“Natasha, what?”
Natasha is on her laptop at their kitchen table, tortoiseshell frames slipping halfway down her nose.
“Look at this! From Mikaela and Lucia! They’ve sent it to us, Kimberly, Gillian. Possibly Mikaela’s mum, or sister? A Del Rio, anyway! And then like five people I don’t know.”
Natasha spins the laptop to face Sawyer. Sawyer’s sees the familiar layout of Natasha’s Gmail account. Natasha’s got an email open on the browser and Sawyer leans in to read it properly.
Surprise! We got married in Italy! Tell anyone and we’ll break your fingers.
Lots of love,
Mikaela and Lucia.
Natasha clicks open an attachment while Sawyer digests the message.
Mikaela and Lucia standing on the stone steps outside the Duomo. It’s a close-up shot, but Sawyer recognizes the ornate bronze doors, the bands of green, pink and white marble. Mikaela grins directly at the camera, wearing a one shouldered ball gown that Sawyer would bet is of her own making. Her skin has tanned to a deep, golden brown already, and the Italian sun is glancing off sequins on the white fabric. Lucia hangs off Mikaela’s arm, leaning back and tilting her face away. Her dress is red and skin tight, plunges low enough that Sawyer can make out her sternum. She bends one thigh across the other like a model, and wears matching red stilettos that Sawyer can’t imagine wearing over the pockmarked stones of the piazza. They cast long shadows down the steps of the Cathedral and the photographer has caught a few tourists in shot, turning to look at the striking pair.
“That was…fast” says Natasha, wide eyed, hands still frozen above the keyboard.
Sawyer is sewing little red crosses into the waistbands of her pantyhose. She can't stand accidentally taking Natasha's pantyhose from the dryer any more. It frustrates her beyond measure when she wastes precious time in the mornings pulling them over her knees and then not being able to get them up any further from there.
She feels Natasha's presence before she sees her. But she doesn't move to Sawyer, she just hovers behind her. Sawyer's just about to twist over her shoulder to ask her what's up when Natasha says, "Do you want to get married? To me?"
"Are you proposing to me, or is this just a scoping exercise?"
"Oh, a scoping exercise." Natasha says quickly, her eyes darting around Sawyer’s face.
"Then no, not really," Sawyer says, looping the red thread in and out of her waistband before knotting and snipping it, then moving on to another. She talks as she works, "I don't feel that I need to be married to you to feel that this is it for me. You are my partner in all things."
Natasha beams at her, eyes crinkled so much that Sawyer can barely see her irises. Natasha takes the pantyhose and sewing kit from Sawyer’s lap, carefully pushing Sawyer's needle into the side of the couch for safe keeping. She crawls onto Sawyer’s lap, strong feet snaking between Sawyer’s back and the couch cushions to wrap her legs tightly around Sawyer. She drags her lips up Sawyer’s neck and breathes, “Thank God for that” in her ear.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
✤✤✤
"It's Martinez with a z!" says Sawyer brightly, leaning over the case worker's paperwork. "We did this online months ago."
"I know Mrs - Miss Martinez, but it's standard procedure to go over the basics again with you when we meet."
He turns to Natasha. He's got pale eyes, broken capillaries all over his nose and knobbled fingers that speak of arthritis.
"Can you give me your full name please, Ma'am?"
" Natasha Kuznetsov."
He blinks, "Is that Polish?"
"No, Russian. My parents came over to teach at Harvard, " Sawyer has drilled it into her that they need to summon as much societal privilege as they can in this interview.
His eyes widen further and he nods enthusiastically.
"Just call me Natasha," She smiles broadly so he can see her healthy, clean teeth.
"No Ma'am, we need your full names. Can you spell it out for me, please?"
"K U Z -" Natasha and Sawyer start spelling at the same time.
"Sorry," Sawyer smiles shyly at Natasha, "You do it."
Sawyer looks nervous, and Natasha rubs her hand over her knee reassuringly. She hopes she isn't fucking it up for the pair of them.
After he has written their names in the boxes provided, crushing Natasha's name down the side of the page when he runs out of room, he turns to Sawyer.
"Is that a 'Sconsin accent I hear?"
"Yes sir,"
"I'm from Minne, myself. Neighbours!"
"I love Minne!" declares Sawyer with manufactured enthusiasm, "St Paul's is such a great city! And Lake Superior is so beautiful!"
He smiles, pointing at a picture of a small boy holding a big fish in his hands on the desk, "I took that on a family trip home to see my parents!"
"Oh wow," says Sawyer, "That looks like so much fun."
Sawyer's lipstick is starting to feather at the edges. Although she is charismatic, funny, interested in people, Sawyer sometimes comes across as abrasive. Natasha doesn't think she's ever seen Sawyer work so hard to seem soft and breezy.
They'd seen an article in the newspaper a few months ago, reporting that over 60% of teenagers that 'age out' of the foster care system have no-where to go, and that a quarter of
