Page 123 of 10 Days to Surrender

Mama’s arms wrap around me from the side, and she presses a kiss to my temple. “You were always meant for this kind of happiness, baby. Even when you were small, your heart was too big for the cage they tried to put you in.”

The twins kick, as if agreeing with their grandmother. I spread my palm over the spot where Thing 1—definitely the more dramatic of the two—is showing off.

“Your babies are going to be so loved,” Lora sighs dreamily. “Like, the most loved babies ever.”

“The mostspoiledbabies ever,” Gina corrects, starting the car again. “Between all of us aunties, plus Zoya, plus whatever poor soul has to tell Sasha ‘no’ when he wants to buy them ponies…”

I laugh, but my heart swells at the thought. My children will never know what it’s like to feel trapped or afraid. They’ll grow up surrounded by fierce protectors, gentle teachers, and so much love it’ll overflow.

As we wind our way back toward the villa—toward home—Whitney Houston’s voice soars through the speakers, and we all join in again, singing about a love that lifts us up where we belong.

47

ARIEL

Tradition is bullshit.

It’s my wedding morning and yes, yes, I know that it’s bad luck to sleep with your groom the night before you’re married. But as I wake up and instinctively stick my cold feet toward where he should to warm them up, it’s bullshit that I find the bed empty instead.

I’m sure Sasha is equally grumpy. He had to bunk on a couch in Feliks and Gina’s room for the night, and I bet he’s doing the same thing I’m doing right now: reaching out and wishing he could touch me.

Besides—bad luck? Forus?Who cares?! What could possibly go wrong that hasn’t already gone wrong multiple times in our love story?

I get up and waddle to the window. The sun is so yellow and beautiful that it makes the whole world look like it’s been dipped in cake batter. Below the horizon, my sisters-in-spirit are already hard at work. Gina balances precariously on a ladder, draping fairy lights between crooked olive trees while Loraspots her from below. Jasmine weaves between wooden chairs, positioning them in neat rows and tying bundles of wildflowers to the end seats.

Just love. Just family. Just choice.

I press my palm against the window glass, my other hand cradling my swollen belly. The babies shift beneath my touch, as if they’re taking in the scene below just like I am.

“I know,” I whisper to them. “I can’t wait, either.”

My thumb finds the scar on my left palm, the one Sasha bandaged in that bathroom a lifetime ago. That night tasted like panic and champagne. Today smells like jasmine and fresh-bakedkoulourakiadrifting from the kitchen. What a world of difference.

A gentle breeze rustles the olive leaves, making the fairy lights dance. Jasmine pauses in her work to lift her face to the morning sun.

When she opens her eyes, she sees me batting my eyelashes at her from my window, ruining her Disney princess moment. She laughs and throws a swatch of flowers up at me. She misses by a mile, though, and hits Gina instead, who then drops a fairy light on Lora’s head, who shrieks and flails like she just got hit by a sniper. Their laughter floats up to my window, and I find myself laughing right along with them.

This is exactly how a wedding morning should feel. Soft light, beloved faces, and the quiet certainty that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

When the decorations are done, the women all pour into my room to help me start getting ready. They’re like nervousbutterflies, all of them, flitting around and landing on me and taking off again. Only Mama’s hands are steady as she helps me into my dress.

“Hold still,solnyshko,” Zoya scolds, wielding a hairpin like a sword. “Your curls, they fight me like angry snakes.”

“They’ve always had a mind of their own,” Mama laughs, smoothing the fabric over my belly. “ Not unlike their owner.”

From her perch on my bed, Jasmine clears her throat dramatically. She’s been “practicing” her speech all morning and my cheeks hurt from laughing. “‘Dearly beloved,’“ she intones in a voice that sounds more like a chain-smoking Batman than an officiant. “‘We are gathered here today…’“

“Oh God, stop,” I giggle, earning another scolding tap from Zoya. “You sound terrible.”

“What? This isn’t authoritative enough?” Jasmine drops her voice even lower. “‘DO YOU, SASHA OZEROV…’“

“I’m going to pee myself if you keep that up,” I warn, which sets everyone off laughing again.

Gina circles us like a documentarian, her phone perpetually raised. “This is gold. Pure gold. The making-of documentary is going to be better than the actual wedding.”

“Less talking, more holding still,” Zoya mutters. But I catch even her smiling in the mirror.

She works for a few more minutes before she steps back, claps her hands, and declares me finished. Everyone clusters around to see for themselves. They ooh and aww, and I can’t decide whose face makes me smile the biggest. Gina’s beam? Lora’s cartoon-heart eyes? Zoya’s scowl?

---