Rosa presses her hand to her heart, eyes shining. “I knew it. I told you, didn’t I? When you brought her here that first time, I said this girl is different. You’re in love, I can tell.”
Fuck. Am I in love?
Never been in love, never come close. But I know her voice loosens something tight in my chest, and her touch quiets the noise in my head.
Instead, I say, “She makes me happy.”
She turns to Dinara, launching into rapid Spanish about fate and soulmates and how some people are meant to find each other.
Dinara laughs, a little uncertain, looking at me to translate.
“She says the ring suits you. And you should come by and eat her food often.” And never leave.
“Muchas gracias,” Dinara replies in awkward Spanish.
Rosa pats her hand. “I’ll bring you something special. You need to eat. Too skinny, both of you.”
She disappears into the kitchen and Dinara looks at me with raised eyebrows. “She’s thrilled. A lot happier than your brothers were at our wedding.”
“Rosa’s been trying to marry me off since I was twenty-five.” I lean back in the booth, stretching my arm along the top of the seat. “She’s probably already planning a party.”
“Speaking of which,” she says, fidgeting with the napkin in front of her, folding and unfolding the corner, “I really liked meeting your sister. She’s so sweet.”
“Katya liked you too. I could tell.”
She swallows hard and looks away for a second. “I feel bad, though. She thinks we’re for real, that I could be like a sister to her.”
Dinara thinks this is all pretend. That what we have has an expiration date.
I used to think marriage was a cage, love was a weakness, attachment got you killed. But with her, it doesn’t feel like a noose tightening around my neck the way I always imagined.
I like calling her ‘my wife.’
I like seeing my mother’s ring on her hand.
I like the idea of her being mine in a way that has nothing to do with strategy or alliances. And I think it’s time she understands that.
I lean forward, holding her stare with an intensity I don’t bother hiding. “We’re as real as it gets, solnyshko.”
She stills, a soft flush staining her cheeks as she weighs the truth of my words. She’s starting to get it now.
Rosa returns with enough food to feed a small army, setting plates down with pride, especially when Dinara’s face lights up. She leaves us with strict instructions to eat while everything’s warm.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, and I wonder what she’s thinking. If she believes me. If she feels the same pull or if I’m alone in this.
Finally, she says, “It must have been hard for Katya, never having a mother. At least I had mine for a few years, enough to form memories.”
A familiar sadness rises in my throat. “It was hard for all of us. But Katya got the worst of it.” I wrap my hands around mydrink, condensation cool against my palms. “Tell me about your mother. What was she like?”
She picks at the edge of her taco wrapper, rolling a corner between her fingers. “She was special, I think. She had this smoky voice. Even when she was just singing around the apartment, doing dishes or folding laundry, it stopped you in your tracks. She wanted to be a professional singer before she met my father. Jazz, folk music, anything with soul.” Her lips curve into a small, sad smile. “She loved being near water. Rivers, fountains, even the rain. I wish I had more memories of her, but they’re mostly fragments. Or moments in time. I only know she made me feel loved.”
She pauses, staring at a spot on the table. “If she’s still alive, however slim that chance, I don’t think she’s the same person who used to sing to me and brush my hair and tell me stories about dragons and princesses who saved themselves. That woman is gone.”
I reach across and rest my hand over hers, stilling her restless fingers.
“Your turn. What about your mother? You must remember more than I do.”
I reach for my drink, taking time to find the next words.
