Chapter 9 Eliana
ELIANA
bench rest /benCH rest/: noun
Hands shake me awake. “Elly? Eliana, baby? What’s wrong?”
I blink away the crust of sleep and try to prop myself up on an elbow. It takes me a minute to realize that the hands belong to Yasmin.
“Are you okay?” she asks again. “You were making really weird noises in your sleep.”
I swallow. I don’t know if it’s sadness or oversleep that’s got me feeling so loopy and filter-less, but whatever the cause, the truth comes blurting out of me.
“I’m pregnant,” I hear myself say. “I just went to the clinic for an ultrasound.”
The silence that follows is so complete that I can hear every last sound. The critters in the walls, raccoons in the garbage. I can almost hear my own thoughts boiling between my ears.
Then Yasmin is holding me. “Oh, El. I’m so—”
“And Bastian’s dead.” I swallow hard. “I heard it on the news at the clinic. They found him in a warehouse.”
She isn’t saying anything. What is there to say? Nothing, nothing. It’s all too good and too awful to be true.
“The baby’s healthy,” I continue, because now that I’ve started talking, I can’t seem to stop. “The doctor said everything looks perfect. Strong heartbeat. And all I could think was that Bastian’s heart isn’t beating anymore, but this one is, and I don’t— I don’t— I can’t—”
My voice fails me.
Yasmin’s arms tighten around me, and I let myself sink into her as she cradles me against her chest like the helpless creature I am.
“I know,” she whispers. “I know, I know, I know.”
But she doesn’t know. How could she? I watched Bastian cut a finger off a corpse and I ran. I ran like the coward I am, and now, he’s dead, and I didn’t—couldn’t—wouldn’t—
Tell him I loved him anyway.
A sob claws its way out of me. Then another. And a third. Yasmin rocks me through it all, one hand stroking my hair, murmuring nonsense words that don’t mean anything except, You’re not alone.
“What am I supposed to do?” I finally manage to splutter. “How am I supposed to—”
“We’ll figure it out,” she promises. “Together. Like we always do.”
I want to believe her. God, I want to believe her so badly it kills me. But belief requires hope, and I’m fresh out of that.
My sobs quiet and eventually fade away. Finally, she asks, “What do you need?”
That’s what best friends are for. Not What are you going to do or How are you feeling or any of the other bullshit questions people ask when they’re really just waiting for their turn to talk. Just, What do you need?
I don’t know how to answer her. What do I need? A time machine? A different life? Both of those would be nice.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what would help? Right now, in this moment. What would make it even a little bit easier?”
I sit with the question for a long time, my back against the couch arm, Yasmin’s hand warm in mine.
What would make this easier? The truth is, nothing will. Bastian is dead. I’m pregnant with his child. Those are facts that can’t be changed or softened.
But there’s something else underneath the gloom and shock and terror. Something I’ve been avoiding since I heard his name on that television.
I never got to say goodbye.
I ran from that alley without looking back, and maybe that was the smart thing to do, the safe thing. But it means that the last time Bastian saw me, I was running. Horrified by him and disgusted beyond measure. The last time I saw him, he was covered in blood with a dead man at his feet.
That can’t be how it ends.
“I need to go to his funeral.”
Yasmin’s hand tightens on mine. “El—”
“I know it’s stupid. And probably dangerous. But I can’t—” I hiccup. “I can’t let that alley be the last time. I need to say goodbye properly. Even if he can’t hear it.”
“Elly, baby, sweetheart, light of my life… you’re wanted for questioning. The police have been looking for us for weeks. And if Bastian was mixed up in organized crime like they’re saying—”
“I know.”
“—then his funeral is going to be crawling with people who might recognize you. Cops, reporters, maybe even whoever killed him—”
“I know that, too.”
“—and you’re blind, and pregnant, and we don’t even know where it’ll be held, and—”
“Yasmin.” I make her stop with a finger on her lips. “I know. But I have to.”
She exhales slowly, and I can hear the exact moment she stops fighting me. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. But we do this smart. Disguises, back entrance, we stay for ten minutes max. And the second—the millisecond—anything feels wrong, we leave. No arguments. ‘Kay?”
“No arguments,” I agree. “In and out. No one will ever know we’re there.”
That night, I stand in front of the small closet in our bedroom, running my hands over the meager collection of clothes we’ve accumulated since fleeing Chicago. Everything feels wrong, though. Cheap or gaudy or just plain stupid.
“What about the black sweater?” Yasmin suggests from her perch on the bed. “The one with the crew neck.”
I pull it out, feeling the soft knit between my fingers. “Too casual, I think.”
“The navy dress?”
“Too fitted.” Too obvious that I’m pregnant, also, even if it’s just a tiny little bump.
We go through the entire closet this way—Yasmin describing, me rejecting. Too short. Too wrinkled. Too memorable. Too plain. Finally, she says, “What about the charcoal button-down? With the black pants?”
I find both items and hold them against my body as I picture how it’ll look to the rest of the work. Simple. Dark. Not memorable in the least. Exactly what you’d wear if you wanted to blend into a sea of mourners.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “That works.”
Yasmin comes to stand beside me. “You sure about this?”
I fold the clothes carefully and set them on the dresser for tomorrow. “No. But I’m doing it anyway.”
I smooth the charcoal button-down one more time. My fingers flutter over the collar, the placket, the cuffs. There are no wrinkles, I know there aren’t, but I can’t seem to stop touching it anyway.
What would Bastian think if he knew I was coming? Would he want me there? Would he be angry that I ran? Would he understand why I had to?
I don’t know and I never will. Bastian is past wanting anything now. His thoughts, his anger, his understanding—all of it died with him in that warehouse. Whatever questions I have will go unanswered. Whatever apologies I owe or am owed will go unheard.
And in any case, this isn’t about him anymore. It’s about me. I need to prove that I’m not the coward I felt like in that alley. More importantly, I have to give this baby—our baby—a story that doesn’t end with their mother running away from the killer who loved her.
I press my hand to my stomach. “Your father deserves a proper goodbye,” I whisper. “So do you. And so do I.”