Page 18

RUTHIE

I don’t see either of them for two days, and it aches.

But once I’m sober, once the fog in my head starts to lift, it’s like I need a sign—something, anything—to prove everything’s okay.

A few days have passed since the safe house, and I’m lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. No news from the Irish side of things, which I’m taking as a good sign. No news is good news in our world.

I grab my phone, scrolling through old messages until my eyes land on one I know by heart. From my sister.

I’ve read her last text to me more times than I can count. I can hear her voice when I see the words.

Mariah

On my way, beautiful. I saw the cutest little top for you and picked it up the other day. Luka is with Ekaterina and Polina, and they’re going on a day trip. Girl night tonight?

She was excited. Sweet. So her.

I called her after that and said I needed to talk about breaking up with my ex. She came. No hesitation, just met me at the bar.

That was the last text she ever sent me. The last time she ever came to the bar.

Because that was the night she was shot. Killed. Her light and life just snuffed from the world like a candle with a gust of wind. Just like that.

And I can’t stop carrying the guilt of it—because she was only there for me. She wasn’t even supposed to be at the damn bar.

I stare at the phone, and I wonder… is Vadka still paying her phone bill? Does he want the line to stay active? A little thread that keeps her in this world?

I check the time. He’s at work. Knowing him, he probably has her phone with him. Luka is with Zoya today, and the new nanny's supposed to be starting her trial run.

I tap her name. Swallowing hard, I ignore the brutal flash of pain in my chest and hit call.

My nose tingles, my eyes well up. As the phone rings, I wish for the impossible. I wish she’d pick up, just like she always did. “ Hey, beautiful . ”

We didn’t grow up with a lot of love or praise. Affirmation was scarce and rationed. But Mariah? She made sure I knew I was loved. She called me beautiful every single time.

Of course she doesn’t answer.

Then it goes to voicemail. Her voice. Still there. Strong and sweet and somehow so alive.

“Hey, sorry I missed your call. You know what to do. Hope you have a great day.”

Some people might call it generic. I don’t. I knew she meant every damn word.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and let the pain roll over me. I don’t know what else to do.

Beep.

Time to leave a message.

“Hey,” I say softly. “I guess part of me wants to believe you’ll get this. Maybe heaven has voicemail. I don’t know. I don’t even know if I believe in places like that… but if it exists, you’re definitely there. If anyone is, you will be.”

I pause. Swallow.

There’s so much I want to tell her.

That Luka’s getting taller. His eyes are starting to look more like hers than ever.

That I haven’t bought a single new thing for myself since she died—not clothes, not shoes, nothing. I can’t even step into the stores we used to shop at .

That I got a stupid infection because I’m constantly dehydrated. It’s crazy, but I refuse to use the bathroom at work—that’s where she died.

That I want to quit that job, but doing so feels like giving up on her. Like walking away from the last place she was.

That I’m drawn to her husband in a way that scares me. That I think he feels it too.

But I don’t say any of that.

Because maybe I am talking into a void. Maybe someone will hear.

“I miss you. I miss you so much,” I whisper. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I asked you to come to that bar. I’m sorry for all of it.”

What I don’t say out loud—the secret lodged in my chest—is what I feel the most shame over: I’m sorry I’m falling in love with your husband. And now I know why you did.

“I love you.” I breathe. “So much.”

Then I hang up.

I can at least shower. Wash the day off. Wash the grief off—at least for a few minutes.

I hop in the shower. Wash my hair. Condition. Exfoliate my face with that little bottle Mariah gave me forever ago that I never even opened. Brush my teeth. Shave my legs. And, of course, I nick my ankle so bad I have to slap a Band-Aid on it and hiss through my teeth. Hurts like a motherfucker.

When I towel off, my phone buzzes on the sink.

And just like always, I glance at it with that same irrational hope—that it might be from her. Even though I know it won’t be.

They say it’s normal. That grief does that to you.

But I’m so tired of this part.

I swipe.

It’s Vadka.

My heart flinches.

I miss her.

Vadka

Hey, where have you been? We miss you. Are you all right?

We.

They miss me.

Not just Luka.

Vadka does.

Of course he does. I’m the living thread to his dead wife. The only connection left.

I don’t resent him for it, but I do wish he missed me, not just who I represent and the comfort that might bring.

I type back:

Hey, I’m good. Just working a lot, getting some things done. Need to get a haircut.

Vadka

And an oil change.

I can practically hear his voice. That low, rich sound that’s starting to haunt my dreams. We’re talking about haircuts and oil changes. The next thing up, we’ll talk about the weather or maybe the price of milk. God.

An oil change.

I smirk.

Yeah, I guess I should probably do that too.

Vadka

Luka has been asking for you every day. When are you free again?

My heart thumps. I hesitate. Then type:

I’m free now. How’s the new nanny working out?

Vadka

I don’t know yet. Trying not to judge too fast. But she seems… strict.

Why didn’t it dawn on me? That Vadka wouldn't be into hiring someone from the district. That’s not his style.

He grew up, and he’s changed. Lately, he doesn’t want anyone like that around Luka.

He wants someone different. Someone better.

He wants someone who will love Luka the way his mother did. Full stop.

I’m gonna give her more time though. She just started. Luka doesn’t like her.

Great. Did I let my own selfish, tangled-up feelings cloud my ability to be fair? Was I judging her too quickly? Was I making it about me instead of about what Luka needed?

I really fucking did.

Well, that sucks. Yeah… give it a couple days and see what happens. Maybe she’ll soften up a bit. Um. How are things with the Irish?

Vadka

That’s something we should talk about in person. But the short answer is… quiet.

Is that a good thing?

Vadka

In person, Ruthie.

My heart skips a beat and flips over in my chest like it’s trying to get free.

I stick my tongue out at the phone like a teenager with a crush.

I remember the way he slapped my ass that night we shared a bed, the way my whole body lit up like a fuse was lit under my skin.

The way I tumbled straight out of my head and into pure sensation.

Vadka

Early dinner today?

Yes. Please. I'd like that.

Vadka

I’ll pick you up. See you in an hour?

Perfect.

Vadka

See you then.

I set my phone down and stare at myself in the mirror. My hair’s in a messy bun. I’m in a T-shirt with no bra underneath. I haven’t touched my eyebrows in… I don’t even know how long. And—oh my god—is that a white hair on my chin? What the actual fuck? When did that happen?

My clothes are cold and a little stiff—they’re old and don’t fit like they used to.

Not surprising, honestly. I wear things until they fall apart.

I hate shopping for clothes. Always have.

There are maybe two things on earth I'd rather do less than shop, and that’s saying something.

I only ever enjoyed it with Mariah because she made it feel like a game, like something we could laugh through.

She made it bearable, even fun. She was taller and thinner than me, so we never shared clothes.

But God, I wish we could have. I’d give anything to have a piece of her that I could wrap around me and pull close like armor. Like comfort. Anything.

I throw on a pair of black leggings and a black shirt. And I already hear my sister’s voice in my head, scolding me with love.

“You need color, beautiful. It’s like you’re in mourning every day.”

I am now .

That voice… might be the only thing that could convince me to try something other than this all-black armor I live in.

I don’t want to stay here anymore. I don’t want to be frozen in time.

What is this? Old-school Italy? I’ll mourn the death of my sister—my best friend—until the day I die.

But mourning doesn’t mean I stop living.

Mourning doesn’t mean I pull the blinds closed on my entire life.

Still… I don’t know how to dress myself anymore.

Talking to her voicemail helped. So I decide to text her.

Will Vadka see it? Would he read her texts? I don’t know why he would… Who’s texting a dead woman, right?

I need new clothes. I don’t know how to shop for myself.

You once told me that when I wear all black, it makes me look like I’m in mourning.

And there’s never been a time when that mattered more than now.

I don’t want to look like mourning anymore, Mariah.

Because maybe… if I don’t look like mourning… it won’t feel like I am.

I wipe my eyes. The message says delivered. I pick my phone back up, not ready to stop. Not ready to let it go.

I’m not going to send it, but I can type it. I can say it somewhere. Even if it’s just for me.

Maybe I’ll feel better.

Forgive me, please forgive me, but I think I’m falling in love with your husband.

There. I said it. And now that I have, I have more to say.

I see now why you loved him, Mariah. I was always a good sister to you. I never let myself look at him as anything but a brother. But god, he’s hot. He’s funny. He’s sweet. He’s hardworking as hell. And he makes me feel safe. I like who I am when I’m with him. I like how I feel.

My finger hovers over the X. Just delete it. Just delete it.

But when I try, my phone freezes. The screen locks, and it gets hot in my hand. Overheating again. I forgot this has been happening.

Oh shit. Oh fuck.