Page 149 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

As it stands, I’m standing here, staring in awe at the woman before me.

The me who isn’t. The stranger. The one I always wanted to be, but never was. The one who I painted so many times, hoped for so much. The one I never really thought I’d be, not really.

But it’s my reflection I’m looking at now.

Me.

The paintings came true. I painted enough of the happy future that it came true. I became her. A woman who’s luminous and lucky and happy in the way you think exists only in storybooks. But not the ‘smile-for-the-camera’ kind of happy. Not even the kind of happy from having ‘everything you’ve ever wanted,’ whatever that means. This is the kind of happy enjoyed by a scarce few: those who live life, enjoy the best of it, who have been run through the vicious gamut and come out the other side, better for it.

The kind of happy that’s earned.

I have earned it. Through all the craziness of being homeless, the madness of being Gavril’s fake wife, the danger with Osip, trusting my gut and staying with Gavril afterwards even when logic said to run screaming for the hills.

And even after all that, this past year with Gavril hasn’t been a walk in the park. We’ve had to get used to each other’s differences, quirks, flaws. We’ve had to work through our issues, build on our trust, make one choice to stick it out after the next.

It’s scary and confronting and sometimes I learn things about myself I’d rather not—things I need to work on that I’d rather have kept in the dark place they’d been lurking in.

But I have learned and I am learning and I am growing. Or at least, I’m trying to.

At any rate, somewhere along the way, I became her. The woman in the paintings.

I smile. My cheese level is over nine thousand and I love every bit of it.

Anyway, if this is cheesy—reveling in my good luck, smiling so big the corners of my lips hurt—if this is cheesy, then I’d like another slice, please.

If this is cheesy, then, thank you to whoever is listening.

That it came true. All of it.

But I’m not the only one better off. In fact, it seems like it’s catching, these days.

Like Mom. She’s:

a) Still in her magazine-worthy plant paradise of an apartment

b) Snagged a job I didn’t even know existed—being a ‘baby mama’ to hundreds of teenage orange and pink orchids

c) Dating this plumber with a gray widow’s peak, kind eyes, and who’s much more interesting than his name—Albert—suggests

d) Cured of her lung cancer

e) And doesn’t even cough anymore.

I grin at myself in the mirror. “You’re silly,” I whisper.

Why go through all this when you know already? I think. Maybe it’s because it’s all dawning on me now, all at once. Just how lucky I am. Just how much everything’s worked out.

And that’s not even it. There’s still … what I haven’t told Gavril.

Knock-knock-knock.

“Joy? There’s just ten minutes left.”

It’s Mom.

“Okay,” I tell her. “Be out in a sec.”

I’m ready. It’s time.

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