I want to bundle her into the new vehicle and keep driving. Leaving behind all the shitty things we’ve done, or which have been done to us. Drive until we find a place where we can rest and explore each other and bond so closely we won’t ever leave one another behind.
Where we can live awkwardly ever after, with me never knowing what to say and her always trying to hide.
“Did your husband not know you can just sign a marriage licence? That’s the traditional way of marking territory.”
Inane. Utterly inane. Somebody should take possession of my mouth because the current owner is rubbish.
But she gives a soft snort. Her muscles relax a tiny fraction.
“Do you need me to sort him out for you? Since I’m already serving time, I guess one more abusive shithead lodged against my name won’t hurt.”
And her head tilts back, turns slightly to the side, as though she’s seriously considering my offer.
I would do it, too. Would do it gladly.
But she murmurs, “I already took care of that.”
“Did you?” I don’t even think about it, just assume she means a divorce. “I meant something more permanent.”
A flood of warmth cascades through my body as she whispers, “So did I.”
* * *
The containersof food are almost down to room temperature by the time we leave the bathroom, the hot water running to cold being the impetus that drove us from the intimate safety of the shower.
Even knowing I’ve seen it now, Nadia still drags on a shirt as soon as she can, hiding the stamp her husband carved on her back. There are other scars, lines from a strap or whip, a surgical scar from a compound fracture. Some marks are harder to fathom, pock marks could be the remnants from a childhood bout of chicken pox or the gouges from a belt buckle.
She sits beside me, and I scoop her nearer, watching for signs of resistance—aware she might need her space—but I don’t see any. Instead, she leans in towards me, her head briefly leaning against my chest before she helps herself to a container.
“What’s the meat?” she asks around a mouthful of roast potatoes, peas, and gravy, prodding the thick slices with the plastic knife.
“Lamb. Can’t you tell?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Not really. Though I suppose that explains the mint sauce.”
I reach over and spear a potato, eating it in one bite while she looks on in dismay. “What?”
“I was saving that for later.”
“Someone didn’t grow up with siblings,” I murmur, ducking my head to hide a wide relieved smile. “And it shows.”
“I’m the youngest of eight,” she counters then, when I raise an eyebrow in suspicion, she giggles and shakes her head. “Or just the youngest of one.”
“Must be hard to remember when you get to your advanced age.”
“Hey.” She levels a spork in my direction. “Don’t speak to your elders that way, young man, or I’ll take you across my knee.”
This time I don’t bother to hide my grin. I feel like my emotions have been in cold storage for years, finally breaking free and running the gamut in just a couple of days.
My mind shifts from Nadia to Rachel and my unborn child. I wonder if they’ll ignite more. From there, I wonder what it would be like if it were Nadia who was carrying my baby. What it would be like to massage her feet while she grumbled good naturedly about how I’d ruined her life.
The fantasy makes me curious. “What was Josh like as a baby?”
She takes the shift in conversation in her stride, shovelling a sporkful of peas into her mouth while she tilts her head to the side in memory. “Tiny,” she says, after swallowing.
She puts the half-empty container aside and holds her hands up, just six or seven inches apart. “This big. He was premature and spent the first weeks in an incubator. When they let me hold him, he had all these tubes running out of him, some almost as big as his tiny arms and legs.” She shakes her head. “I was so scared I was going to hurt him.”
“So being small runs in the family?”
