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He starts as I take another bite. “I lied in a big way. I own that shit and I’m going to make amends to you, my love. I wasn’t always like this. It’s been about ten years and before you…” He pauses, licking his bottom lip, pulling it inward then letting it go as he continues. “Long before you, when my parents were still alive and I was a young man, I was peaceful. Well, I was always big. Tough. And everyone on the side of town where I grew up thought challenging me was some sort of rite of passage. I learned to fight. But shit, baby.” He coughs into a closed fist, then finishes. “Where I grew up, the neighborhood, mostly Russian immigrants, we were fucking born fighting. It was like, eat your breakfast, go outside and find a fight. Unless bones were broken, or someone ended up in the hospital, it was no harm, no foul. It was just our culture.”
“Your parents lived here? I don’t mean here in the house, but here in America?” I counter, putting my fork down and wiping the corners of my mouth with the linen napkin he set next to my plate. “But you said they lived in Russia. Well, that they died there.”
He shakes his head and pushes off from the counter, coming around to take a seat on the barstool at the counter next to me before answering.
“There’s truth in there and again I’ll own my shit, there’s some bullshit too. Lying has been a way of life for me too, baby. It’s self-preservation. And yes, I am a different man with you. I want to be a different man because of you. But I guess the truth is, change happens in increments, not all at once. I’m never going to stop trying. I’m going to do better. Be better. But my sins of the past have to be that, in the past—otherwise we will never be able to move forward.”
He scans my face and I push the plate away, having only eaten about five bites. Must be the conversation, because the wonderful breakfast he’s made suddenly doesn’t sit so well in my belly.
The rain whips up outside as I push my question forward.
“Yes, but then tell me the truth about your parents. Your family. You’ve said so many times, family is everything. Family loyalty. Protection. How you don’t walk away from family.” I stall on that last part, knowing now that he understands at least a part of me he didn’t before.
I not only walked away from my family, I ran. And there’s no loyalty I feel for them at all. It’s just cold conviction that leaving was the best thing I could have done for myself. I gave no thought to what was good for them.
“My parents were good people. Hard working. I was born here a few years after they arrived. Not a great time to come to the U.S. from Russia, but they had connections that smuggled them in when there was barely a loaf of bread to be had back home. They raised me well. I was smart. Got a scholarship to Mass Tech, then another one to attend law school. I finished all of my schooling in five years and had passed the bar with one of the highest scores recorded. I was recruited by the CIA but turned it down. Not enough money and too many restrictions. Instead, a firm that helped contract with the government for placing people in witness protection found me and made me an offer. I excelled. We were living the American dream. Bought them a house. As for me, I was living the playboy life.” He studies me for a moment. “Sorry, baby, I don’t want to hurt you, but I wasn’t a great guy for a long time. I hurt a lot of people in different ways. I was a bit of a cad.”
There’s a twitch in my heart at those last words. Even thinking of him with anyone else before me hurts.
The man I know is so caring. Sure, he has his dark side, but I imagined how far that darkness could extend. He reaches over and runs his hand on my neck, settling it on the side with a slight squeeze which sends a shiver through me.
“I was living high. Running around, making a shit ton of money. Going to clubs. The whole package. Then, one night, I took two girls—sisters—home from the club. Well, we were going home and I ran a red light. We got hit broadside by a truck and they both—”
He drops his face and the hand along my throat squeezes again. There are no tears, but a glaze over his eyes tells me they’re not far away. Whatever this is, it still hurts for him. It still feels fresh. I want to help him, but don’t know how, so I reach out a hand and he takes it gratefully, squeezing my fingers like a lifeline.
