“Oh . . .” I said, my stomach sinking like an elevator.
Sloane looked at me, her eyes very like Freya’s for a moment.
“When I met Marko, he reminded me of my father. And when I met you . . . you reminded me of me. Determined. Tenacious.”
My cheeks flushed.
“I couldn’t ask for a better compliment,” I said.
“Our fathers shape us,” Sloane said, zipping her case. “But it’s our husbands who determine what we truly become. And us them. A couple is the sum of both of you together—as strong as you are together. As happy as you are together.”
“I’ve never seen a couple as powerful as you and Ivan,” I said.
“I hope you and Rafe will surpass us,” Sloane said. “In your own way and your own time.”
I think of that now, as Rafe drives Ares and me the ninety minutes back to Cannon Beach, to the mansion on the cliff that I’ve already come to know and love so well.
I look at Rafe’s profile, the set of his jaw and the stormy green-blue of his eyes, and I think I could never choose a better partner, even if I had a thousand years to search.
When we pull up to the house, Freya is sitting on the porch swing reading a book. Her straight, dark hair is brushed to a glossy sheen, and I notice that she’s wearing a particularly lovely summer dress with puffed sleeves and a peasant bodice, her bare feet tucked up under her on the padded swing.
Ares Cirillo falls silent in the back seat.
As we unload his suitcase from the trunk, Freya sets down her book, watching us.
Ares climbs the steps, setting down his case and holding out his hand to shake.
“Good to see you again, Freya,” he says.
“Are we back to handshakes, then?” she says. “Has it been that long?”
Though I’m standing at the bottom of the steps, I’m almost certain Ares is blushing.
“No,” he says. “That was stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” she says. “Too slow to visit, maybe. But never stupid.”
She steps forward and Ares puts his arms around her, pulling her against his chest.
The hug is so long that Rafe and I exchange a look, and then a second look. We’re both grinning like idiots. I try to wipe the smile off my face before Freya catches me.
Timo has made dinner for us all. He’s an even better cook than he is a soldier. His homemade gnocchi and grilled peach salad beats anything I’ve had, even in the nicest restaurants down by the beach.
The only person who eats more than me is Zima, Ivan’s technology expert. He spends most of his days in front of his computer rig munching things that came wrapped in cellophane, yet he still remains skinny as a bean. I’ve long since decided that the laws of thermogenesis must not apply to him.
Sloane and Ivan are just as pleased to see Ares as the rest of us. They ask after his family, the bittersweet recounting of his sisters’ dance recitals and his mother’s new job tinged by the absence of Galen Cirillo.
“What’s your plan now?” Ivan asks Ares. “I miss you working for me. Rafe has to go to Las Vegas once a week to keep an eye on the new manager.”
Ares casts a quick look at Freya, then down at his peach salad.
“I was thinking I’d go to school for real. Maybe Cambridge.”
Ivan likewise glances at Freya, raising an eyebrow as he comes to understand.
“Ah,” he says. “Well, I’d be happy to pay your tuition. It’s the least I could do.”
“Thank you, but I have a scholarship,” Ares smiles. “And you did pay me very well for running the dispensaries—even from Kazakhstan.”
Freya hasn’t looked up from her own peach salad, but her cheeks are pink and she seems extraordinarily pleased with the view of her plate.
After dinner, Rafe pulls me into the hall.
“Come for a ride with me,” he says.
“I’d love to,” I say.
I climb on the back of his Indian FTR, that even Sabrina had to admit was pretty fucking boss, despite the stigma of being built within our lifetimes.
Rafe revs the engine, the bike coming to life beneath us, the vibration thrumming through my bones. We speed away from the house, my arms wrapped tight around his waist, our bodies leaning together as one.
We roar down the coastal road.
I love the wild, rocky beaches of Oregon. I love how much it rains, and how deeply, richly green it is everyplace you look.
I press my face against Rafe’s back, smelling the salt in the air, the rich leather of his jacket, and the intoxicating scent of his cologne.
We’ve only been driving a few minutes when he pulls into a small neighborhood along the cliffs. It’s not as fancy as where his parents live—the yards are overgrown with untamed gardens and untrimmed trees, the roofs covered in moss. The houses are small, cedar-plank sided with ramshackle decks. We’ve stopped in front of a cabin so covered in honeysuckle vines that I can hardly see the house at all.
“What do you think?” Rafe asks.
“I love it!” I tell him, honestly. “It looks like we’re in the middle of nowhere. But we’re five minutes from Shake Shack.”
Rafe laughs. My growing obsession with American burgers has toured us through every grill in a fifty-mile radius.
“I want to buy this house for you,” he says. “I thought we could live here when we get married in the spring. If you really do like it.”
I can’t speak. My heart is beating too hard.
The cabin is right on the edge of the cliff. From the back deck, we’ll be able to watch the sun set over the ocean. A set of rotting wooden steps leads down the cliff to the beach.
“We’ll fix those,” Rafe says, nodding in the direction of the top step clinging to the rock face by a single nail. “We’ll fix up the whole house. I’ll make it exactly how you want it.”
“If you’re in it,” I say. “That’s the only thing I care about.”
Dean Yenin
Visine Dvorca
December
Cat comes to visit me in the professor’s quarters in the old buttery.
I’m not actually a professor—I’m just the boxing instructor. Taking Snow’s old job for one year while Cat finishes her schooling.
I want to stay close to her.
She comes to see me every evening, and spends most nights curled up on my chest on the narrow single bed. Her roommate Rakel doesn’t mind—she’s having a torrid affair with Jacob Weiss, so she enjoys having the dorm room in the Undercroft to herself.
Cat gasps when I open the door.
“What happened to your face?”
“Oh,” I touch the tender bruise under my right eye. “It’s that little shithead from Coney Island. He just keeps trying his luck.”
Cat tries to hide her smile. “Looks like it worked today. He got you pretty good.”
“I knocked him on his ass,” I assure her. “But I’m sure he’ll try again tomorrow.”
“He’s persistent.”
“He’s a lazy, arrogant asshole,” I say. “If his head were any bigger, it wouldn’t fit in the ring.”
“Hm,” Cat says, not bothering to hide her grin at all anymore. “Reminds me of someone. I can’t think who . . .”