Karina

"Dad, wait for me, I'll be there soon." And a meringue smiley face.

How beautiful! The cake is exactly what I need.

Or should I write instead, "Dad, wait for us, will we be there soon?" I feel like there's more than one of us.

On our mother's side, everyone has twins. My mom has a twin sister, Aunt Lika. My grandmother does too. And I had one too; they never told me, but I overheard Mom and Grandma whispering about it. My little sister's heart didn't work when we were still embryos.

Mom suffered a lot from that, probably why they only had me.

So, I'm pretty sure Mark is going to be a dad twice over. I haven't had the ultrasound yet, it's too early. I feel good, and when Mark arrives, we'll go together.

Good thing I Googled "How to originally tell your husband about pregnancy." Dozens of ways popped up. Mark's not my husband yet, but he'll like a cake like this.

A "You're going to be a dad soon" T-shirt would be nice too. And the stork's message: "I'm already flying, I'll arrive in nine months."

I don't know about a Kinder Surprise with a pregnancy test. I immediately ruled out all options with pregnancy tests. The way I did it, handing a used test to a man, in any form, isn't too hygienic. You can seal it in film, but that's not a good option.

But the cake, yes, the cake is the best. Small, to fit the inscription. Maybe Gromov doesn't like sweets at all, I didn't have time to ask. We didn't have time for that.

I need to call the confectionery to make the cake before Mark arrives. I've been waiting for him every day since he flew to Israel for treatment.

I think I heard a car horn, I look out the window. I thought I did. It's off-season, demand is not high. No one has come this morning.

If I weren't alone, I'd lie in a hammock behind the house, under the trees, but I can't. My parents went to visit my dad's mom. She had surgery, and now Mom's taking care of her, and Dad won't move a step without Mom.

I bite into a juicy apple and lazily browse the news section. Some famous actors who recently married are already on the verge of divorce. A popular singer's husband cheated on her with her friend, and she kicked him out. Good for her, I'd do the same, and send my friend after him.

My eye catches a familiar name.

"Martin Gromov, heir to his grandfather Boris Bronsky's billions, returned from Israel where he was treated after an accident on the road..."

Annoyed, I drop my smartphone. Why do they call Mark Martin?

Someone made a mistake from the start, and the rest of the media followed suit, multiplying the error. They write that Mark died and his brother Martin survived. But I know the truth!

It was Mark who survived, I saw Martin's cold, lifeless gaze with my own eyes. No pulse, no heartbeat. I dragged both him and Mark and put them in the driver's seat. Though my eyes were full of tears, I saw everything.

I called the police and the ambulance and watched the divers search the sea for Mark's body. A living Mark who was in my room at that moment.

Mark Gromov, famous racing driver, multiple world circuit racing champion, and rallycross silver medalist.

Who stayed with me for almost two weeks, who said he would definitely come back for me. And whom I'm pregnant with, though he doesn't know it yet.

And most importantly, if Mark returned, why didn't he call me?

---

The plane hasn't even landed yet, and I already want to jump outside. I'm ready to descend without stairs, ready to run across the field, to do anything to make it faster.

I've lost a few days trying to convince Dad to come. He didn't agree until I threatened to leave the house and let the workers handle the gas station. And then, I still waited for my father to arrive at "Four Wheels."

I braced myself for long lectures, but Dad, surprisingly, didn't say a word. He even gave me more money for the trip, though I had my own. Not much, but I had.

All this time, Mark hasn't called, but I try not to go crazy. Of course, I feel uneasy deep down, but I try to convince myself that anything could have happened.

Mark could have lost my phone number. We threw his device into the sea together so he couldn't be tracked. And the piece of paper on which Gromov wrote it could easily have been lost. And he could also be deeply immersed in the affairs he now had to assume in place of Martin. His grandfather, Boris Bronsky, bequeathed his billions equally to both brothers, but Mark had no intention of delving into business.

"Between the two of us, Grandpa Bronsky's brains went to Marty. All I inherited was his madness," Mark told me. He transferred his share to his brother for management, reserving only the dividends.

Remembering Martin makes my nose itch. I didn't know him and truly, I feel sorry. But immediately, I'm seized by a guilty conscience, unable to help feeling deep down in my soul relieved that Mark was the one who survived. I've been in love with him since school.

He promised he would come himself, that's what he said when we parted. He took my chin, pulled my tearful face up, and I drowned in his sea-blue eyes:

"I'll come back, little one, I promise. Do you believe me?"

I nodded fervently, holding back tears, but most importantly, I believed. And now I believe, so I make my way to the exit and am the first to jump onto the staircase.

I don't pass through passport control; instead, I practically fly. I get into the first taxi I see and give the address of the village where the Gromovs live. The driver whistles, throws me a surprised look, but remains silent.

I know very rich people live there, like Mark's parents. The brothers lived separately from their parents, but now Mark has returned here; I read it in the news.

At the village entrance, they ask whom we are visiting, and I say the Gromovs.

"Are you from the catering? Are they expecting you?"

I'm not one of those, but I nod affirmatively. We'll sort it out later. The guard lifts the barrier, and the taxi enters the village on a road smooth as a mirror.

I look out the window and recognize the Gromovs' house from afar. Mark showed me photos he downloaded from his cloud, so this house is familiar to me. Near the three-meter-high fence, a whole caravan of cars is lined up.

And then my heart starts beating at triple speed because I see Mark near one of the cars. My throat knots up, tears are about to spill, and I blink often to hold them back.

"Stop," I ask the taxi driver and almost jump out of the still-moving car. Otherwise, my heart will burst out of my chest.

I clench my hands and press them against my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. Otherwise, it might break out of my chest, jump, and run across the smooth asphalt, racing me. Towards Mark. And the closer I get, the harder it beats.

"Mark!" I call out, he turns around, and I repeat in a low voice: "hello, Mark..."

I eagerly gaze at his face, so familiar and beloved. He has lost weight during his time in the clinic and also has short hair. But now I can see I was not mistaken.

It's him. My Mark. This is not Martin. I'm sorry, Marty, I'm sorry, but I love him so much... He looks at me silently, examines my face intently, furrows his brow.

"I couldn't wait for you, I came myself," I whisper, licking my salty tears, and smile broadly.

"Excuse me, but I don't know you," say the lips, which have not left a single millimeter of my body unkissed.

"What are you saying, Mark?" I wipe my cheeks with the palm of my hand and keep smiling through tears. "It's me, Karo!"

"I am not Mark," he says, with pursed lips and compassionate blue eyes. And I can't help myself, I grab his broad shoulders and shake him with all my might.

"It's you, do you hear me? You! Don't tell me that, I can see it!"

His strong masculine arms grab my wrists and gently remove my hands from his shoulders.

"It's true, Karo, I'm not Mark. I'm Martin. Excuse me, but I don't know you."

"N-n-no," I shake my head, my tears dry up, my eyes are now dry and for some reason hot, "it can't be... It's not true!"

"It can be, Karo," he smiles sadly. "I'm sorry, but my brother died. And I am Martin. I'm sorry, I have to go, I'm late for the ceremony. Today is my wedding."

He opens his arms guiltily and shakes his head, and I step back and lose my balance. I don't fall only thanks to Gromov, who catches me by the waist, and I look around helplessly.

I cast a confused glance at the caravan along the fence. Why didn't I realize right away that it was a wedding procession?