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He pulls me back against his chest. His hand on my belly. His mouth at my ear.

Three days. I’m marrying a Bratva boss on a cliff in three days, in a dress with no sleeves, with my mama in purple, Auntie Gwen not in white, Pastor Moore, and a whole wedding everybody planned but me.

And I’m having his baby.

Two months ago, I was sitting on my bed counting two thousand dollars in little stacks like Nino Brown.

Now I can’t get his ring off my finger.

And I don’t want to.

Eleven

Epilogue

Dylan

My mama snores like a leaf blower. I forgot. Twenty-two years, and I forgot. I’m lying in the guest room at the end of the hall at three in the morning, in a bed so soft I’m sinking, with the ocean going outside the window, and right next to me, Denise Jackson in her bonnet and her satin sleep mask is sawing logs like she’s getting paid for it.

Mama’s rule. You can have her every day for the rest of your life. You can’t have her the night before.

She said it to him at the front door on Friday, with her purse on her arm and Pastor Moore behind her holding the suitcases. And I watched Sasha Maksimov look down at my five-foot-two mama for a real long time.

Then he let go of my hand.

He let go of my hand. I didn’t know he could.

I roll over and look at the ring. Even in the dark, it’s catching light from somewhere. Then I put my hand on my stomach under the covers. Still flat. Still soft. Still just me.

It’s not just me.

I’m marrying him in thirteen hours.

That’s when I see it. Under the door. The line of light from the hall, and in the middle of it, a shadow. Two feet. Big ones. Standing right there.

Not moving.

My heart jumps straight into my throat.

I know it’s him. I know it before I even think it. I can feel him through the door the way you feel a storm coming. He’s standing out there in the dark at three in the morning, on the other side of one piece of wood, and he’s not knocking, and he’s not leaving.

He’s just there.

Most girls would call the police.

I get out of bed real quiet so I don’t wake Mama, and I walk over to the door in my bare feet, and I put my hand flat on it. Right in the middle. The wood’s cool. On the other side, I swear I can hear him breathing.

I don’t open it.

I stand there with my hand on that door and my thighs squeezed together and my whole body leaning toward him like a plant in a window, and I don’t open it.

I stand there till the sky outside goes gray.

When I finally look down, the shadow’s gone.

* * *

I come downstairs at seven-fifteen, and there’s gospel playing in his kitchen.