Page 85 of Unregrettable

Then I told Marku about my headache and he immediately got me out of there.

The headache’s still there, from lack of sleep and from exhaustion. The epic weep-a-thon I just had did nothing to help. Long shafts of golden light stream into Marku’s bedroom, dust motes dancing like fairies in the warm air against the backdrop of Cristian’s paintings.

Such a gorgeous late spring day, and no father. My nostrils burn. I squeeze my eyes shut, pinching my face as if that can staunch the flow of tears.

I snap them open and peer into the blade of sunlight with its dancing fairy dust motes. Maybe he’s here with me. Maybe he’s one of those dancing motes. I stretch out my hand. Dip it in a beam of light. Spear it through a sea of speckled dust.

Maybe he’s one of those particles of dust, on me now.

I lick the skin on the back of my hand. Maybe I just ingested him and he’s part of me. For some reason, that last thought gives me some comfort. I’m all about grasping anything that makes me feel better, even if it’s fleeting. Because that’s the lesson in surviving grief: take one moment at a time.

Marku is the only other thing that makes me feel better. He’s been my rock. I don’t know if he got a memo from above, but he came swooping in like my knight in shining armor and dealt with my mother. He moved me into his house while Aunt Natalia moved into ours. Seemed like a fair switch.

The door opens with a softwhooshas the bottom slips over the hardwood floor. I hear the creak; I’ve become familiar with the sounds of the house. Turned away from the door, I feel the bed dip near my spine. A hand softly caresses my hair, taking a moment to twine a lock around one finger.

Marku doesn’t ask me silly questions like how am I doing? He simply slips in behind me, the cloth of his suit rubbing against me. His arm loops over my waist. He pulls me in close and nuzzles my hair, just being with me. Holding me. Comforting me.

I let out a choked sigh. “He’s gone. The funeral. The burial…seeing his coffin go down in the ground…he’ll be so cold there.”

“No, he won’t,” Marku replies. “If he’s not here with you and your mother, then his ghost is basking on a beach in Jamaica. Or,” he pauses, “he’s gone back to the old country to hang out with ancestors. That man’s no fool. He’s not about to stay six feet under for long.”

I whimper and laugh at the same time, tears falling steadily. Marku nailed it. I shouldn’t be worried because that’s exactly something my dad would do. He often took us to Jamaica or Barbados on winter break. He loved the sun. And he loved Romania, even more nostalgic about it once he left. So yes, Marku is right. He’s not lying in the cold dirt. If he’s not with us or in Jamaica, then he took a quick detour to hang out with the elders. It gives me an itsy-bitsy moment of solace knowing he’s globe-trotting. He might be a tad disappointed that he doesn’t get to flip open his U.S. passport at a customs officer. He loved accruing stamps of his voyages on his passport.

Marku just hugs me, keeping me close. He brings me water, and later a meal, guessing that I’m not up to dealing with anyone. Later on, he slowly peels off my clothing, taking particular care with the stockings clipped to garter belts.

“You like those on me,” I comment.

“I like anything on you, but not gonna lie, peeling these off is like unwrapping a Christmas present as a kid.”

In only my bra and panties, I huff out a laugh. “Such a joker.”

He gazes up at me, his liquid brown eyes sincere. There’s a hint of vulnerability that I haven’t seen since our attempted murder of the Sperm Donor. “Nothing that has to do with you is a joke.”

My mouth goes dry.

He dips his head as he rolls the stocking down my leg. “Best thing I ever did was marry you. I’d never want you to go through this alone.”

My heart squeezes. Where would I be without him? Crying in my pillow, alone and bereft, that’s where.

“I want to tell people,” I blurt out, referring to our secret marriage.

His brows jump, although he studiously avoids my gaze. He thinks I’m saying this because I’m feeling vulnerable and exposed, but that’s not it. I do not want to wait another however-many months to have a big wedding before I start living with him in the open. Part of it might be that I’m not in the wedding mood. Hell, I don’t know if I’ll ever be. I’m not the princess-y type that has fantasized about my wedding since I was a girl and Tata’s recent passing makes it even more unlikely that I’ll force myself to go through with a crazy public wedding.

My father’s death has changed me. It’s as if my life was sliced in half, the before and after. It’s changed my mother as well. Things she’d have fought to the death over a couple of months ago seem irrelevant now.

“You don’t have to,” he murmurs, intently concentrating on the foot massage he’s giving me.

“I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

“Now’s not the time. Let’s wait and let things settle.”

I place a hand on his shoulder. The hiding has taken a toll on him. It was especially hard at the funeral. As my partner, he should have stood by my side. Instead, he hovered around me, torn between wanting to touch me and trying to hide. I wait for him to finally raise his head and face me. “Why?”

“Because a lot of things have happened in a short period of time. You need a little time.”

I place a finger beneath his chin, tipping his head up and locking eyes with him. “What’s this? You’ve been wanting me to be open about our marriage since the beginning. You were furious over my mother’s condition that we keep it secret until we graduate and have a big Romanianmafiewedding.”

He lets go of my foot and takes a seat beside me with a sigh. “At one point, you were plotting to divorce me.” I jerk in surprise.He knew?I guess I wasn’t subtle about how I felt about him, and he knows me. He knows I wouldn’t lie down and take anything. “Now that your father’s gone, you may not feel the need to honor our marriage anymore. And…”

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