Page 67 of Fight

Twenty

P

“Crap!” I yelled three weeks later as I stood in the kitchen staring down at the stain that was quickly spreading on my jeans.

I looked at Bunica and then blushed. “Sorry,” I said.

“Go change, Patricia. Ioan and I will handle the dishes, especially since you made such a lovely dinner for us,” she said.

“Okay. I’ll be back in just a minute,” I said, rushing out of the kitchen. I’d hurry back, excited at the prospect of watching Ioan wash dishes, those different sides of him, the dangerous mobster who loved his grandmother and believed in equitable distribution of household chores, only sending me that much deeper for him.

Before I left, I saw Ioan smile at me.

Would I ever get used to that smile, to how wonderful it made me feel?

At this point, I didn’t think I would. But something I had gotten used to was being here with him, visits with Bunica, each moment only further proving that I had finally found a home.

He’d never said that in words, but things had only gotten better, deeper since the last fight. He still left at night, and I never stopped worrying about him, but I could breathe now that I didn’t have to think about him fighting for his life. Instead, I spent my nights waiting for him to return, growing more and more comfortable in his home each day, my mornings in his bed, my afternoons just being with him.

It was perfect, the most wonderful time I’d had in my life.

I loved him.

The thought left me glowing as I pulled off the soiled jeans and reached for another pair.

Ioan had cleared out a space in his closet and then filled it with clothes, more than I’d ever owned before. I protested, told him I had more than enough, but he’d ignored me.

As much as some part of me liked being spoiled by him, another part resisted. I reached for a pair of clean jeans, jeans that had cost more than I could fathom and more than I’d ever pay, and that resistance, the underlying worry, stirred again.

Ioan had asked nothing of me, but I couldn’t shake the fear of what was to come. He wouldn’t be content to let me live here forever, and with each day that passed, my debt to him grew, right along with my attachment to him. It was a snarled mess I had no idea how to untangle.

Questions, deep, unsettling ones, nagged at me. Was this how it had been with my mother? Had she started out like me, hopeful, in love, only to end up as she was now? And was I doing the same thing, allowing kindness and attraction to weaken me so much that I’d never be able to deny him anything?

God, I prayed not, prayed Ioan really was as different as I hoped he was, but the truth was, I didn’t know.

“You okay, jefe?”

Ioan slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. A small beside lamp was on, lighting the room in a soft, dim glow. When I looked at him, the depth of the love I felt for him left me breathless.

And scared the crap out of me.

Something must have shown on my face, for he crossed over to me, his eyes narrowed, his brows drawn together.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, cupping my face in the way I had grown used to, grown to love.

“Nothing,” I said, twisting away from him.

His frown intensified, his skepticism clear.

“When are you going to ask for it?” I blurted.

I hadn’t wanted to speak, but between the feeling looking at him stirred and the worry that stirred with it, I hadn’t been able to hold back.

“Ask for what?” he said, again reaching out to touch me.

I didn’t break away but instead forced myself to meet his eyes. The tenderness I saw there, or at least the tenderness I thought I saw sent me into a tailspin. Was this some game to him? How could he not see what this uncertainty was doing to me?

“P?” he asked, his thumb rubbing my cheek.

---