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At the pustosh’, I learned Russian in the classroom and English outside of it. It started with a few curse words; they rippled around the courtyard like Chinese whispers. Then there was this Vulture, when he heard some of the girls screeching “fuck” and “shit” with glee, he pushed his sloping face through the bars, promising an English dictionary in exchange for a few sloppy kisses.
One girl took the bait, and from that pocket-sized Merriam-Webster dictionary, we taught ourselves the language.
“Hey.” Only when Donnacha grabs my forearm do I realize I’m digging my nails into my neck. “We don’t have to discuss it now,” he says, voice heartbreakingly soft. Then he slides into my side of the booth and lists each menu option in my ear, his muscular thigh pressing against mine reassuringly.
Sergio comes back. I order the pepperoni deep dish and slip my hand into Donnacha’s paw, giving it a thankful squeeze.
After devouring two kick-ass pizzas, Donnacha drops a wedge of cash on the table and carves a path for me back out of the restaurant, stopping only to shake hands with a couple of old-timers propping up the bar.
“You act like you own the place.” I laugh as we stagger out onto the street.
“I do.” He arches an eyebrow quizzically, “Why do you think it’s the best pizza joint in town?” Glancing up at the navy sky, he adds, “It’s stopped raining. Come.” He tugs at my hand. I click-clack along the concrete, trying to keep up with him.
“Where are we going?”
“For a walk, sweetheart. Let me show you the city from a Quinn’s point of view.” He lowers his voice to add, “Wanna see where I drop off dead bodies?”
It’s so ridiculous that I can’t help but laugh. The grin that stretches across his face tells me he’s joking, too.
“I’d love the Quinn walking murder tour, but my feet are killing me,” I groan, stopping to give my blistered ankle a rub.
Donnacha sighs, shaking his head dramatically. The next thing I know, he’s scooping me up, pulling me to his chest like he’s rescued me from a burning building. “Jesus Christ in a crib,” he tuts. “You can’t cook, you can’t read, and now you can’t walk. I sure know how to pick a wife, hey?”
Our laughter entwines, echoing off the high-rises to create a symphony. I lock my arms around his tree-trunk neck, bouncing against his forearms as he dodges the oncoming pedestrians and honking taxis. My head finds a comforting nook just under his collarbone. I close my eyes, listening to his reassuring heartbeat.
My plan be damned, even if only for one night. I’ve never experienced this feeling before, and I know I won’t ever again.
I want to get lost in the storm that is my husband as if nothing else matters.
As if I don’t have to kill him to set myself free.
