“How old?” His voice is grave.
“Seven. It—” I close my mouth, not sure how to admit this thing I’ve never spoken. Not even to my sisters, but they knew, I think. They had to. “The dreams got really bad after that. I wasn’t sleeping, I was angry or scared all the time, I couldn’t cope.”
I raise and drop my shoulders in a shrug. Maxim stays quiet, though there’s an intensity simmering behind his eyes. Sympathy, too, I think. For once, it doesn’t grate on my nerves.
“Therapy wasn’t really—Dad didn’t think that was an option. That’s when he started teaching me to fight. He hired instructors and they taught all of us. It helped, actually, having something to channel my feelings into instead of letting them simmer in my body.”
I remember my little fists hitting a punching bag for the first time. I was so scared of everything, scared I would hurt myself, or hurt the bag, or that when I did hit it, it would break and seep blood so red it was almost purple.
And then, as is the case with anything you practice repeatedly over any length of time, I got better at it. Go figure.
“I wasn’t so scared all the time, my dreams were less frequent, training and fighting were really good for me.”
Whether too stunned to speak or aware that the story doesn’t end there, Maxim stays silent on his knees in front of me. His eyes never leave my face, even when I can’t meet his. I lean my elbows on my knees, heels propped on the bed frame.
“My dad wanted one of us girls to take over. Willa was almost fourteen and she was such a freak, she already knew she wanted to go to law school. Vanessa has always beensolevel-headed, she was the perfect choice, but she didn’t have the stomach for violence, really. He started bringing me around with him.”
“His shadow,” Maxim recalls, and I nod.
“I think all of it kind of made me,” I search for the right word, “weird.”
Maxim leans forward and the move brings his face so near mine that I want to retreat, to regain any sense of control after telling him something so raw, but I don’t want to look weak, not after I just told him all that.
“He was a good father and he really, really loved me.” My voice breaks and I have to clear my throat before I go on. “He was just trying his best with the resources he had, I don’t resent him. But that’s why I do what I do. To protect them, and—” I exhale through my mouth and can’t speak above a whisper. “Because sometimes I think I’ll break if I don’t.”
Maxim’s lips part with a breath and he tentatively reaches out for me. I’m not one to easily accept a peace offering, butmaybe I’m feeling sensitive. I drop my arm and let him hold my hand in his. It’s warm, a comfort I didn’t expect.
“You’re not strange, Marianna.”
I scoff and give a wry laugh because I am strange, and he fucking knows it. His lips quirk in a smile, but he lowers his head to meet my gaze again. “You’re resilient and loyal, and your dad knew you were strong. He wouldn’t have brought you around the most dangerous men in Boston otherwise.”
“He was a little crazy for that, wasn’t he?”
“Absolutely mad,” Maxim laughs, and we’re both smiling. “Do you still get the nightmares?”
I almost lie, tell him I haven’t in years. But his candor is infectious and once you start spilling secrets, others have a habit of following.
“Yes.”
I don’t tell him that before I found him and demanded he marry me, they were the worst they’ve been in years. How they’ve quieted some in the last month.
“Wake me,” he says. “Next time, please wake me.”
His grip tightens on my hand, a long squeeze. After a quiet moment, I squeeze back.
“I have something for you,” I tell him before I lose my nerve. I go directly for my underwear drawer in the closet and retrieve the red leather box I stowed there last week.
I steel myself for a moment before I return to where he now stands with a question on his face. It feels more familiar facing Maxim standing, looking up at him instead of directly into his eyes. I hand him the box before I can think better of it.
“Open it,” I nudge after he stares at the fine leather for a beat too long.
He does, shifting the clasp and opening the lid to reveal a gold watch with a leather band. The face is not plain, but darkblue, with tiny diamonds to look like stars behind delicate watch hands.
I study him with apprehension, searching for a sign that he despises it.
“It’s a wedding present,” I explain. “Since you didn’t want the one I originally offered. Sorry it’s a little late.”
I press my lips into a line while his middle finger traces the edge of the band, the watch face, the buckle. I fiddle with my own wedding present, the gold necklace still resting around my neck, where it has every day since we were married. I seldom want to take it off.
