Page 109 of Mafia and Scars

Or she could leave again—and I’m left off-kilter.

There are too many variables. And I goddamn hate it.

She’s on the porch when I find her, sitting in a rocking chair and looking up at the evening sky. Babulya is keeping an eye on the kids, and she told me not to rush back, giving me a knowing look when I said I wanted to take Avelina somewhere for the next couple of hours.

I drag a hand through my hair, trying to pull myself together. I clear my throat.

Avelina turns.

And all the words I’d rehearsed on the way over here die before they can even pass my lips. She’s stunning. The dress she’s wearing is some flowing material that ends just above her knees, showing off her shapely legs. Her hair is twisted up into a clip, a few auburn curls slipping free around her face. She looks like summer and softness rolled into one.

“Hi,” she says.

This is it. This is when I ask her to go for a drink with me. I can do it. All I have to do is say the words without having a seizure, drive us there without crashing, sip a drink without choking, and make conversation like it’s something I do every day of the week. So, why the fuck do I feel like a tsunami wave has swept me away from all sanity and is drowning me under its colossal weight?

“Hi,” I croak. I shift from one foot to the other and try to swallow down the lump lodged in my throat. “Do you wanna…um, do you wanna help me in the vegetable garden?” Immediately, I groan inwardly. And I can feel the tips of my ears turning red.Why the fuck did I just say that?

“Sure. That sounds lovely, Viktor.”

Huh, she’s agreeing?

She doesn’t think I’m weird?

She actually wants to spend time with me?

She looks up at me and laughs—a soft thing that curls around my ribs and makes me hard all at once.

I walk over to her, and inhaling sharply, I extend my arm.

She grabs it, and I’m acutely aware of the heat of her fingers through the fabric of my dress shirt. The smart dress shirt I’m wearing because I was supposed to take her out. I shake my head. It’s too late to backtrack—she’d definitely think I was weird then.

We walk down the path in silence, and I rack my brain for something to say.Ask questions. Compliment her. Don’t be a dick!

“You look…” I fumble for a second.Nicedoesn’t begin to cover it. “Beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she says as her lips tug up.

But then I can’t think of anything else to say. Silence settles over us again.Fuck, I’m blowing this already.

By the time we reach the garden, the solar lights are on, twinkling above like fireflies in the summer night.

She drops my arm, and we both grab some tools. We don’t speak for a few minutes as we settle at the same planter box. The one with the flowers she planted. They’re growing in nicely, if a little over the edge. I focus on the box beside her and see the beginnings of green beans whose stalks are just starting to sprout.

We work in silence. Dirt under our nails, crickets chirping in the distance, and the occasional rustle of leaves in the warm evening breeze.

Then she hums softly to herself, something light I don’t recognize. It doesn’t clash with the thoughts in my head. It just wraps around them. And it settles me.

“How do you know which ones to weed over there and which ones are the bean stalks?” she asks.

“The weeds are the ones that piss me off.”

She giggles, brushing soil from her hands. “That’s scientific.”

I glance at her sideways. I made a joke. Or she thinks I made one. I’ll take it. “Your daisies are coming in nicely.”

She beams. “They are, aren’t they?” And she gives me a pleased little smile before going back to tending to the flowers.

Time passes like that. Slow and simple. Unhurried. And the tension in my body vanishes almost completely.