Chapter 33
ANTONELLA
By the time we come home, I hate the shirt I’m wearing.
There’s a pulled thread near the sleeve and a patch at the shoulder where I cried against Evgeny. Washing would probably take care of it. Still, as soon as I step into our bedroom, I want it off my skin.
Evgeny sets the hospital papers on the table. “Do you want help?”
I shake my head and go into the bathroom while he stays near the door. Getting the shirt over my head hurts my right arm, so I take my time. Once it’s off, I leave it on the floor instead of folding it.
Yesterday, I was choosing wedding flowers.
The thought followed me through the night, through repeated questions and careful examinations that couldn’t give me the one promise I wanted.
The assessment found no reason to keep me longer.
I have instructions about what to watch for, with specialist follow-up arranged.
Nobody pretended to know the rest of the pregnancy from what they could see after one awful day.
Evgeny listened to everything. He stayed when I wanted him and left when I asked for a moment alone. I don’t know yet what to do with that patience after lying awake beside him, thinking of all the things he didn’t let me know.
Warm water runs over my wrists. I wash my face, then hold the damp cloth against my eyes until it cools.
My brush is where I left it, beside a half-used tube of hand cream lying on its side.
I’ve been gone less than a day. It seems impossible that I could leave those things here and return knowing so much less about the people I trusted.
When I come out in a soft nightdress, Evgeny has opened the curtains a little. A narrow dressing covers the cut on his cheek. His shirt is still creased where I gripped it in the car, and I look away before he notices me studying it.
“Janice left food,” he says. “It can wait if you want to sleep.”
There’s a peach cut into uneven pieces, with toast beside it. The fruit smells sweet enough to make my empty stomach hurt. I sit and take a piece, catching juice on my finger before I manage to bite it.
Evgeny puts a napkin beside me, then takes the other chair. For a few minutes, I eat while he waits. I can’t decide whether he’s giving me space or hoping I’ll tell him how much trouble he’s in. The uncertainty irritates me until I realize I can ask.
“Are you waiting for me to say it’s all right?”
“No.”
He stays where he is. I finish the peach and wipe my fingers longer than I need to before setting down the plate.
“I would never have gone if I’d known.”
He nods, accepting it so readily that I almost resent him. I spent the night preparing to explain the difference between a difficult father and a man who promised someone safety while knowing he would die. Evgeny has understood that difference for forty-eight days longer than I have.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He leans forward with his elbows on his knees. There’s no desk between us, no file he can open to make the answer easier.
“I wanted the evidence to force Dario away from Luca. If you knew, he might learn how much I had. Later, I told myself it would hurt you when you were happy here. I kept finding reasons to choose the day for you.”
I look at the peach stain on the napkin. “While I kept hoping he’d listen.”
“Yes.”
My chair feels too small for the effort of staying in it. I tuck one foot behind the other to keep myself from getting up before he’s finished. All night, I wanted this conversation. Now there’s nowhere to put the hurt except into words, and saying them takes longer than feeling them.
I remember the kind explanations I found for Dad. He was proud, or worried, or afraid of losing me. I wanted Evgeny to understand the father who used to be pleased when I came into a room. He let me keep assembling that man from pieces he knew didn’t fit.
Shame warms my neck. “You must have thought I was stupid.”
“You loved your father. I used the time that gave me.”
I wasn’t ready for such a plain answer. The anger that kept me upright in the dining room loses its easy direction. I still want to throw something. I also want to cry because he understands what he took from me, and understanding can’t give it back.
I stand and go to the window. Sunlight warms my bare toes where it crosses the floor. Below, someone has moved the garden chairs together in the shade, making another place for us to sit as though there’s no reason we shouldn’t enjoy the afternoon.
Evgeny stays behind me in his chair. I keep looking down while I tell him about the call.
“I told Dad about all seven babies. I wanted him to be happy. When he offered to meet at Mimosa, I thought he finally cared more about seeing me than about who I married.”
I can hear my relief in the memory. Dad asked whether I was happy, using a softer voice, and I supplied the kindness I needed to hear in it. I turn from the window before I continue.
“I should have told you he asked to meet. I knew you’d object, and I wanted to bring you something finished. Something good. I thought I could keep you both happy if I said the right things separately.”
Evgeny starts to speak, then lets me finish.
“I deleted calls and messages. Every time I did it, the next one was easier.”
Admitting that is worse than admitting to the meeting. The meeting went terribly wrong. The smaller secrets felt like choices I could live with, so I made them again. I don’t want him to think yesterday was the first time I let myself do it.
“That doesn’t make the attack my fault,” I say. “I need you to know I understand that, even if I still feel stupid.”
He stands, leaving enough space that I don’t have to decide whether to move away.
“Dario brought armed men. Luca held you. They chose what they did, and I chose to keep the truth from you. You don’t have to answer for any of that.”
The tears start quietly. I wipe them with the heel of my hand, but they keep coming, and I let him approach when he takes a step toward me. By the time his arms go around me, I want to stop trying to hold myself upright alone.
His body gives a little beneath mine before he steadies us. I can feel how tired he is. Since yesterday, I’ve treated him as someone who couldn’t falter, although he’s a man who spent the night beside a hospital bed waiting for me to open my eyes.
I hold him tightly. I’m still angry, and I want him close enough that I can feel him breathe. We stay by the window until I’m able to lift my face without crying again.
“I don’t want to go somewhere else. I want time with you, but I don’t want you deciding that means we’re finished talking.”
“We’re not finished. You can have that time here.”
I believe him more readily than I could believe a promise never to hurt me again. He draws back enough to look at me, keeping one hand at my waist. Beside the dressing, I can see the small cut that made me reach for him in the car.
Yesterday, I was afraid he’d die before I could explain why I went to the shop. Now there are words I haven’t said that matter more than explaining.
“I love you.”
It comes out almost without sound. I try again because I want him to hear it clearly, without having to decide whether I’m thanking him for bringing me home.
“I love you, Evgeny. I did before you came for me. I’m still angry, and I still love you.”
He closes his eyes. His hand moves against my back, drawing me near enough to rest his forehead against mine. For a moment, he doesn’t try to answer, and I’m glad I can give him that much time.
When he looks at me again, I can see how badly he wanted to hear it. I’ve been so afraid of needing him that I didn’t imagine him waiting for words from me. He brushes a damp strand of hair from my face before he speaks.
“I love you. I’m sorry I made you doubt what that would mean from me.”
My breath trembles on the way in. He kisses my forehead and waits until I lift my mouth to his. The kiss is brief, my face damp and my lips sore. I’m too tired to want anything beyond the closeness, and he lets me rest against him when it ends.
After a while, we sit on the bed. He leaves the hospital papers where they are and tells me about the agreement he signed yesterday.
“I released the independent businesses. The debts and arrangements that kept them from choosing anyone else.”
“Could you take it back? Would you want to?”
He looks at our hands before answering. “I can’t, and I wouldn’t. They paid for a fight that wasn’t theirs. I should have agreed before you were in that room.”
I picture Edith watching the clock while we talked about flowers. There was fear in the shop before Dad entered it, tied to invoices and debts I didn’t fully understand. I knew she was worried. I didn’t know how much of her life depended on the men I wanted to make peace between.
“What happens to Dad?”
“Ross’s people have him. There’ll be a settlement over the debts and businesses. You’ll know the terms before it’s done.”
I reach for a pillow, and my ring catches the light. At the hospital, I was asked to take it off briefly for an examination. I kept it closed in my other hand until I could put it back, unable to imagine leaving it somewhere I couldn’t feel its weight.
Evgeny notices me looking at it. I turn my hand so I can see the little stones beside the diamond.
“I still want to marry you. I want the wedding we chose, although I might cry more than I planned.”
His breath leaves him slowly. “I can live with that.”
I lean against him, beginning to picture myself at the garden doors without having to hide yesterday from the picture. Knowing more has changed the day I’m imagining. It hasn’t made me want a different man waiting for me.
There’ll be appointments before then, mornings when we don’t know how to begin a conversation, small decisions that become important because one of us makes them alone. I can’t repair those in advance. I can tell him what I want while he’s here beside me, even if asking still feels difficult.
I don’t ask to see Dad. The absence of that wish leaves me hollow. I thought cutting him off would be something said in anger, something I’d regret once I was safe. Instead, I keep seeing him straighten the napkin beneath my water.
“I meant what I told him. I don’t want him here, and I don’t want someone bringing a message because they think I’ll change my mind after sleeping.”
“I’ll tell you if he sends one. You choose whether to read it.”
I can hear how much harder that is than promising to keep everything painful away.
He’ll have to stand beside me while I make a decision, even if I choose something he wishes I wouldn’t.
I want to trust him with that. Today, I can let him see me considering it instead of giving the answer I think would make him comfortable.
The morning passes into hours I don’t follow closely. I sleep with the curtains partly open. When I wake, he’s beside me, still dressed, with one arm folded under his head. His eyes open as soon as I move.
I touch his sleeve. “I’m hungry.”
He sits up to arrange food. I leave the question of whether he slept until we’ve both eaten something, content for now to watch him remain in the room while he makes the call.
Ross sends my phone back that afternoon with the belongings recovered at the property.
I charge it beside the bed while we eat, then call Edith.
Her apology begins before I finish saying hello.
I ask first whether she’s hurt, and listen as she tells me the broken glass has been cleared and the shop is closed for the day.
We leave the rest for when we can speak in person.
Filipp sends a photograph of his bandaged arm. Beneath it, he’s written a complaint about the hospital lunch.
They’ve bandaged my arm and brought a lunch I can’t identify. Tell Janice I’m starving.
I read it twice, relieved enough by his irritation to laugh. Evgeny arranges a meal for him without asking about work.
By evening, my body feels more like mine. My arm hurts if I lift it too far, and unexpected sounds still turn me toward the door. Saying I love him hasn’t changed either of those things. I wash before getting back into bed, choosing where to rest the sore arm instead of waiting to be asked.
Evgeny speaks briefly to Ross outside. When he returns, he stops beside the bed. “That was about tomorrow’s arrangements. There’s nothing you need to answer tonight.”
I move over while he undresses and leaves his clothes on the chair, watching him until he turns back to me.
For once, he seems uncertain about where to put his arm. I take it around my waist, keeping his palm above the place where I imagine the babies to be. The room darkens while I listen to him breathe against my back.
I haven’t forgiven every choice. I don’t have to pretend otherwise to turn toward him when he says my name.
“Stay close,” he asks.
I move until my knee touches his. For tonight, it’s an easy thing to give him.