I kiss him again.
He grabs my hand like he never plans to let go—and he doesn’t.
Together, we step into the bright hallway, into the noise, into our lives.
The one we fought for.
The one we were both prepared to lose everything to keep.
For better. For worse.
For always.
Epilogue
Three Years Later…
SCOTTIE
The captain says we’re starting our descent into Kalispell, and my son chooses that exact moment to body-slam my sternum with his forehead.
“Da-da-Ad-da,” he yells, which in toddler meansI own this row and all who sit in it.
“Easy there, Rocket,” I grunt, catching him before he can launch himself at the poor business person in the first class aisle seat next to us in 3B. “Let’s try not to go all WWE until you’ve got grandpa to wrestle with.”
My father can’t wait to get his hands on this little guy. It’s only been a month since they were in Seattle for a visit, but my dad and his first grandson were inseparable for the entire four days. My mother sent a picture of the fully enclosed trampoline he bought and set up in the backyard, now covered in snow, for the anticipated Christmas visit from us in Whitefish this year.
He bounces onto Katerina’s lap like the seatbelt is more of a suggestion than a law. She’s got one arm banded around his waist, the other braced on the armrest, dark hair twisted up in some low, messy knot that makes me want to drag her into the teeny airplane bathroom and remind her what got us a one-year-old in the first place.
Instead, I settle for tugging the little sock back over our son’s exposed heel.
“Roman,” she says in Russian, firm but soft. “Sit. We’re landing soon.”
He slows down, blinking up at her with a face that is… yeah. That’s my smile. But those eyes? That soul-deep, steel-blue focus? That’s all his mother.
He presses his hands to the window, fogging up the plastic. He makes some grunting noises that sound as close to mommy as he’s gotten so far, and gasps out at the snowy city below us.
I lean over them to look. White blankets the mountains all the way down their slopes. Trees dusted. Roads are clear but edged with plowed piles. Whitefish in winter. My favorite place on earth.
“Get used to it, kid,” I whisper, kissing the back of his head. “You’re gonna spend a lot of Christmases here.”
Katerina glances at me over our son’s curls, and the look in her eyes does that thing to my chest I still haven’t built up a resistance against, even after three years. It’s soft and full and a little disbelieving, like she’s still afraid she’ll wake up back in Moscow and this… me, Roman, our ridiculously imperfect and messy life, is something she made up in a dream.
“You done already?” I ask quietly.
She nods, but I know her better than that now. I see the tension in her shoulders, the way she keeps glancing at our son like she’s checking that he’s really here. That we’re really doing this.
First Christmas where my dad can walk out onto the porch to meet us instead of wheeling out as far as my mom shoveled the snow.
Yeah, I’m not exactly calm either.
“You sure you don’t want me to take him?” I offer, reaching for Roman, mostly because I need to hold something that isn’t my feelings.
She smiles, shaking her head. “He’s fine. Besides, you’re still too tall for these seats. You need your knees.”
I shove my hand over my heart. “You wound me.”
Even first class is starting to lose some leg room these days.
