Page 39

MARGOT

T he smell of brownies fills my kitchen.

When I open the oven, I inhale a deep breath and grab the oven mitt to pull them out.

It isn’t a special recipe—in fact, it’s from a box—but when I was trying to rack my brain for the perfect welcoming treat, I had an image of my old foster son hoovering these with his friends he invited over without asking.

It’s a reminder to myself of everything that could go wrong, and for some reason, that brings me peace.

Calm. Stability. Everything a new parent needs.

My head turns when I hear a crash, and I hurry to the spare bedroom to find Arseni throwing toys into a trash bag.

I sigh. “Babe…”

“It’s too much.” He shakes his head without looking at me and busies himself packing away video games. There’s at least fifty on the shelf. “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.”

I look around the stuffed room and can’t help but agree.

Arseni has spent a small fortune on this room.

We’ve painted it three times. Added shelving just to tear it down when Arseni realized with horror that the kid probably wouldn’t have anything to put on it.

Then he put everything back up and filled it himself.

Every trip to the store, he comes back with some new flashy toy or video game console. Every night I go to sleep, he’s next to me on his phone, researching the burning question of the day. He’s an absolute nervous wreck.

And, my God, I love it.

“Honey… You need to put the trash bag down.”

“It looks like I’m trying to fucking buy the kid. I mean Jesus Christ, why would you let me do this?” Dropping the trash bag, he waves a hand around the room. He looks crazed with his hair disheveled like he’s been pulling it. I know for a fact he hasn’t slept in a week.

“It looks like you care . Because you do. And that’s all that matters.” I walk up to him and place my hands on his chest when he still won’t look at me. Finally, his tortured eyes meet mine.

“I love you. You’re a good man. And you’re going to be a great father.”

He sighs. I don’t think that gave him the briefest comfort. “Would we still be doing this if we’d known you were pregnant?”

“ Yes .”

“He’s not going to think that.”

“He will.” I force a smile. “It just takes time.”

My words sound so confident, but in my head, I’m stuffing that trash bag full of shit and running around in a panic. Arseni being panicked helps. It lets me know I’m not alone.

This feels so much like the first time, yet so, so different.

The boy’s name is Santiago. He’s eleven years old and has spent the last four years of his life living in abandoned houses with his mother and her various boyfriends.

No one has been able to locate her for three months.

The state took custody of him a week ago when an anonymous caller tipped them off.

“What if he knows?” Arseni asks. The shame in his voice tells me exactly what he’s thinking.

What if the boy knows it was Arseni who called?

“He won’t .”

“But—”

The doorbell ringing cuts him off. His eyes widen with panic and don’t land on me until I cup his face and force his head straight.

“Baby… You’re the only person he trusts to help him. You’ve been building this relationship for months. He needs you . So please, breathe. It’s all going to be okay.”

He takes a deep breath and nods.

“And if all else fails, just remind him of your own experience with the system. Then he’ll really know you get it .”

An amused grin spreads across my face while Arseni’s eyes narrow. He breaks away from my hold to head for the door.

“Not funny,” he calls behind him.

“A little funny.”

When we get to the door, Arseni hesitates with his hand on the knob. The doorbell rings a second time, and he still doesn’t answer it.

“ Babe .”

He shushes me, then takes a deep breath. When he opens the door, a social worker and the boy, smaller than I pictured, stare up at him.

I remember this same moment six years ago with so much clarity, I search for the similarities. There’s a trash bag in the social worker’s hands, but it’s nowhere near as full as Arseni’s was. The little boy looks more scared than Arseni did.

And my heart, once empty and desperate, doesn’t leap from my chest this time. It fills. Floods . Because I know without a shadow of a doubt that this time, I’m looking at my son.

“Hi,” Arseni squeaks before clearing his throat. “Please come in.”

The social worker introduces us to Santiago while the boy doesn’t say a word. According to Arseni, he’s never heard him speak. He’s found him sitting outside by himself, communicating only with a stick or a dribble of a basketball Arseni once rolled into the boy’s yard.

When the social worker leaves, the three of us stand awkwardly for a moment.

“Would you like to see your room?” Arseni asks.

The boy just stares.

“Are you hungry?”

The boy doesn’t even blink.

Arseni turns to me. “You uh, you made brownies, didn’t you, sweetheart?”

I nod enthusiastically.

“Would you like a brownie?” Arseni asks Santiago. The nervousness in Arseni’s voice is so apparent, I want to hug him. But damn, he deserves this.

Arseni’s foot taps as he looks around, his hand scratching at the back of his neck. It’s only been a minute, but he acts like we’ve been standing here for twenty. With a snap of his fingers, he strides toward the guest room.

Santiago’s gaze follows him.

Arseni returns carrying a basketball. He kneels in front of the boy and offers it like he’s offering his last meal to a king. There’s kindness in my love’s eyes that touch my heart and remind me all over again why I fell in love with him.

Arseni is so many things. Not all of them are good.

Sometimes he’s struck with fear that pushes people away. Sometimes he says things he doesn’t mean.

But the things that really matter. Loyalty. Honesty. Love.

He has those in spades. And staring at him now, I cup my belly absently and fill with the knowledge that he’ll love our children with the same intensity as he loves me. He already does.

Santiago takes the ball cautiously and brings it to his chest. Seconds pass while nothing happens.

But then, to my surprise and glee, my new son’s lips quirk up.

Seven months later, as he holds his baby sister in his arms, they spread into a full grin, and the photo of the moment rests on our mantle next to my mother’s drawing. Beside that is Arseni and I on our wedding day, our lips locked.

We’re in the living room with Uncle Luka and Aunt Lucia—both of us drowsy beyond belief after a sleepless night with the baby—when Arseni slips up by calling me Mommy. It’s a reflex from talking to the kids.

Lucia laughs, her brow furrowing.

But I smile.

Because finally, I can say that I don’t hate it.

* * *

Thank you so much for your interest in Arseni! I hope you’ve enjoyed this series :)