Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
I stare at him, my heart beating heavily in my chest. The odds of anything serious happening to me in childbirth are very low, and my first instinct as a doctor is to tell him that, to reassure him. But at the last second, I think better of it.
“So you would wait?” I ask carefully instead.
Peter turns back to face me, his gaze somber. “Do you want to wait, my love?”
Now it’s my turn to look away. Do I? Up until this moment, I’d assumed that Peter’s return and the rushed wedding meant that a child was imminent in our future. I’d resigned myself to the thought, even embraced it on some level.
If nothing else, my parents could have the grandchildren they’ve been wanting—a positive I hadn’t considered until our dinner the other night.
“Sara?” Peter prompts, and I look up to meet his gaze.
Here it is.
My chance to delay it.
To do the right thing, the smart thing.
To have a child when I’m sure that we can make it, that Peter can live this kind of life.
All I have to do is say yes, use the choice he gave me, but my mouth refuses to form the word. Instead, as I hold his gaze, seeing the tension there, I hear myself say, “No.”
“No?”
“No, I don’t want to wait,” I clarify, shutting down the rational voice screaming in my mind as I watch a bright, joyous smile curve his lips.
Maybe this is the wrong decision, but at this moment, it doesn’t feel that way. Peter was right when he said that life is short. It is short and uncertain, full of pitfalls. I’ve always lived it cautiously, planning for the future on the assumption that there would be one, but if there’s anything I’ve learned over the past couple of years, it’s that there are no guarantees.
There’s just today, just now.
Just us, together and in love.
We spend another hour in the park, then go grocery shopping together, stocking up on food for the week. Peter buys enough to feed ten people, and when I question him about that, he informs me that he intends to invite my parents for dinner this Friday—and to pack me lunch to take to work each day.
When we come home, he disappears into the kitchen, and I go on my computer to deal with the emailed congratulations and gift cards—a popular choice for the majority of the guests at our wedding, given that no one had time to shop for an actual gift. I print out all the gift cards, sort them into categories, apply the codes to specific retailers as needed, and email back thank-yous. The whole process takes less than forty minutes—yet another perk of our simple, speedy wedding.
With George, we spent two weekends in a row on this task.
I’m about to shut down the computer when I see another email in my inbox—this one from an unknown sender but also with the subject of “Congratulations.”
I open it, expecting another gift card, but inside is just a short message.
Congratulations on a beautiful wedding. If you ever need to reach us, you can use this email address.
With best wishes,
Yan
I blink, staring at the email. I have no idea how Peter’s former teammate got my email, or why he decided to write to me, but I add his email address to my contacts, just in case.
Done with the gifts, I follow the delicious smells into the kitchen, where Peter is preparing lunch.
Maybe it’s too soon to tell, but I’m feeling optimistic.
This marriage thing is going to work out.
The two of us will make sure it does.
3
Peter
As we eat lunch, I barely taste my food, all my attention on Sara as she tells me about the wedding gifts and Yan’s strange email. Her hazel eyes look almost green as she animatedly gestures with her fork, her skin like pale cream in the bright sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. In a casual blue sundress, with her chestnut hair in loose waves around her slender shoulders, she’s every dream of mine come to life, and my chest tightens at the recollection of what it was like to be without her all those months.
I’m never letting her go again.
She’s mine, until death do us part.
“Why do you think he decided to give me his contact info? Do you think he just wants to keep in touch?” she asks, spearing a piece of cucumber in her Russian-style salad, and I force myself to focus on the conversation instead of how much I’d like to spread her out on the table and feast on her rather than the food I’ve prepared.
“I have no idea,” I answer, and it’s true. Yan Ivanov took over our assassination business after I left, so I can’t imagine he’d want me back. For months before that, there was tension between us, and I suspect if I hadn’t voluntarily stepped down as team leader, he would’ve done his best to take my place.