s no way that my cycle, which has been regular since I was fifteen and has never once failed me, is now eleven days late.
Eleven days.
I’ve been so distracted, I hadn’t noticed.
I notice now and I need to confirm whether I’m right or wrong. I rush to a pharmacy half an hour away and buy five pregnancy tests. The cashier gives me a knowing look when she scans them and I flush.
What is wrong with me?
I’m a married woman, dammit.
And even if I wasn’t, it’s no one’s fucking business that I may or may not be pregnant.
I bring them home in a paper bag that I shove under the bathroom sink like it’s evidence I need to hide, before I escape into the bedroom and stare at a wall.
My mind is racing.
There’s no way I’m pregnant.
I’m twenty-six and barely keeping a marriage together.
My mother will lose her mind and my brother who—
I stop and take a breath. There’s no point in freaking out when I don’t know if I’m pregnant or not. With that, I glance at the bathroom door and take another breath.
Be brave, Val.
I walk into the bathroom and take the first test.
It’s positive before the three minutes are up, both lines so dark there’s no squinting required. My mind dries and I stare at it before I dive toward the paper bag for the second test. I take it. Also positive. The third, fourth, and fifth tests are, in order: positive, positive, and positive.
I’m—I’m pregnant.
I’m pregnant with Cillian Brennan’s child.
Holy fuck.
I sit on the edge of the bathtub with all five tests lined up on the counter like a very specific art installation.
My brain is going at a million miles an hour and I don’t know how I feel.
Shock, obviously, is my overwhelming emotion right now, but terror is probably the loudest. I never sat down and thought about motherhood as something that was going to happen to me, especially in a forced marriage with a man I hated on my wedding day and am now—
I press both hands over my mouth.
But under the terror is something else. Something small and warm and completely irrational.
Something that surfaces when I think about Cillian in the hospital waiting room with sandwiches, and Cillian holding my hair back on a bathroom floor without being asked, and Cillian saying you’d be a good mother in the dark with his arm around me and meaning it.
Something that, if I’m being honest, feels a lot like: maybe.
Maybe this is the best thing.
Maybe this is the worst thing.
I have no idea.
I hide the tests at the bottom of the bathroom bin under a layer of cotton pads, and I go about my day. I say nothing.
I don’t tell Cillian for four days. I know, I know. I can feel Emma’s voice in my head already—Valentina, you have to tell him.
I’m just walking around the apartment being pregnant and hoping my face isn’t doing anything readable.
But for once, my poker face is failing me.
Cillian knows something is up.
He’s looked at me with narrowed eyes too many times over these last four days and asks what’s wrong.
I’ve deflected every time because at least that I’m good at.
I’m less good at eating.
The nausea has settled into a pattern—bad in the mornings, manageable by noon, unpredictable in the evenings—and Cillian has noticed that I’m moving food around my plate more than I’m eating it.
Last night he asked if something was wrong with the salmon. I said the salmon was fine.
He clearly didn’t believe me but mercifully didn’t push.
I’m going to tell him.
I have to tell someone and it should be my husband first since he’s the father of this baby.
I’ll tell him once I have lunch with Emma.
She’s at the corner table when I get there, Seraphina asleep in the carrier against her chest so all I can see is the top of her wild black hair.
Emma’s lifting a cappuccino to her mouth and she’s reading something on her phone, but she looks up when I arrive, smiling. I sit down and open my mouth to say hello and what comes out instead is:
“I’m pregnant.”
Emma’s cappuccino stops halfway to her mouth.
I press my lips together, heat rushing through me.
That was not the plan. Emma was not supposed to know first.
I was supposed to act calm and collected and enjoy my lunch with Emma and Seraphina.
Jesus Christ, Valentina. You suck.
Emma sets her cup down very slowly and looks at me with those green eyes that are suddenly very wide and very bright. “Sorry,” she says faintly. “Can you say that again?”
My face must be beat red. “You heard me,” I tell her, because I’m not saying it again.
She blinks very owlishly at me. “I just want to make sure I—”
“Emma.”
She stares at me for another full second and she fucking squeals.
Seraphina startles against her chest and Emma automatically shushes her, still staring at me, her hand patting the baby’s back. “Oh my god,” she whispers, leaning forward as far as the carrier will allow, her whole body taut. “Valentina.”
“I know,” I say, suddenly needing some water. Or air. God, why is it so fucking hot in here?
“You’re—”
“Yes.”
“How far—”
“I don’t know yet. Six weeks maybe? I still need to call the doctor. I just found out four days ago.” I fidget with my napkin, twisting it between my fingers. “I’ve taken five tests.”
“Five,” Emma says faintly, still rubbing Seraphina’s back.
“For confirmation purposes,” I tell her.
“Naturally,” Emma agrees, her gaze still far away. “All positive?”
“Aggressively positive.” The waitress comes over and blessedly brings me water. I guzzle it down. “Zero ambiguity. I checked.”
Emma looks at me with an expression of such complete, genuine, wholehearted delight that my throat gets tight and I have to look away for a second.
She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Val,” she says, softly now. “This is—” She squeezes and her throat bobs. “How are you feeling about it?”
I look at the table. “Scared shitless,” I say honestly. “This—this wasn’t planned. Obviously. I have no idea how to be a mother. I can barely keep a succulent alive. Has Leo ever told you about the succulent situation of 2022—”
Emma snorts, looking amused. “I don’t think you can compare keeping a plant alive to motherhood.”
“The point is,” I say firmly and a bit louder, “that I am not a person who planned for this and I have no experience. It’s completely—” I stop and look at her. “I also might be a little bit happy about it,” I admit, so quietly that my lips barely move.
Emma’s lips quirk as she tries to fight a smile. “Have you told him?”
My face warms again and I take another sip of water.
My best friend’s brow furrows. “Valentina.”
“I’m working up to it,” I say defensively.
Emma’s mouth opens and closes. “You’ve had four days.”
“I’m aware of how many days I’ve had,” I say peevishly. Yes, I know I suck. I don’t need a reminder.