His hand in mine—not the way he used to hold me, but holding me for the first time in too long, out here in this garden. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think the vines were conspiring with the earth, twisting around our feet, ready to tie us back togetherbecause even after all this time, I think we’re still two halves of one whole.
Bohdan breaks away first, and it’s a kindness really.
I blink away the tears that snuck up on me like he did all those years ago, and he presses a fist to his mouth, a bit like he’s in pain, before he jerks his head towards the restaurant.
“Come on. I’ll make your dough for you.”
“Why?” I ask, my voice so much smaller and sadder than it should be. We’re just talking about pasta, after all.
But we’re not, not really.
Because Bohdan looks at me, this sad smile tugging at his lips, and he shrugs before he says, “You seem like the type of person who wouldn’t like the feeling of the flour all over their hands.”
The only thing I’ve ever really liked all over me was him.
I sniff. “You can guess a person’s sensory issues just by looking at them? What a talent.”
“Only ever really worked with one girl. I knew enough about her to fix just about anything. But it went where all my other talents ended up going: to waste.” He says it with this awful sort of finality, and he turns, walking back towards the restaurant, leaving me surrounded by split tomatoes and the ghost of someone I used to love.
Bohdan
Then - Seattle
I’d always thought the only thing I wanted in the world was to play.
It was the only dream I had.
But then I met her and somehow we made this life together, and it’s beyond anything I think I could have ever imagined.
My bag hits the floor beside me, and I drop a shoulder against the frame of our open bedroom door.
It was worth taking the early flight back to be here, to watch Sloan, one hand tucked under my pillow where she sleeps on my side of the bed, gilded by the fading moonlight still reflecting off Puget Sound through our windows, textbooks and markers and her computer spread out over the duvet on her side.
The TV’s still on—ESPN—and I catch a replay of the game earlier.
I played well. I always do.
I’ve already seen the clip, and they’re talking about how I’m the best. Making bets on all the records I’m going to set and titles I’m going to take.
I work hard. But I don’t work hard to be good. Hockey comes naturally to me, and I know that’s lucky—talent that a good chunk of people all over the world would die for.
But the only thing I’d die for is her. Life with Sloan is the only thing I really care about being good at.
It’s hard to explain to someone—how it changes you, probably deep down in your bones, to fall in love young like we did and to get to stay in love because we were lucky to grow together, and we had the same dream at the end of the day: each other.
She’s still asleep, taking faint little inhales, her cheeks pillowy and soft when I sit beside her on the bed.
“Zlatícko.” I tuck her hair behind her ear, brushing a knuckle over her cheek. “Sloan, I’m going to shower, okay?”
Her eyelashes flutter before she blinks, sleepy, and opens my favourite eyes on the planet.
I press a kiss to her temple, and I think she’s still half asleep, but her fingers wrap around my wrist. “Bohdan. You’re supposed to be in Tampa until tomorrow.”
Smiling against her skin, I move my mouth to her ear. “Caught an earlier flight.”
“Won’t you be in trouble?” she whispers, and I can feel the shiver run across her shoulders.
“Maybe.” Yes.
