28. Ariel
28
ARIEL
The sheets still smell like him.
I shove my face into the pillow and breathe deep. It’s humiliating how that paints a stupid smile on my face. If I press my ear to it, I swear I can almost hear his murmured grunts still echoing, like how the inside of a seashell sounds like the ocean.
Just sex. Just sex. That’s the mantra. He says it, I say it, and we both pretend to believe it’s still true.
But I knew from the first thrust in the taverna that I messed up. You can’t keep sex out of love or love out of sex. They’re two peas in one fucked-up pod.
My thighs still ache, even though it’s been hours since he left. Another night of slipping in, fucking me silently with his palm over my mouth, then slipping right back out.
No puns intended.
A knock startles me upright in bed. “You alive in here, o sister of mine?”
I yank the duvet up to my chin like Jasmine will see the evidence written on my skin. “Awake, yes. Alive, less so.”
Jasmine nudges the door open with her hip, two steaming mugs of tea in hand. Her gaze flicks to the mangled sheets, my underwear on the floor, all the things that of course she would instantly catalog and understand. “Rough night?”
“Bite me.”
“Looks like someone already did.” She sets a mug on the nightstand. The ginger fumes make my nose wrinkle. “Really, though—you doing okay, Ari?”
I blow on my tea. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
“Don’t deflect.”
“I’m not.”
“Are, too.”
“Fine.” The ceramic scalds my palms. “I’m just, like… Ish.”
“Ish,” she echoes, lips pursed thoughtfully. “What kind of ‘ish’ are we talking here?”
“Unsettled-ish, maybe.”
“Ah. The technical term.” She tucks a wild curl behind my ear, her touch lingering like Mama’s used to. “Want to unpack that?”
I look at my reflection in the black puddle of the tea. “It’s nothing. Just… hormones. Sasha being Sasha. The usual.”
Her gaze flicks to the rumpled sheets. “The usual involving midnight calisthenics, I see.”
“Jas—”
“You don’t have to tell me.” She squeezes my knee through the duvet. “But you can’t outrun it forever, you know. Whatever it is. Ish or not-ish.”
“Oh, I beg to differ. I’m the queen of outrunning. Olympic gold champion.”
Jas flicks me in the ear. “Outrunning your feelings, maybe. Outrunning me? You wish, Miss Ish.” She stands, sunlight catching the silver streaks in her hair. “I need help with something out back. Get dressed.”
“What kind of something?”
“The kind that involves sunlight and not brooding in your stank-smelling cave all day long.” She tosses a pair of Kosti’s old overalls at me. They land with a thwap . “Wear these. You’ll thank me when the rat snakes show up.”
The “something” turns out to be a quarter-acre of weeds behind the villa that Jasmine has decided, in her infinite optimism, will become a vegetable garden. Does it matter to her that we’ll be gone in ten weeks and therefore will not be here when these things bear fruit? No, it does not. Does she care that yardwork sounds miserable? Not one bit.
“This is hell,” I say, hacking at a thistle with more violence than strictly necessary.
“This is character-building.” Jas yanks a root ball free with a grunt. “And also, free childcare prep. Twin toddlers will make this look like a spa day. You will long for fields of weeds and the silence in which you once tended to them.”
The sun crests the villa’s clay-tiled roof, baking the sweat down my spine. I’m ankle-deep in topsoil and actually, dare I say, maybe even starting to enjoy myself, when boots crunch gravel behind us.
“Where’s the fire?” I ask without turning.
Sasha’s shadow stretches long over my shovel. “Elsewhere.”
I swipe sweat from my brow. “Care to elaborate?”
Kosti shoulders past with a rifle case. “Care to mind your business, koukla ?”
I frown. “Really, though. Where are you two gallivanting off to?”
Kosti and Sasha look at each other, then both shrug in unison. “Elsewhere,” they chorus together.
With perfect comedic timing, Jas and I roll our eyes in unison, too. “You guys are spending too much time together,” I mutter with a scowl. “It’s… unsettling.”
“Ish,” adds Jas.
“We’ll be back soon, my lovely nieces,” Uncle Kosti chirps. “Have no fear.”
Then, whistling, he turns and saunters toward the rental car. Sasha follows him, though not with one long, hard look back at me.
“What’s gotten into them?” I ponder when the car disappears down the drive. The former rosebush—now more of a thorn-bush—that I’m murdering takes another hit. “They’re being weird.”
Jas tosses me a canteen. “Stop being dramatic. Drink some water and pass the shears.”
I take a long chug as I watch dust settle where the Peugeot vanished.
By sunset, blisters outnumber regrets. We stand and admire our battlefield—rows of turned earth, the skeletal remains of an old trellis we dug up, and the distinct absence of the rat snakes about which I was warned.
Jasmine inspects a blistered palm. “Not bad for day one.”
“Day one of what, precisely?” I ask.
“It’s been a dream of mine since I was a little girl to have a garden,” she explains fondly. “New life pushing up through the earth, fresh produce. Sounds dreamy, right? Have you ever had a carrot right out of the ground?”
“How poetic,” I say with a laugh. “And no, I have not. Nor have you. We grew up in Brighton Beach, Jas.”
“Exactly. I bet it tastes like candy.”
“I bet it tastes like carrot.”
She splashes me with the last of the lukewarm backwash in the canteen. I laugh in outrage, then throw a clot of dirt that explodes in spectacular fashion against her turned back. From there, things dissolve into dirt flying back and forth until we’re both cackling and absolutely filthy from head to toe.
Eventually, the sweat overcomes the giggles. But it doesn’t stop Jasmine from pulling me into a hug and planting a sloppy kiss on top of my head. “I love you, Ari. Never forget that. Whatever you’re going through is what I’m going through, too.”
“I love you, too.”
We both look up when the sound of a distant engine starts to grow louder. A minute later, the Peugeot crests the hill and comes to a sighing stop in front of the villa.
“Ah, the conquering heroes return,” I tease as Sasha and Uncle Kosti clamber out of the vehicle. “All hail. Has the world been saved? Have the secrets been buried?”
My sarcasm dies mid-bite when he yanks open the backseat.
Sunlight catches on pearls first—the double strand Mama never takes off. Then the sundress, butter-yellow and rumpled from travel. Her chignon is flawless.
When she’s out, she pauses and looks at us. “My girls,” Mama breathes, hands fluttering over her mouth.
My shovel clatters to the gravel.
While I’m still mid-processing, Zoya unfolds herself from the other side, all no-nonsense linen and shrewd eyes. “Try not to faint, Belle. You already cried the whole flight.”
“You—” I’m six years old again, skinned knees and messy braids, as I gaze stupidly at my mother, then at Sasha. “You brought her here ?”
Sasha leans against the Peugeot, arms crossed. He shrugs and says nothing.
I run toward her. Mama’s perfume envelops me—gardenias and home. Her palm cradles my cheek, trembling. “Oh, baby girl,” she murmurs over and over again. “Look at you. Look at you. I can’t stop looking at you.”
The twins kick.
Or maybe it’s my heart, swollen and raw between us.
Then I step aside. Mama looks over my shoulder and I follow her gaze. Jasmine is still standing where I left her in the garden. Both she and Mama have a hand to their mouth.
Slowly, slowly, Jasmine starts to move toward us. She picks up speed as she goes. Walking and then jogging and then sprinting until she’s flying over the ground and into Mama’s arms.
Their collision is somehow gentle despite its speed. Like two clouds melting together. Mama cradles Jasmine’s head to her shoulder as if she’s afraid she might disappear if she clings too tight.
Same, Mama. Same.
I hang back, one hand cradling my belly as I watch them cry and laugh and touch each other’s faces. The scene feels surreal to me, so I can only imagine what she’s feeling. My mother finding out about both her long-lost daughter and her impending grandchildren in the same breath.
Belle’s palm cups Jasmine’s cheek. “My girl. My brave, beautiful girl.”
Jasmine’s shoulders shake. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I left you?—”
“Hush now . I’m the one who owes you all the sorries in the world. But we’re here now. We’re here, baby. That’s all that matters.”
Jas chokes out a laugh through her tears, her knuckles white where they clutch Mama’s cardigan. Fifteen years apart, and now this. My chest throbs, an ache unfurling that has nothing to do with pregnancy heartburn.
Mama’s pearls catch sunlight when she turns toward me, her smile wobbling. “Ari, sunshine, come here.” She holds my hand and Jasmine’s together as the three of us knit a circle of arms together. Mama grazes my belly with the backs of her knuckles. The touch breaks something loose inside me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” I whisper as tears spill down my cheeks.
“Don’t you dare apologize to me, princess. You don’t owe me a single sorry, either. I just want to sit here for a minute with my babies and breathe. Can we do that? Is that okay?”
“Yeah, Mama,” I say through a choked throat.
Jas nods, too.
As she pulls us into a tangled hug, I glance over her shoulder and look at Sasha. He’s leaning against the hood of the car as Zoya pokes and prods his ribs, muttering in Russian. He swats her away, but there’s no heat in it.
Our eyes meet.
He smiles.
Dinner is a time capsule.
Spanakopita crust flakes onto my plate as Kosti serves dish after dish under Belle’s direction, his tattoos absurd against her floral apron. “Remember when you used to burn the tyropita ?” Jasmine grins, licking feta off her thumb.
Belle swats her with an oven mitt. “Remember when you set the toaster on fire trying to make Pop-Tarts?”
“That was one time ?—”
Zoya laughs into her wine. Sasha sits back in his chair, face blank but calm. He hasn’t eaten much, but some of the usual storm clouds that live over his head 24/7 seem to have dissipated.
It’s like we’ve all come to an unspoken agreement to keep things light, for tonight at least. Maybe it’s just that there’s been so much heartbreak and suffering over the last six months that it’s crazy to bring it to this dinner table. Even if it’s sticking our head in the sand, even if we’re purposefully being oblivious, it’s nice.
Family dinner. Like we’ve always done it.
The air is dense with oregano, lemon, garlic. Kosti produces a record player out of nowhere and spins Mama around the room as she laughs. When Sasha asks Zoya if she wants to dance, she playfully whacks him in the shins with her cane and tells him to stay the hell away from her.
Nothing is fixed, of course. Dragan is still out there, we’re still stuck here, and the world is as broken as it’s ever been. The weight of Mama’s unasked questions hangs heavy in the air. What happened with Leander? How did I end up pregnant? Why am I here with the man who was supposed to be my husband? But she doesn’t voice any of them. just passes the spanakopita and smiles when I take seconds. For tonight, in this house, at this table…
We’re okay.
I’ll take it.
“Let me help you get ready for bed,” Mama says once the dishes have been cleaned, in that tone that means it’s not really a request. It’s so achingly familiar that I can’t refuse.
We go upstairs, arm in arm. She sits me at the vanity, just like when I was little, and begins brushing my hair. The repetitive strokes are soothing, almost hypnotic. Each stroke of the silver brush pulls me backward—toward princess braids before school plays, to nights just like this one. All the tiny little moments of normality woven in between the darker chapters.
“You used to yelp when I hit a snarl,” she murmurs, working through a knot at my nape. Her reflection smiles in the vanity mirror. “Remember?”
“I don’t miss those detangler tears,” I laugh. The scent of her almond oil makes my throat ache. You don’t realize how much you’ve missed a thing until you get to have it again, however briefly.
That almond oil scent lingers even after she sets the brush down. But when her hands go still on my shoulders, I catch her watching me meaningfully in the mirror. She touches a fading bruise beneath my collarbone. “What kind of tears are we crying these days, sweetheart?”
My knuckles whiten in my lap. “Can we not?—”
“You love him.” Not a question.
I focus on the vanity’s nicked wood. “What I feel doesn’t matter. This… arrangement… It’s temporary.”
Her sigh ribbons through the silence. “Oh, Ariel. When have you ever been good at temporary?” The brush resumes its path, gentler now. My scalp prickles where her gaze lingers. “Hearts want what they want, dear. Even when our heads scream no .”
“What if my heart’s an idiot?”
Her laugh is warm, familiar. “Then you’ll be in excellent company.” The brush glides through a final snarl. “We’re all fools for love in one way or another. The trick is deciding whether to fight it, or let it make you brave.” She kisses my head. “I know what you are. Sleep well, my brave girl. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She shuffles off down the hall. I hear Jasmine’s door open and their two voices start to flow together. They keep going, a comforting melody layered on top of the croaks and groans of the old villa.
The sheets are cool against my sunburnt shoulders as I slip into bed. Mama laughs at something Jasmine says—that deep belly laugh I haven’t heard in so long.
Through the window, more sounds float in. Zoya and Sasha, out in the courtyard, murmuring in Russian, like a bass line to the song of all my loved ones being here.
I press a palm to the swell beneath my ribcage. The twins kick in stereo—left side, then right—as if they’re as warm and fuzzy as I am.
What if my heart’s an idiot?
Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Right now, though, it’s hard to be anything but happy as sleep lowers me down into dreams that don’t feel awfully different from how reality went today.