Page 101 of Ivory Ashes

My voice is raspy and tomorrow, it will definitely be gone. But for now, I just sound like I smoke a casual four or five packs per day. Perfectly normal.

I take a sip to appease him, offering a thin-lipped smile once I’m done. “How’s that?”

His eyes answer for him, trailing over my face with practiced patience. He’s taking inventory. I’m sure he can see my red, puffy eyes.

Mikhail Novikov doesn’t miss a thing.

Next to me, Dante grabs another breadstick and tears off a bite. “This is the best day ever.”

Only a five-year-old could have an existential crisis about never seeing his friends again and then, twelve hours later, claim it’s the best day ever because he gets to eat spaghetti and meatballs.

“You like it?” Mikhail asks.

“Uh-huh,” Dante confirms, his mouth shoved full of garlic breadsticks. “Mama bought me this for my birthday last year. It’s my favorite.”

“Is it really?” Mikhail looks smug and not at all surprised. There’s no way on earth he didn’t realize he was ordering from mine and Dante’s favorite Italian restaurant. Mostly because there’s no other reason he would be eating an overly-salted, previously-frozen breadstick.

“I don’t even want to know how you found out about this place,” I tell him. “Though I think you should do the world a favor and set your spies on more important missions.”

“I’d rather make sure you and Dante have everything you could ever want here.”

Mikhail doesn’t even look at me as he drops this bomb. That’s what this calm affection feels like—a nuclear bomb meant to lay waste to the anger and resentment I’ve been harboring since the moment I opened my apartment door and found Mikhail standing on the landing.

I’m supposed to forget what happened this morning because he came home with three different types of carbs? The life I imagined for my son is worth a lot more than the two-for-one meal deal at Antonio’s.

Mikhail will have to try a lot harder than that.

“A boy cannot live on cheap Italian food alone,” I mutter.

As yet another sign that Mikhail is trying to make peace, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he drops another breadstick on my plate.

We circle around Dante for the rest of the night without ever talking to each other. It’s surprisingly easy because Dante is proactive about filling silences. Before I can even worry that he’s too absorbed in coloring to make conversation and I’ll finally have to figure out something to say to Mikhail, Dante snaps his head up and asks if I’d rather swim in a pool full of ice cream or Skittles.

“Can you both put me to bed?” Dante pleads, hands folded behind the back of his skateboarding dinosaur pajamas.

Mikhail is already halfway out the door, but he backtracks and kneels down by Dante’s bed without any hesitation. “Sure, kid. What book do you want to read?”

Is this everything I dreamed of for Dante? Sure.

Am I going to let it melt my heart and buckle my knees? Hopefully not.

The problem is that Mikhail is a good reader. His voice is deep, so his grumbly impression of a bear makes Dante giggle. Then, as we’re leaving the room, he holds out his fist for a fist bump.

“If you want to be brave, you have to be…”

“Scared!” Dante pounds his fist with a grin.

“And when you’re scared, you have to be…”

“Brave!”

They fist bump again and Mikhail ruffles his hair. “Goodnight, malysh.”

Mikhail steps into the hall, but I linger by Dante’s bedside, hoping Mikhail will be gone by the time I come out.

“I love you, bud.” I kiss Dante’s forehead. “If you need anything, I’m right across the hall, okay? I’m always there for you.”

“And Mikhail, too? He’s here for me?”

---