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"And I was just joking, Philippe," she retorts, rolling her eyes and chuckling. "Truth is, I don't make a habit of what happened last night. For some reason, I trusted you. Everyone at the opera knows you, and I figured, if I went missing, people would know where to find you."
"Well, as long as you were joking," I shrug, accepting her credible response. Suddenly, I don't feel that scared for her safety.
"I was," she whispers, sitting back in her seat. She pushes the button and reclines it. Then, she turns on some classical music and lies back in the seat, stifling a yawn.
"So, Philippe," she asks, her words sounding sleepy. I like the way she says my name; it's not quite like an Italian or American. I wonder whether she was born in America or grew up in different countries around the world. From the way she sang, she seemed like a worldly woman.
"Tell me, how often do you come to New York?"
"More often than you'd expect," I respond. "Our bankers are there. Our operations guys. My aeroponics farm is up that way. Why do you ask?"
"Just wondering," she gives me a shy smile.
Does this mean she wants to see me again? I know I should ask her, but the truth is right now, I'm not sure it's the right thing to do. Something tells me Tatiana is scared of nothing, and that means she would be in danger if she were a part of my world.
I can't let what happened to my mother happen to her, or any woman, for that matter.
I must find ways to ensure her safety before I meet her again.
So, I hold back my invitation, and Tatiana falls asleep. I wake her when we're five minutes from her home, and she guides me there the remaining way.
We pull up to her parents’ home, a quaint and charming house surrounded by a tiny, well-kept garden. The sun casts a warm glow on the brick exterior, and I can see the love and care that her family has poured into this place.
"Thank you for the ride," Tatiana says, her hand lingering on the door handle. "And for everything else."
"Of course," I reply, struggling to keep my voice steady. I suddenly realized that I knew nothing about this woman. Does she have siblings? Where did she go to school? Are her parents together? Separated? Healthy? How could I have gotten so attached without knowing a thing about her?
My heart feels too full like it might burst from the weight of my feelings for her.
Tatiana gets out of the car, but before closing the door, she leans in and kisses me tenderly on the cheek. "I'll see you soon, Philippe," she whispers, then steps back and shuts the door.
I watch her approach the front door, feeling a strange mix of happiness and trepidation. Her parents open the door before she even knocks, their worry etched across their faces. But as soon as they see Tatiana, their expressions soften into relief and joy. They embrace her tightly, each taking turns hugging her, murmuring words I can't quite hear.
Her mother, a plump, short woman, refuses to let go of her. She places her arm around her daughter's shoulders, guiding her in.
A pang of envy surges through me as I observe their sweet reunion. How simple and pure their lives must be, untouched by the darkness that constantly threatens to consume mine.
At this moment, the contrast between Tatiana's world and mine couldn't be starker. She comes from a loving, wholesome family, while I have been shaped by bloodshed and betrayal. My hands, stained with sins I cannot erase, long to hold her close, but I fear the taint of my past would only bring her pain.
As I sit in the car, watching Tatiana and her parents, my fears intensify. How can I ever hope to fit into her life without casting a shadow over it?
Yet, there's a part of me that refuses to let go of this good thing, this treasure I have found. A part that clings to the hope that perhaps, against all odds, we can find a way to bridge the gap between our worlds.
With a heavy heart, I start the engine and drive away, leaving behind the image of Tatiana and her family framed in the doorway.
Chapter 8
Tatiana
I open my eyes to the familiar surroundings of my parents' room, and for a fleeting moment, I forget about the deep longing that has settled within me. But as soon as the remnants of sleep fade away, the image of Philippe's piercing blue eyes floods my mind, and my heart aches with disappointment.
Why hasn't he asked to see me again, even when I hinted at it? Did our time together mean nothing to him?
I refuse to believe that, given how he drove three hours to drop me home when I insisted on taking a cab.
But he is a strange, mysterious man. What if he just believed in doing the right thing, and the chivalrous act of dropping me home meant nothing more to him?
With a sigh, I push myself out of bed, feeling the weight of unspoken words and unsatisfied desires clinging to my skin like a persistent shadow. As I move through my morning routine, I catch my reflection in the mirror – the vulnerability in my eyes is almost too much to bear.
