This Chance Planet Read Online Free

of those creaking noises old women make, too knowing to really count as either a sigh or a laugh. “When you’ve been riding the Metro as long as I have, you’ve seen a broken heart for every iron rail. You should get rid of him. Pretty girl like you.”
    â€œI already did,” I said, feeling better. Was I really taking dating advice from Baba Yaga?
    That chicken-legged hut was sounding better and better.
    â€œStick to your guns,” she said. “Remember when he comes crawling back that you can do better. He will crawl back. They always do. Especially when he finds out that you’re pregnant.”
    â€œI—” What ?
    As if answering her diagnosis, my stomach lurched again, acid tickling the back of my throat.
    She laid a finger alongside her nose. “Babushkas can smell it, sweetheart,” she said. “We always know.”
    *   *   *
    Ilya was there when I got home, of course. Throwing them out never works. And I knew he was home—I mean, there —before I touched my key to the door.
    I could hear the music, his fingers flickering across the six strings of his guitar. He was better then I remembered. Arpeggios and instants, flickers of sound and wile and guile. It was beautiful, and I paused for a few moments with my cheek pressed against the door. Maybe he did have the means to change the world with his music.
    So maybe I’ve been unkind.
    To his talent, in the least.
    Ilya sat on the couch, bent over his guitar as if it were a lover. His fringe fell over his forehead and I found my hand at my mouth. I was biting the tips of my fingers to keep from smoothing that lock.
    He looked up, saw me, finished the arpeggio. Set his guitar aside, walked past me, and shut and locked the neglected door. Looked at me, and I could see through his eyes like ice to the formulated lie.
    Before he opened his mouth, I said, “I saw you.”
    He blinked. I had him on the wrong foot and I didn’t care. “Saw me?”
    â€œWith her,” I said. “Whoever the hell she was. I don’t want to hear your excuses.”
    He seemed smaller when he asked, “How?”
    I didn’t mean to tell him, but some laughs are so bitter and rough that words stick to them on their way out. “Remember the dog?” I asked. “The metro dog? She showed me.”
    â€œI don’t understand—”
    â€œYou don’t have to.” I sat down on the floor, all of a sudden. Because it was there. I put my face in my hands for similar reasons. “Fuck, Ilya, I’m pregnant.”
    There was silence. Long silence. When I finally managed to fight the redoubled force of gravity and raise my face to him, he was staring at me.
    â€œPregnant,” he said.
    I nodded.
    â€œBut that’s great!” he said. And then he stomped on my flare of hope before I even knew I felt it. “You can sell that . The embryo! They’re nothing but stem cells at that point—”
    â€œSell it,” I said.
    â€œYes,” he said.
    â€œTo fund your tour?”
    â€œWhy else?”
    Oh god .
    I didn’t realize I’d said it aloud until Ilya stopped raving and looked down at me. “What?”
    â€œOh, God,” I said. “Fuck you.”
    Somehow, I stood up. I remember my hand on the floor, the ache of my thighs as if I were drunk. I remember looking him in the eye. I remember what I said.
    It was, “Keep the fucking apartment. I’ll call tomorrow and take my name off the lease.”
    â€œPetra?”
    I turned my back on him. He was babbling something about food in the oven. About how was he supposed to make the rent.
    I paused with a hand on the knob. “Go peddle it on Tverskaya Prospekt for all I care.”
    *   *   *
    Of course, I was halfway to the lift before I realized I had nothing but my work clothes, my bag, and two pairs of shoes—one of those quite impractical.
    Well, I