I never thought I’d find peace in the simple act of reading aloud.
Yet here I am, seated beside Rowan’s bed, working my way through some romance novel she insisted would “expand my emotional vocabulary.”
The protagonist is an insufferable idiot who can’t see what’s right in front of him, but Rowan laughs and swoons and awwws at all the right parts, so I keep reading for the sheer sake of seeing that joy on her face.
Her bed rest has transformed our relationship in ways I never anticipated. Almost six weeks of forced proximity, of quiet conversations and shared meals means almost six weeks of learning each other without the constant interference of the world outside.
It’s starting to feel dangerously close to normal.
“Your voice gets deeper when you read dialogue,” she observes in the middle of me working my way through a passage that involves some surprisingly graphic foreplay. She’s propped against a mountain of pillows, but even still, I can see the crest of her belly tented beneath the bedsheets. “Especially when it’s the dark, tortured, brooding hero.”
I squint at her. “Are you implying I identify with the emotionally constipated asshole in this story?”
“If the custom Italian shoe fits…”
That smile. That’s the good shit. It’s not the polite one she uses with the staff or the careful, painted one she wore in those first days after our reconciliation.
This is the real one—the one that actually reaches her eyes and carves that small dimple in her left cheek.
I thought I might never see it directed at me again.
“I think I’ve been sufficiently cultured for one day,” I declare, snapping the book shut and imprisoning the too-blind-to-know-what’s-good-for-him hero to his own selfish fucking thoughts. “Any other demands, Mrs. Akopov?”
“Hmm.” She pretends to consider it seriously. “I wouldn’t say no to those cheese pastries Marta made yesterday.”
I check my watch. “It’s three in the morning.”
“And?”
“And Marta is asleep, like any sane person would be.”
Rowan’s lower lip juts out in an exaggerated pout. “But your child demands cheese pastries.”
“Suddenly, it’s my child? Convenient.”
“When it’s demanding dairy products at ungodly hours? Definitely your child.”
I sigh, already rising from my chair. “I’ll see what I can find.”
Her hand catches mine before I can leave. “I was kidding, Vince. Stay.”
The simple request freezes me in place. For weeks, we’ve been navigating this new territory—her in the bed, me in the nearby chair.
Close, but not too close.
Together, but still maintaining the boundaries she established.
But something has shifted tonight. I can feel it in the air between us. An easing of tension. An inhale, not a taut, held breath.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
She nods, scooting over to make room beside her. “Tell me a story.”
“I just read you half a book.”
“Not from a book.” Her green eyes hold mine. “Tell me something about you. Something I don’t know yet.”
I settle carefully beside her on the bed, maintaining a respectful distance while still close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo—a clean, floral aroma that reminds me of spring.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
“Something good. From before.”
“Before what?”
“Before everything got complicated.” She gestures vaguely. “Before you became… you.”
I think back. Dusty memories rise up, each bloodier than the last. I don’t want any of those.
“I used to build model ships,” I say finally.
Rowan’s eyebrows fly up to her hairline. “You’re lying.”
“Swear. Started when I was eight. My grandfather—my mother’s father—gave me my first kit. A Spanish galleon with real canvas sails.”
She hides her mouth behind her hand as she titters with laughter. “I’m having trouble picturing a nerdy little Vincent with craft glue and tiny tweezers.”
“I was meticulous,” I admit. “Spent hours getting every detail right. My father thought it was a waste of time, of course, but my mother encouraged it.”
“What happened to them? The ships?”
“They’re in storage somewhere, probably gathering dust. I stopped after she died.” That old, familiar pang of guilt accompanies the memory. “Didn’t see the point after that.”
Rowan’s hand finds mine on the bedspread. “I’m sorry, Vince.” She doesn’t have to specify that we’re not talking about the ships anymore.
“It was a long time ago.”
“That doesn’t make it hurt less.”
No, it doesn’t. But I’ve spent most of my life ensuring that particular hurt stays buried deep where it can’t weaken me. Until recently, when I thought I might lose Rowan the same way. Then I found that the pain hadn’t gone away or softened. It was still there, waiting for its day in the sun.
“Your turn,” I say, shoving the spotlight away from myself. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
She thinks for a moment. “I wanted to be an astronaut when I was little.”
“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”
“Why not?”
“You’ve always seemed a bit otherworldly to me.”
She laughs softly. “That’s either very romantic or extremely offensive.”
“The former,” I assure her. “Definitely the former.”
Her thumb taps each of my knuckles in turn like piano keys. “When I was ten, I saved up my allowance for six months to buy a telescope. I used to spend hours on our apartment roof, watching the stars, making up my own names for the constellations.”
I try to picture it—a younger Rowan with the same determined eyes, staring up at the heavens, dreaming of escape. Of something bigger and grander than her too-small life.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Mom got sick again. The telescope got pawned and the money went to medical bills.” She shrugs like it doesn’t hurt her anymore, though I know better than that. “Space had to wait.”
“I could buy you a telescope,” I offer. “The best one they make.”
“Of course you could.” Her smile turns wistful. “But it wouldn’t be the same, would it?”
No, it wouldn’t. Because it’s never been about the thing itself, but what it represented.
Dreams. Possibility. Hope.
All the things I never allowed myself to want, until her.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I say, surprising myself. “When the baby comes, when you’re both healthy and strong, I’ll take you somewhere without light pollution. Somewhere you can really see the stars.”
Her eyes widen. “You’d do that?”
“I’d do a lot more than that, if you asked.”
Another silence falls, but it’s not awkward. Just thoughtful.
“We didn’t know each other at all, did we?” she asks finally. “Not really. Even after everything.”
“We’re learning now,” I reply. “That’s what matters.”
“Is it enough, though? To build a life on?”
The question is an uncertain thing hovering between, weightier and thornier than anything should be at three in the morning.
But it’s the right question. The necessary one.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But I want it to be.”
“Me, too,” she whispers. “Me, too.”
We talk until dawn breaks, sharing pieces of ourselves that have nothing to do with the Akopovs or the Petrovs or any of the complications that brought us together. Just ordinary things. Childhood memories. Favorite foods. Books we’ve read. Dreams we’ve abandoned.
With each small revelation, I feel myself drawn closer to her, as if these shared confidences are forming a bridge between us, spanning the chasm I created with my lies.
“Favorite color?” she asks, her voice drowsy now as sleep begins to claim her.
“Green,” I answer without hesitation. “The exact shade of your eyes.”
She smiles, already half-asleep. “Smooth talker.”
“Only with you.” I brush a strand of hair from her forehead. “Sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“Promise?” she murmurs.
“I swear.”
