But when I look into her eyes, it is like I see two lives laid out.
I see our boy in his crib, Camille standing over him, alone, sighing as she twirls the mobile with trembling fingers.
And then there is the other: the one where I walk up behind her, wrap my arms around her and kiss her on the neck as we look down at our child together.
I take her trembling hands in mine and they stop shaking.
“I—fuck, Camille, I love you, too.”
Once I say it, I am lost.
The truth of the words hits me like a truck. Doors that’ve been sealed shut within me begin to open and I feel things I have always thought were the curse of weaker men. Stupider men. Not me. Never me.
I take her cheeks in my hands and bring us together. Whispering sensations dance over my face.
“Our child should get to feel that love, too. Don’t you think?” she whispers.
I bring my lips to hers, almost cautious at first, as though it is the first time.
But when I taste her, I cannot stop.
We fall into each other and for a few perfect minutes the rest of the world does not exist.
“I am glad to hear you are doing better, Angela,” I say as I stir the coffee. “Two sugars, yes?”
“You are too kind,” she smiles. It occurs to me that she could be my mother-in-law one day. That does not terrify me as much as it once did.
Rob leans against the doorframe, eyeing me like a gazelle who has just sighted a leopard. He does not like me being here.
As Camille helps her mother to drink the coffee, I give Rob a nod and we head outside. He lights a cigarette and sucks it down halfway in one giant puff.
“Do we have a problem?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
He picks at the flaking paint on the porch beam, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Either he is high or he is thinking about getting high, I assume.
“You seem uncomfortable with my presence.”
“No!” he laughs nervously. “I’m just surprised, is all. Camille said you were in the can, so didn’t expect to see you here. It’s good to be rich, right? They never treat you guys like the rest of us.”
“Rob, I want you to know I am going to take care of Camille, of Angela, of all of you. I am not your enemy.”
“Yeah, that’s sweet, man. I mean, she deserves to be happy, so awesome.”
He finishes the last of his cigarette and flicks it toward the plant pot serving as an ashtray. Then he ducks his head and makes for the door.
“I’m gonna hang in my room for a little bit.”
I turn to watch him go, walking like a fidgety teenager. He is not a man that would last long in the Bratva, but I do not feel my usual wave of disgust. He is Camille’s brother.
Everything has changed now.
“He’s never been good around people since he found out about Dad leaving,” she says, walking onto the porch. “Believe it or not, he was a carefree kid once.”
“He can visit anytime he likes,” I tell her. “And so can your mother.”
Angela appears at the door in her wheelchair, her smile so genuine pride swells in my chest.
“You should be careful what you promise, young man. I’ll be around every day for another one of those delicious suppers.”
“Your wish is my command,” I proclaim. She laughs as I stride over to her and kneel down, taking her hand in mine. “What is your favorite dish? Name anything, and it is yours. My chef will spare no effort.”
Camille puts her hand on my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. I am smiling more than I have in years. And, what is more surprising, I do not feel the usual urge to wipe it off my face.
I am starting to think I could be truly happy for the first time in my life.
24
Camille
The next few days are like an awakening.
I feel like a baby chick pecking its way out of its shell to find that the world is not as dark and scary as I guessed it’d be. Erik and I spend every night together, sometimes just sitting in the nursery, mentally filling it with furniture and promise and hope.
I love waking up beside him.
I love the way he’ll grab me in the middle of the night and pull me toward him, holding me close.
I love the sound of his heartbeat, his freaking heartbeat.
If that isn’t one step beyond Hallmark levels of cheesiness, I don’t know what is.
This evening, we eat dinner on the balcony, the sun setting over the vast garden, the light dancing in the trees. Erik sits across from me in a steel-blue suit, open at the collar to show his tattooed, muscular chest.
He raises his wineglass, looking more carefree than I ever could’ve imagined before. Whatever else is true about us—however uncertain and surreal every moment of this relationship has been—I can’t deny the emotion that takes hold of me when he smiles like that. I feel like I’m floating.
“To us,” he says.
I raise my sparkling water.
“To us,” I echo.
As we dine on a starter of borscht, Erik reaches under the table and grabs my thigh. He has moved his chair around so that we’re sitting right next to each other. Shimmers move through my body, no longer accompanied by the anxiety that marked my early days here.
“Erik, what will our child do in the Bratva?”
He tilts his head. “I didn’t think you were interested in that side of things.”
“I wasn’t, but if this is gonna be a long-term thing, not just a … I guess you’d call it a fucked-up fling, I wanna know.”
He lifts his hand from under the table and slides closer to me. Our legs touch, his massive shoulder brushing me. Being so close to him can be like torture
