Page 78 of 10 Days to Surrender

I drain my coffee, even though it’s hot enough to scald my throat raw.

“Well,” I cough, “I need to go check on?—”

“Nonsense,” Belle interrupts. “You can’t let two old ladies and a pregnant woman tend to this garden all alone! We need a big, strong man like you to help us with the heavy lifting. Isn’t that right, girls?”

Zoya nods. Ariel blushes. Belle just smiles brightly.

Emotional terrorists, the lot of them.

I sigh. “No, of course not. How may I be of service?”

That’s how I end up toiling away in the hot sun. As hours pass, I cuff my pants above the ankle and strip my sweat-drenched shirt off to cast it aside. Where is a storm when you need it? For three weeks now, it’s rained and knocked out the power damn near every day. But when it’s time for me to dig miles of neat rows while Zoya barks orders at me like a drill sergeant, suddenly, the sun wants to hang out.

Zoya meanders by every few minutes to criticize my technique. “Deeper,” she instructs, jabbing at the soil. “The roots need room to spread.”

Men used to piss themselves in fear when I walked into a room. Now, I’m kneeling in a garden bed, taking orders from two grandmothers, while doing my damndest to avoid gawking at the woman I fucked into oblivion last night.

The whole time, that woman is crouched at my side. I tried to tell her early on to go easy, to rest often for the babies’ sakes, but she told me that there was a sharp-edged hoe in the shed that I could go fuck myself with, and I decided it was best to not offer any additional advice.

There’s enough danger percolating between us anyhow. Our fingers touch as she passes me another seedling. “Is that good enough?” she asks, poking at the hole she’s been digging.

I have to clear my throat before I can answer. “Deeper.”

She looks at me. I look at her. We both then shift our gazes elsewhere.

It’s best that way.

Gravel crunches behind us. “Well, isn’t this domestic?” Kosti’s voice carries more amusement than any man should be capable of before noon. He settles onto a stone bench, lighting a cigarette with theatrical slowness. “Never thought I’d see the day—Sasha Ozerov, getting his hands dirty with actual dirt instead of blood.”

“Shut up and help,” I growl.

“Can’t, I’m afraid. Doctor’s orders. Bad back.” He grins around his cigarette. “I’m here in a strictly advisory capacity.”

Jasmine follows him out and joins us, and little by little, the rest of the day passes in a blaze of Italian sun. The earth is raw and black as we turn it over, as little green things take up residence.

In a year, it’ll be green.

In a decade, it’ll be greener still.

Part of me wants to remind these women that none of us will be here to see it. There’s a ticking time bomb waiting to blow up this happy little bubble we’re planting. An expiration date that’s coming sooner rather than later.

But I won’t be the one to bring it up. Hell, I’m doing my best to forget it myself.

Because, as I stand and dust my hands, I’m smacked sideways by a feeling that this is how it ought to be. Zoya is lecturing Jasmine on fertilizing methods while Kosti teaches Belle how to roll a cigarette. At my feet, Ariel is kneeling as she tucks the last of our seedlings into its new bed.

She belongs here. She belongs in this garden, in these clothes—myclothes—and in this makeshift family we’re piecing together out of broken parts and borrowed time.

When Ariel struggles to rise, I steady her with both hands. She’s left a perfect handprint in the dirt—five fingers pressed into the soil. Without thinking, I stoop down to press my own hand beside hers. Her print is smaller, but somehow, it makes mine look less threatening. Less like the marks I usually leave behind.

She notices. Her eyes meet mine, and this time, neither of us looks away.

30

ARIEL

“I have a surprise!” Jasmine sing-songs as she flounces into the kitchen, brandishing her phone like it’s made of gold.

I look up from my daily cup of ginger tea, immediately suspicious. She scowls at me. “Oh, don’t give me that sourpuss face.”

---