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“I’m not your father. I’m tough enough to take it. And I’m your fucking husband. It’s my job to take care of you, not the other way around.”
“It goes both ways, Marku,” she argues.
“No, it doesn’t. We’re not in an American soap opera here. We’remafie. I deserved to die for my failure that night. If I had been strong enough, I would’ve ended my own life already.” She gasps. “But I was weak.”For you. I couldn’t leave you.“Don’t weaken me further by trying to take any of what’s left from me.”
“Don’t say that, Marku. Don’t ever say something like that.” She clasps my hand between her breasts. “Promise that you will never do anything crazy like that.”
“The time to kill myself has passed. If I didn’t do it then, I couldn’t go through with it now. You’re my wife. I can’t leave you,” I reply blithely.
“You say you want to be my husband, but what kind of husband can you be? I see inside you and your heart is dying. How can you be there for me if you’re holding on to all of this…this…stuff? Especially when I can help you?”
Irritation bubbles up fast. She’s trying to twist my words around to get what she wants, but there’s no way I’m sharing this nightmare with her. I can barely handle it myself. Four years have passed and it still feels like yesterday. “No, I won’t allow it. Dammit, stop pushing, woman.”
She straightens up, looks me in the eye, and demands, “Then we’re fucking tonight.”
I do a double take. Why does it feel like whenever I talk about something serious with Crina, it’s like being in a car crash. “Say what?”
“You heard me.”
“Yeah, I heard you, but what’s the change of heart? Two weeks ago you swore you’d never come to our marriage bed a virgin.”
“Tonight is what’s changed. You stubbornly refuse to let me help, but I can’t afford to let you push me away like you have before. My only other option is to bind myself to you completely. I certainly won’t abandon you like this, and once you’re stuck with me… Well, I’ll try to be patient and wait for you to come around, but if that doesn’t work, I’ll have to wear you down.”
“Humph, that’s the plan?” I eye her carefully and note the determination on her face. “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”
Crina slips off her seat, pushes my thighs apart, and sits on my lap. Tracing the collar of my long-sleeved Corneliani polo shirt, she says, “One day we’ll have children. Would you dare show up half a man for them like you would for me?”
I sputter at the insult. “Half a man? Oh, I see. This is part of your plan to wear me down”
“Yes, half a man. But I love you so I’m willing to wait for you to come to your senses.”
I huff out a laugh. “Wow, that’s harsh.”
I should be more insulted than I am, but it’s hard to keep hold of my anger when Crina’s snuggling like a cat in my arms. I should question her motive for consummating our marriage. Witnessing my darkest moment, my ugliest secret, my deepest vulnerability changed her mind. That shouldn’t be a good thing. It should make me feel weak, but I guess I don’t have much pride or ego left with Crina. I’ll let her believe there’s hope, but I will never unload this pain on her. She’ll have her own burden soon with her father. No way will I add to it.
And there’s a deeper part that’s impossible to explain to someone who hasn’t experienced grief, especially grief intertwined with self-blame. If I release that burden, then I release Cristian, and I can never do that. It’s how I keep him alive…
So she can tease me about being half a man and try to manipulate me into doing things her way. It doesn’t mean I’m crazy enough to reject the gift she’s dropped in my lap. I wrap my arms around her, loving the feel of her, aching for more of it. It’s a rare moment when Crina Lupu is soft, warm, and dare I say, cuddly.
The lights flash on and off above us, signaling that it’s time to leave. I flip my wrist and check my Patek Philippe watch. It’s almost two in the morning. The chairs have been flipped upside down and set on top of the tables. The floor has been swept and mopped, streaks of moisture on the black and white tiles. The waiters and waitresses are hanging out by the bar, watching us as they relax with a drink before heading home.
“Come on,” I say as I haul myself up with Crina in my arms.
She gives a little yelp and smacks me lightly on the shoulder. “Put me down.”
I give her a little bounce. She wheezes with surprise. Then I carefully place her on her feet. I wrap my jacket over her shoulders and with a firm hand on her lower back, I escort her toward the exit, nodding my thanks to the employees as we pass by.
We step out into the cool, crisp spring night. Or early morning. The heroin addict has moved from his spot by the curb to lie down along the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and one foot looped over the other.
My head pops up and I catch sight of my car.
Still there.
I click the doors open with my fob and help Crina inside. I guess this place grows on you, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful to see her once more encased in my Porche.
I jump into my seat and turn on the engine. “We can come here again.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she replies, her distracted comment giving me a hint of where her thoughts are.
