Page 136 of Twilight Tears
LUNA
“Do you want to watch something?” I ask, holding the remote out to Yakov.
He waves it away. “I don’t mind the silence.”
That makes one of us.
I never thought having Yakov at home would be a bad thing, but I can’t stand the tension. Every time our bedroom door opens, he jolts. He says he doesn’t mind the silence, but I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him. Yakov turns towards every little sound, no matter how insignificant. Car doors slamming, hinges squeaking, footsteps in the hall—all of it demands his full attention. And there’s no rest for him. I know he isn’t sleeping. The dark circles under his eyes prove that.
It’s been like this since he got home a few days ago. He walked through the door without his shoes or socks, but the hem of his pants was stained dark.
Blood. Maybe my senses are enhanced because of pregnancy, but I could smell it on him like old pennies.
I tried to ask what happened, but he didn’t want to talk about it. I respected that. Partly because I was too exhausted to argue. He isn’t the only one who hasn’t been sleeping well.
Between new nightmares and the return of my nausea, I can’t get any rest.
There’s a soft knock on our door and Yakov sits upright in bed. His hand is fisted at his side, one leg thrown over the side of the bed like he’s ready to jump into action.
Then the door opens and Hope is there with a dinner tray. “Dinner,” she squeaks out. “I brought something for Luna to eat. I can bring a tray for you, too, Mr. Kulikov, if you are?—”
“I’m fine,” he bites out, leaning back in bed. But he can’t quite force himself to relax completely. His back is still rigid, his hands balled up on top of the comforter.
Hope nods and walks around the bed with my tray.
The entree is covered with a silver lid, but I can already smell it. Garlic and butter. One tiny sniff and it’s like someone is shoving dried basil straight up my nose.
My stomach turns and I try to breathe out of my mouth. If I don’t smell it, I’ll be fine.
This tactic didn’t work with lunch. I took one whiff and ran to the toilet to get sick. But it will work now. I am the master of my own body. I can control myself.
Hope lays the tray on the table next to my bed and then swivels it across my lap. She lifts the lid, unveiling my chicken and pasta.
Steam rises up, making my already clammy skin even stickier. I force air out of my mouth, but I can’t avoid the smells wafting in front of me.
My stomach rolls. Saliva gathers at the back of my throat. My body clenches, ready to expel every bit of the not-a-fucking-thing I’ve eaten today.
“Here’s some water,” Hope says, pouring me a glass from a pitcher. “Ofeliya has some more tea brewing for you. Once it cools, I’ll bring it and?—”
Before poor Hope can finish, I shove my table tray away and bolt for the edge of the bed.
Yakov is there before my feet can even hit the floor. “What is it?”
“Sick,” I gasp.
Instantly, he scoops me up and carries me to the bathroom. He holds my arms with strong hands and lowers me to the tile floor as I heave again and again and again into the toilet.
Nothing comes up. There’s nothing to come up. I haven’t eaten all day. Hope has probably noticed, but whether she’s said anything to Ofeliya or Yakov yet, I don’t know.
Yakov holds my hair back, his hand stroking down my back. “Are you sick?”
“I’m okay. It’s just nausea. Normal.”
Is it? Should I still be getting sick this late in pregnancy?
“Get the food out of here, Hope,” Yakov calls through the bathroom door. Then he grabs a washcloth and cleans off my face with warm water. He helps me brush my teeth and rinse out my mouth.
“I can brush my own teeth,” I say softly.