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When he stands to exit, I follow, keeping within arm’s reach as I dig deep inside myself to find my courage. It takes me all the way down the classroom steps and into the packed hallway before I find my voice.
“Pyotr,” I call as we make it halfway to the main door and the building’s exit.
He stops short, his shoulders tensing beneath his black leather jacket, and he turns slowly to face me.
Gray eyes pierce my soul, and a tremor runs down my spine. I can see the storm brewing inside him, dark and brooding. His lips press together, thinning as he makes it clear he’s got nothing to say to me.
“I–”
“If you’re going to try apologizing again, just stop,” he rasps, and the bitter edge to his tone cuts like a knife.
My courage collapses, deflating like a balloon as I realize I was, in fact, going to start by saying I’m sorry. I swallow hard as tears sting the back of my eyes. Turmoil roils in my mind, leaving my thoughts an impossible muddle.Tell him,I command myself.
But I can’t. I’ve lost my resolve.
“I just wanted to say it was nice to see you this weekend,” I murmur, chickening out completely.
Pyotr’s jaw works visibly, and he combs his fingers through his well-styled hair. “Yeah,” he agrees curtly before licking his full lips. “You seem… well.”
My stomach lurches at the conversation’s unexpected turn.
“I hope your father hasn’t been too hard on you,” he adds, his eyebrows pressing into a deep frown.
“I’m used to solitary confinement,” I joke nervously, my thoughts flitting around as I try to collect myself.
He doesn’t laugh. Instead, his face smoothes into an expressionless mask. The same one he dons as soon as he puts up his walls. “Well, good.” The dismissive response sounds distant as he closes off from me again, withdrawing into himself.
In the past, it hurt when he closed me out. It left me lost and confused, wondering what I did to put space between us. But I’m beyond the point of feeling rejection now. I have far bigger concerns on my mind. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
“Are we, uh… on for this weekend?” I ask. Maybe by then, I’ll have found enough nerve to tell him about the baby.
“Sure,” he agrees.
His tone would suggest otherwise, and I feel myself sinking into a pit of hopelessness. He’s not going to be happy about a child. He’s not even interested in a date with me this weekend.
I’ve been so stupid.
Once again, my girlish fantasies have clouded my objectivity about our relationship. Yes, we had a good conversation on our last date. But that was over a week ago–before my father found out about our indiscretion and when we still hadyearsto build a decent connection before marriage.
Now, I have an insurmountable secret lying between me and the honesty I had talked so vehemently about.
I need to tell him.
But then Pyotr starts to turn away, seeming ready to end our discussion without so much as a goodbye.
Anxiety roils in my stomach. “Pyotr, wait.” I reach out for him. “I have–”
For a split second, electricity crackles beneath my fingertips as I find his bicep. Then a wave of nausea washes through me, my morning sickness cutting my sentence short.
Horror grips me, and I clap a hand over my mouth. I get a snapshot of Pyotr’s sharp gray eyes as they glance toward my hand on his arm. Then they shift to meet my gaze.
But I can’t stay. I’m definitely going to be sick.
Spinning, I race back down the hallway toward the girl’s bathroom. I barely make it in time. Collapsing onto the cold tile floor of the nearest stall, I vomit into the public toilet without even taking the time to close the door.
“Everything okay in there?” a girl asks tentatively from several doors down.
I finish heaving and wipe my mouth with a square of toilet paper. “I’m fine. Must be something I ate.” For some reason, that strikes me as funny, and I bite my lips to stop the hysterical laughter from bubbling out of me. What a wreck my life has become.
