Inherited by My Ex’s Cousin

Chapter 4 Episode 4

“Oh. I’ve never met anyone who knew him when he was a boy. He doesn’t—um, he didn’t talk very much about his childhood.”

He doesn’t offer anything else. I’m left sitting there in an uncomfortable silence. “What was he like?” I ask at last. “As a child, I mean.”

I raise my eyebrows, expecting that answer to be followed up with a smile. But no smile is forthcoming. Somehow, I’m okay with that. I’m not sure a smile would even suit him. Every line on his chiseled face looks like it’s been engineered for the sole purpose of conveying maximum broodiness. Smiling might break him, honestly.

One of the funeral home employees shuffles by just then with a bucket and a mop to start cleaning up. I think of asking her to wait, but then the commingled scent of her cloying perfume and the rancid mop water hits my nostrils and I almost vomit.

“I’ve always had a good nose,” I explain, eyes closed as I fight back the waves of my roiling stomach. “But ever since the pregnancy, it’s become a superpower.”

He doesn’t really react. But in a way, the lack of reaction is the reaction. He goes perfectly still, and the blue of his eyes seem to split and shatter. It would have been scary, if I didn’t feel so strangely calm in his presence.

“You’re pregnant.” It’s a question only in theory, not in reality.

I nod. “Yeah, I sort of found out recently. So recent in fact that… Adrian didn’t know.”

Kolya stands upright so suddenly I almost yelp. “Come with me.” He takes my elbow and helps me out of my seat before I realize what’s happening.

It’s bright outside, but the willow trees dotting the grounds offer pools of violet shade. He leads me to a bench tucked beneath one and we sit. The leaves drape in front of us, pale like wedding veils.

Kolya doesn’t let go of me until I’m seated. He arches one eyebrow as if to ask, Is that better?

“Much better,” I say with a sigh. “Only cut grass and vanilla out here.” When his eyebrow stays arched, I blush. “You smell like vanilla. It’s a good thing. I like the smell of vanilla.”

He nods. “Glad to be of service.” Again, he speaks without inflection or a smile. It makes me feel uncertain—of myself, more than anything else.

We sit in silence for a while. Indoors, the shuffling of feet and the whispering of mourners was weirdly grating. Out here, the same kinds of abstract white noises—a distant lawn mower, breeze in the treetops—calm my nerves.

“How’d you get the cut?” he asks abruptly.

It’s funny how I keep forgetting I have it until other people mention it. “I walked into a door,” I parrot automatically.

“Did the door have a name?”

My eyes dart to his, probably giving myself away. “Yes,” I whisper, because I know instinctively that he’ll see through the lie. “It was just an accident.”

“He’s dead,” I cut in abruptly. The emotion I’ve been looking for all afternoon rises up in my throat out of nowhere, hot and thick, choking me. I swallow it down by force. “He’s dead and it was an accident. Let’s leave it there, okay?”

I take a deep breath. “Were you and Adrian close?”

“To an extent,” he answers vaguely. “We grew apart as we got older.”

“Oh. That’s a shame.” I look around the lawn, then back at Kolya. His eyes have stayed locked on me from the moment we met. It ought to be unsettling, but for some reason, it’s the exact opposite. “Can you tell me something about him?” I ask hopefully. “A story from his childhood, a little anecdote. Anything.”

Kolya contemplates that for a moment, idly stroking his chin. “He liked to climb. Trees, buildings, rock faces. I used to tell him that one day, he’d go too high and he’d fall. He had a scar on his left knee—”

“Oh my God, yes!” I gasp, grabbing his arm without thinking about it. The material of his suit is soft as butter. I let go almost immediately. “He told me he slipped while playing around.”

“He slipped alright,” Kolya chuckles. “From the third floor of The Meriden Motel. Busted right through a lattice and tore his knee to ribbons. He couldn’t run for a while. That’s when he took up the piano.”

My heart twinges. I didn’t realize how much I needed this—to know that Adrian was a boy once. A reckless boy, by the sound of it, but a boy nonetheless. Not a drunk or an abuser or a failure. Just a boy.

“I can’t believe he never told me about that,” I murmur. “There are so many things about him I never got to ask.”

Kolya makes a strange sound deep in his chest. Not quite a grunt of disapproval, but something sort of like that. Then he stands and straightens his cuffs. I catch sight of a black tattoo on the back of one wrist before it disappears.

“You’re leaving.” I’m oddly disappointed.

“I have a meeting to attend. I’m already late.” He sighs and looks down at me from his full height. The sun is at his back and filtered through the willow branches, so his face is dappled in shadow. But those blue eyes shine out like beacons from the depths of it. “Goodbye, June.”

The way he says it feels so final. I suppose, in the context of today, it’s appropriate. “Goodbye, Kolya. Thanks for saving me.”

He still doesn’t smile—at this point, I’m doubting he’s even capable of it—but his features do soften a little. Then he inclines his head ever-so-slightly in a quasi-bow, turns, and walks away.

He leaves me there with a hand resting on my belly and the smell of vanilla in my nose.

It strikes me suddenly that I’m sitting here by myself, but I’m not alone. The whole point of motherhood is that I’ll never be alone again, right? I try to find some sort of bittersweet comfort in that, but when I can’t, I close my eyes instead.

I dream about being on the stage of a dark auditorium. There’s a single light aimed at the stage. Light music plays in the background, violins and the tinkling of a sorrowful piano.

“Does the one in my heart count?”

The doctor looks at me like I just told him I’m going to give birth to a three-headed dragon. My comedic timing has never been great. Of course, Adrian used to say that it had nothing to do with my timing; it was the jokes themselves.

Jokes have to be funny, Junepenny.

“Sorry. That was a joke,” I mumble. “A bad one.”

Dr. Miller gives me an awkward smile. “You don’t have to apologize, June. Everyone has different ways of coping.”

Coping. God, I hate that term. It’s a word that has failure baked into it already.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. “Physically, I mean.”

I swallow. The antiseptic smell of doctors’ offices always makes my throat itch. “Physically, I feel fine. But I was wondering…”

I spent the whole morning going back and forth on whether I should bring this up at my appointment today or not. Apparently, indecision is another coping mechanism I’ve developed as of late.

“Well, I was wondering if it was normal to develop anxiety during pregnancy,” I say. “Anxiety, like… bordering on paranoia?”

Dr. Miller doesn’t look disturbed. I take that as a good sign. “It’s perfectly normal to have anxiety and stress related to a new pregnancy,” he says, adjusting his necktie and leaning back on his stool. “After all, it is a major life change. And you’re facing it with some pretty heavy extenuating circumstances. Can I ask what symptoms in particular you’re experiencing?”

I laugh nervously to try to undercut just how real this feeling has gotten lately. “Well, sometimes I feel like I’m being… watched,” I admit. “And sometimes, I’ll get home and it feels like my stuff has been moved around. Like someone’s been in my place when I’m not there. Which is impossible because no one else has a key to my place. I mean, Adrian did. But he’s clearly not around anymore. Unless of course, his ghost is moseying around while I’m at…”

I trail off when I notice the look on Dr. Miller’s face. I wonder when I should have stopped—the morbid line about who might have a key to my house, or the ghost joke?

Jokes have to be funny, Junepenny.

I shudder. Based on how often I still hear his voice, maybe the ghost thing isn’t such a joke after all.

I clear my throat. “Anyway. Never mind. It’s probably nothing.”

But the frown on Dr. Miller’s face begs to disagree. “How long have you felt this way, June?”

“It’s probably just all in my head,” I say with another nervous laugh, even less convincing than the first. “I haven’t lived alone for a long time, and I’m just psyching myself out.”

His grimace deepens. “June, have you considered talking to a therapist? I could recommend a few good ones,” he says. “And if cost is a concern, I know several who charge nominal fees for patients with… special circumstances.”