CHAPTER 20
Sasha
“ Although I conquer all the earth ,” he recites, his head pillowed on my chest between my breasts, his ear over my heart,
“Yet for me there is only one city.
In that city there is only one house;
And in that house, one room only;
And in that room, a bed.
And one woman sleeps there,
The shining joy and jewel of all my kingdom.”
He brushes his lips against my skin, then settles his ear over my heart again.
The sun came up hours ago, but we have yet to get dressed or get out of bed. At some point, after peeing, I put my panties back on, and he pulled on some boxer briefs. But we are mostly naked, entwined together on his bed, three books of poetry surrounding us.
“Who wrote that one?”
“Author unknown.” He sighs. “But it was written in Sanskrit. So…ancient Indian?” He rolls to his side and props an elbow on the bed, so he can look up at me. “That’s how I feel about you. You’re the only woman—the only person —in my whole world.”
If I thought Vaughn had a romantic streak before we made love? I think I’ve unlocked a whole new level of romance since last night.
And no wonder. Last night was…amazing. It’s everything I wish we’d shared together six years ago before I left for New York, and he was whisked off to Moscow. I resent those wasted, lonely years apart. They were part of our journey, yes, and we have so much life ahead that we can choose to spend together. But still. I wish I could have them back.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I reach for him, and he scooches up the bed to lie on his back beside me. I roll to my side and rest my head on his shoulder. He puts an arm around me, holding me close.
“You’re quiet. What is it?” he asks again, kissing the top of my head.
“I wish…I wish you’d been my first. I wish what happened last night had happened before I went to New York.”
“Mmm,” he murmurs. “Me, too.”
I can’t help but think about all of the women he’s been with. I have no idea what the number is, and frankly, I don’t want to know. But they existed. It’s silly to pretend that they didn’t.
“You were with a lot of women while we were apart.”
Under my head, I feel him take a deep breath and hold it before letting it go slowly. “My biggest regret.”
“They must have been…very experienced.”
“Hey,” he says, reaching for my chin and tilting back my head so he can see my eyes, and I can see his. “Being with you last night was the single best sexual experience of my life. Wait. No. Fuck that. It was the single best sexual, physical, emotional, spiritual experience of my life, all rolled into one. Being with you was everything I ever dreamed of, Sasha. There was no one else in this bed with us. Not on my side. No ghosts. No memories but ours. Nobody but you.”
I know he believes what he’s saying. I can see the conviction in his eyes and hear it in his voice.
“I may need a little reassurance now and then,” I say.
“I’ve got you,” he says, kissing my head again. After a moment of silence, he clears his throat. “While we’re on the subject, though…you were a virgin when I left for Moscow…but you weren’t last night.”
“No.”
“Lovers? A boyfriend?”
My list numbers three—someone I was seeing for a few weeks, a one-night stand with Phillip, and a short-term relationship with a fellow dancer from Buenos Aires.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. “The list isn’t long.”
“Did you love any of them?” he asks, his voice low and soft.
“No,” I say. He’s still propped on his elbow, and I reach for his face, cupping his cheek, his stubble tickling my palm. “Vaughn, this is the truth. I’ve never loved anyone but you.”
He rolls on top of me, kissing me hungrily. Reaching between us, he tugs at his underwear, and I do the same. He is hard and thick from our talking and kissing and nakedness, and I am wet from earlier this morning, and from his touch and his uncertainty and his tenderness. He enters me smoothly with one well-positioned thrust. A sword to sheath. A key to lock. My back arches off the bed as he fills me.
“I love you,” he gasps. “You belong to me, and I belong to you.”
“Yes,” I cry, meeting his thrusts. “Forever.”
I didn’t know, before hearing these words, what a turn on they would be, but being with Vaughn again has been a fantasy since the day I lost him. I have my first petite orgasm, my pussy clamping around his erection as he groans softly and continues thrusting.
I bend my knees, drawing them up as high as I can while he plunges deeper inside of me. Reaching for my hands and flattening them on either side of my head, he laces his fingers through mine, then leans down to kiss me just as my second orgasm builds to almost-bursting.
“I’m so close,” I tell him.
“Me, too,” he pants.
I bite my lower lip, hoping the pain will give me an extra second or two for him to join me, but a swirling deep within me has already taken hold, and I can’t stop it. Every muscle inside of me clenches tightly, then releases, pulsing so fast, I throw back my head and surrender. I hear him cry out my name seconds later, his body tensing before I feel his thick, hot tribute flood my sex.
I love him.
I belong to him, and he belongs to me.
I hold him fast, running my fingers up and down his spine as we roll in the waves together.
I will never let him go.
***
“I’m starving,” I say.
“I’ll order us something,” he says, leaning over me to grab his phone off the floor.
Though his condo is air-conditioned, a strong, late-summer sun streams through his bedroom windows. His back is glistening. This room is musty with sex and sweat. It smells like us. I don’t mind. I never want to leave this bed, but my stomach is growling.
“Do you have eggs?” I ask him.
“Probably,” he says.
I shake my head at him. “You don’t even know what’s in your refrigerator, do you?”
He grins at me, opening an app on his phone. “Whatever you want, I’ll have it here in half an hour.”
“ You are a billionaire, Ivan Stepanov,” I say, “but I am not. Don’t order anything until I check for food first. I make a very decent omelet.”
Jumping out of bed, I pull my panties back on, grab the white shirt he was wearing last night, and shrug it on as I head to the kitchen to make us some food. There’s got to be something .
I open his refrigerator to find it stocked with bottled water and two bottles of white wine, plus some cheese in the crisper, a very old and tired-looking apple, and a few condiments on the door.
“Wow,” I mutter. “Bachelor life confirmed.”
Opening the freezer, I find it holds two bottles of vodka, a package of pierogies with freezer burn and a vacuum-sealed gourmet pizza.
“Bingo!” I crow, putting the pizza on the counter and looking around for a cookie sheet.
I find one in a cabinet by the stove, set the oven to 425 degrees, and put the pizza on the cookie sheet as I wait for the oven to preheat. Overhead, I hear water rush through the pipes. He must have realized, as I did, that we’re both pretty ripe. As soon as the pizza’s cooking, I’ll go join him.
Milling around his kitchen, I notice a small stack of mail sitting by a bowl of fake lemons. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I gingerly peek at the envelopes, which are mostly addressed to Ivan Stepanov or Fostering the Arts and feature various return addresses.
The Kennedy Center.
Mrs. R. H. Elliott.
Virginia Power and Water.
The Weslie, LLC.
Johns Hopkins Cardiac Rehabilitation Center.
Huh. The return address is one I know well. It’s where Bubbie received all of her post-op care. Separating the envelope from the rest, I realize that the addressee is different, too. Instead of finding Ivan Stepanov or Fostering the Arts in the cellophane window, the envelope is addressed to The VC Foundation, Attn: Ivan Stepanov.
My heart races.
Bubbie’s angel donor is the VC Foundation.
The oven chirps to let me know it’s hot.
Without thinking, I open the envelope and take out the invoice inside, my jaw-dropping as I scan the document.
CARDIAC CARE, August: Alexandra Rabinovich…………………………$8,000
Rx CARE, August: Alexandra Rabinovich…………………………………..$1,265
Prickles crawl up my throat, making my face hot as I realize what I’m looking at.
Vaughn is Bubbie’s angel donor.
Vaughn has been paying for my grandmother’s rehabilitation and prescriptions since her heart attack.
The invoice blurs as tears flood my eyes, and I flatten my hands on the counter, telling myself to breathe. But the tears come anyway. They slide in rivers down my cheeks. They’re still falling when I hear Vaughn’s footsteps coming down the stairs.
And that’s how he finds me—with a frozen pizza on a cookie sheet, a chirping oven, and me, crying over an invoice I had no right to be reading.
His face registers concern instantly.
“Why are you crying? What’s …”
He freezes on the other side of the counter as his eyes skate to the invoice. When he slides his gaze back up to me, his face is uncertain.
I gulp softly, stepping around the counter.
“Are you angry?” he whispers, scanning my face.
“Angry?” I squeak. “You’ve been…you’ve been helping Bubbie since…”
“January.” He clears his throat. “I just…I wanted her to have the best care.”
“Vaughn!” I sob, lurching forward as he opens his arms to me.
Wrapping me tightly against his chest, he kisses the top of my head. “I wanted to help.”
I tilt my head back to look up at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to know! I didn’t want you to feel like you owed me anything. You’d been in an accident and lost time in your career. And then your Bubbie had a heart attack, and you had to leave your job in London. You’d lost enough. I needed to do something for you, Sasha. I couldn’t bear for you to lose her, too.”
“You’re a good person,” I tell him, smiling up at him through my tears.
“I wasn’t,” he says, his eyes hooded and his lips downturned. “For a while there, I really lost my way. You helped me find it again.”
“ You did the work,” I say, reaching up to wipe my tears away, then caress his cheek with my knuckles. “Volunteering with your mother and sister. Finding a good therapist. Setting up Fostering the Arts . You made your own comeback.”
“The Redemption of Ivan Stepanov,” he says softly.
The oven chirps again, and I wiggle away from him to pop the pizza in the oven. When I turn back around, he has a funny expression on his face.
“What?” I ask him. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
He grins at me, tilting his head to the side and looking completely delicious. Maybe I don’t need that pizza after all…
“Just wondering…” he says, “how do you feel about a visit to Moscow in January?”
***
Vaughn
Driving Sasha back to Maryland on Sunday is bittersweet.
Having her in my apartment all weekend was a dream come true. Returning to that apartment later today will be…lonely.
Now that Sasha’s back in my life, I don’t want moments with her, I want forever . I want her to fall asleep beside me every night and wake up next to me in the morning. I want her to make frozen pizza in my kitchen wearing my shirt from the night before. I want her to help me get Fostering the Arts off the ground and be as passionate about its success as I am. I want our kids to have her eyes and her goodness.
I want it all.
The temptation to run out and buy a giant engagement ring for her is strong, but we’re already moving fast. Realistically, I know we need time. And I’m beyond thankful that we’ve come as far as we have. I’m also very aware that none of my current happiness would be possible without her extraordinary ability to see the good in everyone, to believe in the people she cares about, and to offer forgiveness when someone she loves shows contrition.
That she could give me another chance so willingly, that she’s sitting beside me now, after everything we’ve been through, proves what a kind and big-hearted person she is.
“Do you have to get back to the city quickly?” she asks me, looking up from her phone.
“I have meetings tomorrow, but I’m not in a hurry,” I say, wondering why she’s asking and hoping it’s because her house is empty, and we can christen her bed the same way we did mine.
“Sayaka’s having a BBQ this afternoon to celebrate my brothers’ birthdays. She’s invited you to come.”
I glance at her quickly to gauge her expression, then steer my gaze back to the road. “Is that a good idea?”
Over the weekend, she told me that her family had been her emotional support after I left for Moscow and treated her so callously. I doubt very much that I have many fans within the Collins family.
“Do you want to be a part of my life?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She sighs. “Then, we’re going to have to bite the bullet sooner or later. Better on Sayaka’s turf than my mom’s.”
That sounds ominous.
“Your mom hates me that much, huh?”
“She is definitely not your number one fan.”
Ooof.
“Great, Sasha. Sounds like a really fun time.”
“Hey,” she says, holding up her palms. “I wasn’t the one who blew up our relationship, Vaughn. That was all you.”
She isn’t wrong, but her words hurt. “I know that, but I can’t change my past. I said I’m sorry—”
“I know.”
“I took responsibility. I’ve tried to make amends.”
“I know that, too.”
“I felt forgiven.”
“You are forgiven…by me,” she says, her voice gentle as she places her hand on my forearm and squeezes. “But not by them. Not yet.”
“So…what? You want me to go to a family BBQ and grovel for your family’s forgiveness?”
“Sounds good,” she says, patting my arm. “I’ll let Sayaka know you’re in.”
Great.
***
We stop for flowers for me to give to Sayaka and at a Home Depot for two gift cards. Sasha assures me that these gifts will be well-received, but I know as well as she does that nothing I can put in an envelope will make up for the way I treated her.
Sasha is able to take a leap of faith in forgiving me because she never stopped loving me, but I have no hope that her family will do the same. I can apologize, tell them I’ve changed, and assure them that I will never hurt Sasha again. But words are cheap in situations like these. Only time and constancy will prove my devotion to her and my rehabilitation to them.
“It’ll be okay,” she says, as I follow the directions to the mapped location on my GPS. “We can tell them what you did for Bubbie, too. That’ll help—”
“No!” I say, in a harsh tone that betrays my nerves. “That’s my secret to share or not to share. Not yours.”
“I only thought that it would help—for them to know you’ve been so kind to her.”
“I don’t want them to like me because of that. I don’t want to buy their respect. I want to earn it, or it won’t mean anything.”
“You gave us more time with her,” she insists. “Without any ulterior motive. Just because you could. Just because it would make me happy. If that isn’t the purest form of love, Vaughn, what is?”
“Making you happy,” I tell her, “is my primary goal, for the rest of my life. But I won’t use it to make your family forgive me for the way I treated you.” I take a deep breath and let it go slowly. “It’ll just take time. But I’ve got time. I know who I am. And I’m not going anywhere unless you’re coming with me.”
Her hand reaches for mine, and she laces our fingers together as I turn onto a residential street with small, well-kept houses.
“That’s their house,” she says, pointing out the window.
I pull into a newly paved driveway and park in a circle that separates a two-story, light-blue house from a detached two-car garage. The grass in front of the house is a neatly cut, bright, lush green, and there are bright pink flowers planted around the porch steps. Three small saplings have recently been planted and mulched on the front lawn.
“Someone likes gardening,” I say.
“Sayaka. She loves it. Those are Japanese cherry blossoms,” says Sasha, grinning at me as I turn off the car. “They’re going to be beautiful someday.”
“I love the cherry blossoms in D.C.,” I tell her.
“This spring, when they’re in bloom,” she says, unbuckling her seat belt and pivoting in her seat to face me, “we’ll pack a basket of challah and poetry…and go find the perfect place for a picnic.”
“Promise?” I ask her, leaning forward to press my lips to hers.
“I promise,” she says, her eyes brimming with love for me. She glances at the house, then back at me, her expression determined. “Let’s go face the music.”
Holding Sayaka’s flowers in one hand and the gift cards in my other, I follow Sasha around the house to the backyard. I can hear the Collinses before they come into view—children splashing in a kiddie pool, a woman singing along to a Jimmy Buffett song, and a man asking for a platter for the burgers. This is the sort of all-American family I’ve never really known and always longed for.
Too bad they all hate your guts.
We turn the corner to find a patio with a festively decorated picnic table, sitting area, and grill. There’s a kiddie pool on the grass with a nice, new swing set behind it. Music plays through an open window, and Happy Birthday balloons bob in the afternoon breeze.
“Sasha!”
Mrs. Collins notices her daughter first, crossing the patio to greet us, and enveloping her in a welcoming hug, before stepping back to look at me. Her eyes are cool. She raises her chin.
“Hello, Vaughn.”
I pass Sayaka’s flowers to Sasha and offer her my hand.
“Hello, Mrs. Collins.”
“Yulya, please,” she says, shaking my hand perfunctorily. “You’re not a kid anymore.”
“Yulya,” I repeat. “Thanks for having me.”
“Sayaka deserves your thanks, not me.” She clears her throat. “Patrick,” she calls to her husband, who’s chatting with Greg at the grill. “Sasha’s here.”
Mr. Collins trucks across the patio to welcome us, his expression slightly more friendly than his wife’s. He kisses Sasha on the cheek, then offers me his hand. “Hey, there. It’s Vaughn, right? Good drive? Any traffic?”
“No, sir,” I say, feeling stiff and formal.
“Patrick is fine.”
I nod at him, “Patrick.”
“Sasha! You’re here!” I follow a familiar voice to find Sayaka standing on the top step of the stairs that lead from the house to the patio. She has a baby on her hip and an empty platter in her hand. “Greg, help me out!”
Her husband steps forward to take the platter and the baby, leaving Sayaka to say hello. She crosses the patio with the effortless grace of an ex-ballerina and pulls Sasha into a hug. When she turns to me, her face is hard to read.
“Hello, Vaughn-san,” she says. “It’s been a while.”
“It’s good to see you. Thanks for having me to your home.”
“Of course.” She opens her arms for a hug, and I step forward to embrace her. “If you hurt her again,” Sayaka whispers very close to my ear, so only I can hear. “I’ll kill you dead, and everyone here will help me hide your body.”
I’m so shocked by this warning, I chuckle like she’s making a joke. But my laughter stops abruptly when she draws back, looking at me with the fury of a samurai about to charge into battle. Her dark eyes are fierce and focused. Her lips are tight. She means it. Fuck me .
“I will never hurt her again,” I solemnly promise, loud enough that Sasha’s parents can hear me, too.
“Perfect,” says Sayaka, smiling at me as I hand her the flowers.
Patrick slaps me on the back and offers me a “cold one,” while Yulya gives me a “don’t fuck with us,” stare before grabbing a towel from the picnic table and heading over to the kiddie pool to help June and Danny dry off the children before lunch.
“I had no idea Sayaka could be so terrifying,” I murmur to Sasha, who leads me over to a sitting area between the grill and picnic table.
“Oh, yeah. Don’t mess with Sayaka,” she says. “Best to stay on her good side.”
In one of four easy chairs, with her face tilted up to the mid-afternoon soon, I find Sasha’s Bubbie. She opens her eyes and scans my face, looking so much like Sasha for a split second, I feel like I’m seeing fifty years into the future.
“ Иван Сергеевич Степанов ,” she says, offering me her hand. Ivan Sergeyevich Stepanov.
Bowing slightly over her frail hand, I kiss it.
“ Здравствуйте, Александра Владимировна Рабинович ,” I respond, greeting Sasha’s grandmother in the formal Russian way.
“I told you to call me Bubbie,” she says in English. “Didn’t I?”
“You did…Bubbie.”
She gestures for me to sit down beside her.
“ Твой русский теперь намного лучше .” Your Russian is much better now , she tells me.
“ Раньше я не говорил по-русски .” I could not speak Russian before.
“It is good that you learned.”
Sasha, who has been standing behind her grandmother’s chair, leans down to kiss her on the cheek.
“Hi, Bubbie.”
“Hello, darling,” she says. “Sit down with your Ivan. I need to see you together.”
As soon as we sit down, Sasha takes my hand in hers.
Solidarity. Love. Belonging.
She is mine, and I am hers, and she’s showing her family.
“I see,” says Bubbie, nodding at our hands before sliding her eyes to me. “You were the little boy from the zoo?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry for that,” she says. “And you were the young man who loved our Sasha?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you were the scoundrel who broke her heart?”
I wince but still manage to answer. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Have you grown up since then, Ivan Stepanov?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You have learned from your mistakes?”
“I have, ma’am.”
“You love her?”
“Very, very much.”
“Yes,” she says, looking at Sasha first, and then at me. “I can see.” She chuckles softly. “You are both stubborn as mules.”
“How so, Bubbie?” asks Sasha.
“Because you wouldn’t give up on each other,” she says, “even when it would have been easier to walk away.”
“Nothing about walking away from Sasha was easy,” I tell her. “And doing it again would kill me.”
“Then don’t,” says Bubbie.
I look to my right, where Sasha, my love, smiles at me tenderly. Then I face her grandmother and speak from my heart.
“I vow to you, Alexandra Vladimirovna Rabinovich, on my life. I will never walk away from Sasha again.”