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The thought arrives unbidden, as I can’t look away from Vasily. He reaches across the seat between us and takes my hand.
“I’m sorry,” I say, fumbling with how to handle this. “I just thought you should know, Mom.”
“No, no,” she interrupts, tears in her voice but alongside them, strength. “This is a good thing, Matilda. This is an end.”
I ask if she’s going to be okay, and she says she will, which I take as the truth. Vasily’s hand over mine is warm, calloused, and protective. We chat for another minute or so, making plans to meet soon, to go out to dinner or lunch. I promise her to make time for it, and find I’m actually looking forward to seeing her soon.
When the call is over, I let out a shaky breath.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Vasily looks up at me, his eyelashes surprisingly dark and long, I notice for the first time.
“For what?”
“For keeping your promise.”
His thumb brushes across my knuckles. Then he leans closer and kisses me. It’s soft, almost not a kiss at all. Farther back along the road, the sirens pick up in volume as a fire engine and two cruisers approach the condos.
When Vasily pulls back, his eyes stay on mine.
“I love you, Matilda.”
Everything inside me stops.
I stare at him.
I know what I should say. I’ve known for weeks. I’ve felt it growing every time he looks at me, every time he protects someone. Every time he makes room for me in a life that supposedly has no room for love.
But the words catch in my throat.
“Vasily…”
His expression shifts when he hears the tone in my voice. The warning.
“What?”
“I have something to tell you. Something you should know.”
He goes still, something that looks dangerously close to fear in his eyes. He pulls back slightly.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Not here. Not yet.” His jaw tightens as he glances toward the road, having to speak louder now to be heard over all the commotion. A cop is waving people out of the street, directing our driver to head further down. “Let me take you to dinner first.”
A faint, sad smile touches his mouth.
“We have something to celebrate.”
* * *
By the time we reach the restaurant, I’m still trying to understand how I got here.
At some point during the day, while I was apparently too distracted to notice anything around me, the staff decided I needed a gown. Not just a dress, but a gown. It’s the kind I would normally wear to a Manhattan gala, something elegant enough that I feel wildly overdressed for anything involving a man who spent the morning watching his accountant walk out of jail and setting my father up to disappear.
I called Isla before we left. I told her I was thinking about telling Vasily about the baby.
