Page 44 of The Rusalka and Mr. Right

My shoulders snap back and my chest heaves forward like someone just replaced my spine with steel.

And she thinks that her genetic issues and her body differences make her less?

Oh,hellno. Generations of my family, my race, have experienced similar prejudice. The world still has pockets of bigotry in it, weak little people hiding behind their definitions of superior, as if a skin color, or nationality, or a piece of DNA would ever mean a damn thing.

When I come up behind Marina, she’s taking cash from one of the men in the orchard truck and saying her goodbyes. Her head turns, and her smile widens as she sees me, a light glowing through her, a mixture of pure joy and relief.

No one has ever given me that look.

Maybe no one has ever been in love with me like this. Maybe because she’s the one, and no one else has been or ever will be.

Only fools rush in, that old song says so.

But another line says something about “some things are meant to be.”

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Her voice is shy.

“You’re a monster? A mutant?” I drop the words like feathers, nice and soft, floating down without any harshness behind them.

Startled, she backs up a step, then nods. “I don’t think mutant is the right word. Just monster. Rusalka.”

“Okay. That’s what you are. Notwhoyou are.” I slip my arm over her shoulders, and we fall into step, heading out of the orchard. “I’m about who you are. Okay?”

There’s a long, long pause. “Okay. But—”

“The only butt I’m interested in is your adorable little ass. If I hear one more word about how you want me to run and leave you because you’re a rusalka, I’m smacking it.”

“Ooh.” Marina doesn’t sound too put out by that idea.

“We good now? You drop all this ‘I’m a monster’ shit.”

Her foot stomps down and it actually shakes me enough that I have to lean on her. “Iama monster.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’tmatter.”

“It’s... It’s my heritage. Culture.”

“I’ll respect it.” I frown. I don’t fully know if that’s the right term or if there’s a language barrier thing here. Maybe she means heritage like it’s her past. Or culture, because it’s like how she was raised, how she and her sisters were brought up. “I think we should put that aside for now. Didn’t you say this Russian dude is coming to town? We should focus on dealing with him first.”

Marina nods, lips thinned together as we reach my car and I walk her to the passenger side. “There might be a way to make him leave me alone. You’d have to understand something of the... rituals of my people.”

“Like, there’s something that would make you unclean or off-limits to him?”

“Yes. Something like that.”

“Then let’s do it!”

Marina puts her arms around my neck and hugs me tight. “I’ll explain it, with all the risks. Then, if you want to do it, you have until the 16th of October to make up your mind. I would never blame you for saying no, or even just walking away.”

“That isn’t going to happen.” For once, I’m not twitching under the burden of being the “steady one”, the “responsible one.” It seems good. Not boring. “I’m the Rock of Gibraltar, baby. Going nowhere.”

One more tight squeeze, and she sits in the car, a look of exhaustion on her pretty face.

I hear her whispering, “The only thing that erodes the mountain is the sea...”

“Okay. Maybe. But it takes a long, long time. Hundreds of years. I figure I have sixty or seventy left.” I start the car and roll down the windows. We drive off, September breezes and the scent of apples in the air, her hand in mine. I steal a look at her as we leave Onyx Farms.

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