Dean watches all this with a strange expression on his face—part curious, and part pained.
If my research was right . . . Dean has a little sister, too.
“Go ahead and sit down,” Sebastian tells us. “The first batch of pancakes is ready.”
We arrange ourselves around the farmhouse table, Leo depositing Natasha back in her highchair so Sebastian can drop a pancake on her tray.
Yelena sets a glass of juice down in front of each of us. As she gives Leo his glass, she ruffles his hair affectionately. Then she rests her hand lightly on Dean’s shoulder and squeezes it in turn.
Dean and Yelena have been spending a lot of time together. She’s been telling him all about her and Adrian’s childhood in Russia—their summer holidays on the Black Sea and ski trips to Krasnaya Polyana. She tells him about distant cousins he never met, and talks about his grandmother that Adrian Yenin never mentioned.
I’ve likewise been catching up with Zoe. I told her most everything that happened this year at school, other than a few things between Dean and me that are too private to share.
“So you really love him?” she asked me. “And he makes you happy?”
“Extremely happy. Sort of sickeningly happy, actually.”
“Perfect,” Zoe laughed. “That’s all I care about.” She wrapped her arm around me to pull me close, and kissed me on the temple.
With only a few weeks left before September, Dean knocks on the door of the Gallo’s lovely guest room on the top floor, in which I’ve been staying.
“Hey,” he says, poking his head inside. “Do you want to come somewhere with me?
“Of course,” I say, setting down the book I was reading.
It’s a gray Sunday morning—one of the only inclement days we’ve suffered over the summer.
As I follow Dean down two flights of stairs, I see that he has Leo’s car keys in his hand.
“Is Leo coming with us?” I ask.
“No,” Dean shakes his head. “Just you and me.”
Dean looks especially pale under the gloomy sky as we stride across the driveway to the waiting car. Almost as soon as he fits the key into the ignition, raindrops begin to spatter against the windshield.
“Where are we going?” I ask him.
“Gillson Park,” he replies.
We drive north of the city, up through Lakeview and Lincolnwood. As we pass into Evanston, I know where we’re going. But I stay quiet, feeling the tension in Dean’s fingers as he grips my hand harder and harder.
Gillson Park is located right on the rim of the lake, with a sandy beach on one side and a wildflower garden on the other. Dean parks the car, his hands paper-white where they grip the wheel. I can almost hear his heart hammering.
“Did you talk to her?” I ask him.
“Yes,” he says. “Last night on the phone.”
“She’s meeting us here?”
He nods.
We cross the parking lot hand in hand, making our way toward the garden. As the rain drums down, the park empties out, until we’re some of the only people left walking the paths.
It’s easy to find the lone woman sitting on a park bench, dressed in nurse’s scrubs and a light jacket. She holds a blue umbrella open overhead.
As we approach, she looks up. Slowly, she lowers the umbrella and stands, uncovered, in the rain.
Rose Copeland is smaller than I expected—only a few inches taller than me. She’s beautiful—I knew that from her photograph. But unlike Yelena, long, unhappy years have worn themselves into her face. She’s one of the saddest-looking women I’ve ever seen.
The rain beating down on her head darkens her hair from honey-blond to light brown. She can’t tear her eyes off Dean’s face.
Dean walks up to her, rigid and blanched.
I don’t know what he’s feeling in this moment. I don’t know how he’ll react.
Mother and son look at each other for a long time.
Then, finally, Dean manages to say, “I missed you.”
Rose’s face crumples. She collapses against Dean, sobbing against his chest. Dean puts his arms around her, stroking her back gently, not unlike how Leo comforts his baby sister.
We all sit down on the bench together, sharing the umbrella overhead.
I can’t help crying, but I try to do it quietly so I don’t draw attention away from Dean and his mother.
Dean puts his arm around me anyway, holding his mother on one side and me on the other.
“I could never . . . explain to you . . .” his mother sobs.
“It’s alright, mom,” Dean says, quietly. “I know why you left.”
She looks up into his face, her pale blue eyes as translucent as glass under their film of tears. “You do?” She says.
“Yes,” Dean says. “Because of her.”
He nods toward a willow tree a dozen yards away. In the protected shelter beneath the low-hanging branches, a little blonde girl sits on a picnic blanket, headphones over her ears, reading a chapter book.
“That’s Frances,” Rose says.
“You were pregnant,” I say, understanding at last.
Rose nods. “Adrian was . . . deteriorating. The pregnancy was accidental. When I realized it was a girl . . .” A shudder runs down her slim frame. “I know how the Bratva treat their girls.”
Dean’s lips tighten.
He might have dismissed that fear several months ago. But he’s spent enough time talking with his Aunt Yelena to understand what her life was like, growing up as the only daughter of a Bratva boss. Her experience was much different than her brother Adrian’s.
“I thought Adrian would take care of you at least,” she says, quietly. “His heir.”
“I saw him push you,” Dean says, his face darkening.
She nods. “I hit my head. And that night I had spotting . . . I thought I might lose the baby. When I didn’t . . .” her face contorts in misery, and she has to work to regain enough control to get her words out. “I didn’t want to leave you, Dean. I knew he’d never let you go. I never meant to choose between you and Frances. I thought you’d each have one parent. It seemed like all I could do, under the circumstances. But I’ve regretted it . . . every day since . . .”
She breaks down again, the rain washing her tears away as quickly as they fall. I try to shift the umbrella to cover her better.
Dean holds her, his hands trembling from how tightly he’s squeezing her.
“I don’t want to be angry anymore,” he says. “I don’t want to be full of regret. And I don’t want that for you, either.”
“I’ll never stop being sorry,” she sobs. “I missed you so much. It almost killed me. If I didn’t have Frances . . .”
She looks across the stretch of field dotted with blue and yellow wildflowers. The little girl is still utterly absorbed in her book, her expression as serious as Dean’s.
“Can I meet her?” Dean asks, quietly.
“Yes,” Rose says. “That’s why I brought her.”
“You weren’t afraid to bring her here?” Dean asks. “You weren’t afraid what I might be like now?”
Rose looks up into Dean’s face, shaking her head.