Page 57 of Sapphire Tears

“You’re just begging for a lock on your door,kiska.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

I give her a carefree smirk. “It’s best not to go to war with me, June. You won’t win.”

She steps a little closer, and I notice how tenuous her grasp on the blanket is. One good tug and the whole thing will fall right to the ground. I’m tempted.

“Are we at war, Kolya?” she asks softly.

“I don’t know, June. You tell me.”

She sighs, and the defiance in her expression fades away. “I shouldn’t have left like that,” she says quietly. “Especially after we… um, well—Anyway. It was a cowardly move.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Because I was scared,” she admits. The truth is unexpected. “And I guess I felt like leaving was the best thing to do.”

“What were you afraid of?”

Her eyes get a little wider. In them, I can see the flecks of gold melting together against the autumn brown. “It doesn’t matter,” she says at last, dropping her gaze. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here now.”

The moment pulses with a tenderness we’ve only glimpsed before. I know the answer to her question:yes, we’re at war.

But it’s not just a war of me versus June. It’s a war of us versus ourselves.

Of our stubbornness against our hope.

Of our better judgment against our wildest fantasies.

And fuck, I have no idea who’s going to win.

But for now, the tension is unbearable. June seems to realize the same thing a second later because she clears her throat awkwardly.

“So… carpentry, huh?”

“Carpentry,” I confirm as we circle each other within the confines of the gazebo.

“Can you build a… letterbox?”

I chuckle. “If you made me.”

She smiles. “How about a treehouse?”

“In my sleep.”

She nods. “What about a crib?”

I stop short. “Yeah,” I say so quietly it’s barely audible. “I can make a crib.”

She rests one hand over her stomach. I know that look on her face: she’s remembering. Every time she does, her eyes go misty as she delves deep into a past that hurts her more and more.

“There’s this superstition that says you should never buy a crib too early into a pregnancy. You’re supposed to wait until the baby is almost there.”

“I don’t believe in superstitions.”

“Neither did I,” she says, her tone rippling with melancholy. “Which is why I went out and bought one right after my three month check-up.”

I’m not sure why she’s telling me this, but I figure it’s similar to when I shared details about my mother with her. It’s not a conscious choice. It’s like it’s being ripped out of her by a force she can’t see or name or resist.

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