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“Dom?” I ask. He turns to me, his glassy eyes suggesting that he’s somewhere else. I place a hand on my belly. “Do you think he’ll be a good father?”
“I don’t have to lie about that at all,” he says, laying a hand over mine and patting gently. “She’ll want for nothing, Laila. He’ll protect her with his life.”
We don’t say much after that.
Once it’s dark, Dom walks me back to the house, though he doesn’t come in.
All I did today was go to my mom’s appointment, but I roll into bed feeling more exhausted than I can remember. I reach for the pregnancy pillow that appeared in my bed a few months ago without so much as a note to explain where it came from and tuck it close.
When things get bleak—as they so often do these days—I may or may not wrap the pillow around me and pretend I’m being held by a man. A man who doesn’t lie or leave or ask for anything except to hold me.
What can I say? My most successful relationships have been with inanimate objects.
I consider it a sign of personal growth that I didn’t name this one.
Even if I had the energy to pull Seth out of the drawer and rekindle things, everything about the cheap little vibrator reminds me of Arsen. I can’t touch myself without imagining Arsen’s hand on my skin, his lips between my legs, his voice in my ear.
I hook a leg over my pregnancy pillow—another thing that reminds me of Arsen, since he’s the one who gave me the damn thing. I would’ve thrown it out the window, too, if it wasn’t so comfortable. Now that I’m a human-shaped planet, comfort is something I can’t afford to throw away.
It’s not even the pillow’s fault, really. I can’t be alone without thinking about Arsen… seeing his face in my mind.
I roll over to look out the window. The curtains are still open, and I can see the dim reflection of my new room against the dark glass.
Tears fill my eyes, the loneliness of the day finally too much to keep at bay. And as my vision blurs, I swear I see his green gaze in the glass.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but then there’s a knock. A softtap-tap-tapagainst the glass.
I open my eyes, and he’s still there.
But this time, he’s looking back.
“Arsen.”
14
LAILA
I must be dreaming.
My dreams of Arsen usually involve him already in my bed, not climbing through my window, but I guess I don’t mind a burglar fantasy every now and then.
I scramble to the window, my heart lodged in my throat. Even as I lift it, I expect him to disappear. I expect to wake up. Instead, Arsen throws a leg over the sill and pulls himself inside.
“We have a pretty nice front door, you know. You shouldknow—you paid for it.”
The first time I’ve seen him in eight months, andthat’smy opening line?
The first timehe’sseeingmein eight months, and he crawls through my window?
What a pair we make.
Witty as my opener is, Arsen doesn’t smile. He’s too busy staring down at my stomach like he’s never seen anything like it.
I’m still not used to my new shape—that shape being spherical—so I cross my arms over my abdomen like I might be able to hide myself.
“Arsen, what are you doing here?”
His eyes lift, finding mine like a heat-seeking missile, which is apt, because my cheeks are burning with warmth.
