“You’re not mad?”
“Mad?” She pulls back and I see tears shimmering in her eyes. “Hell no, I’m not mad. Lydia, the only thing I want to do is helpfigure out what you need to do next. Need me to book you a flight? Call a car? Do both?”
“Both would be nice.” My heart swells with immense love for my best friend. “Thanks, Bella.”
“Don’t mention it,” she reaches inside of her dress at the secret pockets that have been sewn into the train, pulls out her phone, and starts tapping. “I can get you on a flight from Nice Côte d'Azur leaving in three hours, and then a first-class ticket out of Charles de Gaulle leaving tonight.”
“You don’t have to get me a first-class ticket, Bella.” I start protesting.
“Nonsense.” She waves her hand. “What’s the point of marrying a billionaire Bratva pakhan if I’m not willing to spend a few thousands getting my best friend home in comfort?”
I can’t help but laugh a little at that. “I guess as long as Slava is paying.”
“Done.” She finally looks up at me. “I’ll go talk to the staff, and get you in a car in twenty minutes.”
“Thanks, Bella,” I say. “I’ll find a way to pay you back, I promise.”
“You don’t have to pay anything back,” she says. “Just promise me one thing, Lydia.”
“Anything.”
She steps in and wraps me up in a hug that reminds me of another hug from seven years ago. “Promise me you’ll be safe, okay?”
“You know me,” I reply weakly. “I’d never do anything risky.”
“I mean it, Lydia.” She pulls back and looks at me with sincere worry in her eyes. “You walked out of that house seven years ago and never once looked back until now. Whatever it is that’s making you go back can’t be good, and both me and Slava are going to be an ocean away if you need help.”
“I know.”
“So please.” She reaches up and wipes away the tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. “Please stay safe, and if there’s anything I can do before you go, let me know.”
I nod one more time, and then I tell her. “Actually, there is one more thing you can do for me.”
“Name it.”
“Don’t tell Nico.”
2
LYDIA
Gravesend hasn’t changedone bit since I left seven years ago. Well, maybe it’s changed some.
The trees have gotten taller around Avenue V, and the bodega around the corner has had a facelift since the last time I saw it. Old chainlink fences have been replaced by white-painted cast-iron.
But the sidewalks are still cracked where I remember them. Satellite dishes are still jutting out of rooftops at random placements but all pointing in the same direction.
As I get out of the car, I look up at the power line that I threw dad’s old running shoes over after coming home from his funeral thirteen years ago. A pang squeezes my heart when I see that they’re gone.
They had still been hanging there when I left home, and for whatever reason, I thought they might still be there waiting for me.
Guess some enterprising city worker must’ve removed them over the years.
On the plane ride over, I’d taken advantage of my first class seat’s services to connect to the internet and try to get in touch with my Mom. But she never responded to any of my texts.
But they just kept sayingDeliveredinstead ofRead.
It must be morning now in France, which means brunch is about to start. For a moment, I imagine Nico showing up with that shit-eating grin of his and waiting to say something to me, only to find that I’m gone.
