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“Where is your friend now?”
I tilt my head to the side and fight to keep my smile where it is. “In a better place.”
“Like Papa?”
My gut twists painfully, and I nod.
“I miss him a lot,” Ilya tells me. “But I forget things about him.”
I take a deep breath. “I know exactly what you’re talking about, Ilya. I remember the moment when I struggled to remember what Clara’s laugh sounded like. That day, I felt like I’d lost her all over again.” I reach out to take his hand and bring it to my chain so he can touch it, too. “The only thing that got me through it was knowing I had her pendant around my neck. Even on the days when I found it hard to remember all the details, she was still with me in some small way. I’m sure your Papa is right here, too. And I’m sure that you know exactly where to look to find him.”
His face is studiously expressionless for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far.Shit, I think,I’m not even a mother yet and I’m already screwing up parenting.
But then his lips spread in a soft, slow smile, and he nods gently, and I feel like I did the right thing after all.
“Hey, guys.” Cyrille is walking up the cobbled pathway that winds through the gardens. “How’s it going?”
Ilya beams at his mom. “Good! We’re gonna go swimming.”
“Great idea,” Cyrille approves. “But before you do, can you go get your homework done?”
“I already finished my homework.”
Cyrill looks surprised and turns to me, eyebrows raised in a silent fact check. I chuckle and nod. “He did indeed. I made sure of it.”
“Oh,” Cyrille says, looking uneasy. “Well, then, go clean your room.”
“Magda already cleaned it while I was in school.”
“Fine then,” Cyrille snaps. “Go play some video games.”
“Really?” Ilya asks, jumping to his feet.
She waves him towards the house. “Yeah. You get an extra hour today. Go on.”
Ilya abandons his glass of lemonade and speeds off into the house. When he’s gone, I turn to Cyrille with raised eyebrows. “Why did you just get rid of your son?”
Now that Ilya isn’t here, the gnawing uncertainty in Cyrille’s expression is obvious. “Misha is in the sitting room. He wants to see you.”
I jerk upright and nearly slosh lemonade all down the front of my baggy overalls.
It’s been almost a week since his late night drop-in. I knew he’d visit again at some point—I’ve dreamed about it; prepared for it mentally, physically, emotionally—but I’m still shocked. My heart pounds hard against my chest.
Annoyingly, it’s not all anxiety. It’s happiness, too.
Because I want to see him. Just as much as I want to avoid him. More contradictions that are slowly shredding me to pieces.
“For the record, it looks like he just wants to talk,” Cyrille reassures me.
“I can’t imagine he has anything nice to say.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. He looked pretty contrite.”
I snort. “I’m not sure Misha’s face knows how to do contrite.”
Cyrille smiles. “You’ll have to talk to him eventually, hon.”
I nod, making a decision as I exhale slowly. “I know. But not today.”
