Page 123 of Nine Months to Love
I knock.
Footsteps approach from inside. Light ones. The door opens and a woman appears. Red hair pulled back in a ponytail, chocolate brown eyes, a dusting of freckles across her nose. She’s wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweater. No makeup. Pretty in a natural way that doesn’t need enhancement.
“Can I help you?” she asks, wrinkling her forehead in confusion.
“I’m looking for Iakov.”
“Oh!” She smiles. “Are you a friend of his?”
“Something like that.”
She opens the door wider. “I’m Arielle. Come in. He’s in the shower, but he should be done soon.”
I glance at Taras, as if to say,Is she for fucking real?He just shrugs and we step inside.
The apartment is nicer than I expected. Real hardwood floors, an overstuffed couch in neutral beige, a wool throw draped carelessly over one arm—domestic shit that reeks of movie night cuddles and shared popcorn bowls.
My eyes catch on the bookshelf wedged between two ferns. It’s mostly romance novels. I never pegged Iakov for a secret sap.
Photos clutter the walls like a museum exhibit titledLook How Normal We Are. Arielle laughing on a beach, hair whipping in salt-kissed wind. Iakov grinning beside her at some rooftop bar, cocktail in hand. A framed snapshot of them hugging an overexcited golden retriever. So domestic it ought to be illegal.
Taras nudges a woven basket of throw pillows with his boot. “Homey,” he mutters.
I don’t answer. The warmth here feels like a taunt. A middle finger disguised as a fucking Pottery Barn catalog. Every carefully curated detail whispers,This could’ve been you if you’d made different choices.
If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe it.
“I’m Arielle,” the woman says. “Actually, I think I told you that already. Silly me. Anyway, can I get you anything? Coffee? I just baked banana bread if you’re hungry.”
“Coffee would be great,” I say.
“Me, too,” Taras adds.
She leads us to the kitchen. It’s more of the same in here: open and bright, lived-in and happy, not too ostentatious, utterly forgettable.
Arielle pours coffee into two mugs and sets them on the counter. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black is fine,” I say.
“Same,” Taras says.
She smiles and leans against the counter. “So how do you know Iakov?”
“We go way back,” I say. “Family connections.”
“Oh, that’s nice. He doesn’t talk about his family much.”
“No?”
“Not really. I think it’s complicated.” She laughs softly. “But whose family isn’t, right?”
I sip my coffee. “How long have you two been together?”
“About a year now. I just moved in a few months ago.”
“Big step.”
“Yeah. But it felt right, you know?” Her eyes light up when she talks about him. “He’s really wonderful. Kind. Patient. He makes me laugh.”
