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“Wow. Okay. Just… wow.” Marsha falls silent for a second, then asks in a vaguely hurt tone, “Why didn’t you say anything? You know we all thought you were single after… well, you know.”
“I know, I’m sorry. Because we were so on and off, I didn’t think it was that serious at first. He traveled a lot for work. But now he’s done with that, so we decided to go ahead and take the next step.”
“And the next step is marriage? What happened to just dating and living together? Sara, hon…” Her voice takes on a concerned note. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
This is the hard part, because unlike Phil and my new coworkers, Marsha has known me for years. She knows I always look before I leap, and she also knows what happened with Peter.
Well, the darker parts of it, at least.
“Everything is fine.” I put as much cheerfulness into my voice as I can. “We’re just excited that we can finally be together, and we see no reason to wait. Neither one of us wants a big ceremony, so—”
“Okay, okay, whoa. Back up the truck. You still haven’t told me his name or what he does.”
I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “His name is Peter Garin. He used to be a security consultant, but he just retired from that field.”
“Peter Garin? Wait a minute…” Marsha’s voice grows tense. “Wasn’t that Russian assassin who kidnapped you named Peter something?”
“Sokolov—and please, let’s not go there.” Mostly because I don’t want to lie to her any more than I have to. “Anyway, as I was telling you, we’re going to have a small wedding this Saturday, and we’d love it if you could attend. But I know you said you have other plans, so if you can’t—”
“Oh, please, Sara. I’ll obviously be there. The fucking bars can wait. But I’m still confused. Your guy’s name is Peter too? And what kind of name is Garin? Where is he from?”
I drum my fingers on the desk. “He’s from… kind of all over. But he was born in Eastern Europe.” I can’t lie about this; Peter’s accent, faint though it is, clearly marks him as being from that part of the world.
That must be why he chose a Russian-sounding last name instead of something like Smith or Johnson.
“What?” Marsha sounds on the verge of flipping out. “Where in Eastern Europe?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Russia.”
“You’re kidding me, right? Tell me you’re kidding.”
I open my eyes and steal a glance at the clock. To my relief, it’s almost time for my next patient.
“Look, Marsha, I have to run. You’ll meet Peter on Saturday and learn all about him, I promise. Now I have to see a patient.”
“Sara, wait—”
“I’ll email you all the details tomorrow,” I say and hang up, then mute my phone before she can call me back.
Four invites down, a bunch more to go.
I can handle this.
It’s not so bad.
55
Sara
It is that bad, I decide by the time I get off work, having spoken with Rory, Simon, Andy, Tonya, and my coworkers at the clinic during another fortuitous cancellation. After having essentially the same conversation a dozen times in a row, I’m wiped, and I still have to deal with the big kahuna tonight.
Dinner with my parents.
“I got it,” Peter told me at breakfast when I offered to pick up takeout on my way from the office. “Just come home on time and don’t worry about a thing.”
Danny is idling by the curb when I emerge from my building, and I roll my eyes at Peter’s overprotectiveness as I get into the car. This morning, the weather was too nice to drive the short distance to my office, so Peter walked me to work. And now I have an escort home as well.
At this rate, I’m going to forget what it’s like to be on the street by myself.
Impulsively, I dial Peter’s number.
“Hi, ptichka.” His deep voice caresses my ears. “Are you on your way home?”
“I’m in the car with Danny.” I glance at the driver, who’s doing a good job of pretending to be deaf and mute as he pulls out onto the street. “You already knew that, though, right?”
“Danny texted me a minute ago, yes. How was your day, my love?”
“It was good. I invited pretty much everyone I wanted to invite, and Simon is the only one who won’t be able to make it. He’s got a family thing in South Carolina.”
“Very nice.” I hear some kind of clanging noise in the background, followed by running water, and then Peter says, “Hold on one sec. Just have to strain this pasta.”
“Are you making dinner?” I ask when he picks up the phone again a minute later.
“Yes, Italian. Your parents like that, right?”
“They love it,” I say, smiling. “I’m sure they’ll be very impressed.”
