The Pieces Of Us (The Firebird Trilogy Book 3)

by Jennifer Loring

  “It’s okay. Where do you want to start?”

  Were those last brittle wisps of her hair clinging to the pillow? He could barely swallow around the lump in his throat. “I…”

  Anya gripped his hand again. “You can do this, Dad. We both can. How about I work in the closet? I’ll start going through her clothes.”

  “All right.” Alex blew out a long breath. Don’t dwell on it. Just do it. He yanked the comforter off the bed and piled it on the floor. The sheets, the pillows, everything—trash. Stephanie was not those strands of hair, those smells, those stains.

  He ran his fingers over the hardcover copy of The Complete Tales of Winnie-the-Pooh on the nightstand. The discolored water ring on the wood from her nightly glass. A pile of get-well cards lay stacked beside the book. He’d thrown out all the sympathy cards. Condolences, shared sorrow, prayers to a god he’d abandoned decades ago and who had returned the favor—none of these things restored to him his dead wife.

  In the drawer lay her journal, to which she had committed each day’s highlights until she no longer possessed the energy. He might bring himself to read it once they cleared out everything else, when her presence was no longer so tangible. For now, he shuffled through the cards, her circle of friends small but devoted.

  Here’s to you—steadier, stronger, and better every day. Miss talking to you. Love, Brandon

  Alex growled and shoved his hair back.

  She chose me.

  He mashed the card in his fist and hurled the crinkled ball of cardstock at the sheets. At no point had he any fucking right to be jealous. But he’d never forget the sight of Brandon at the funeral, stooped with a pain that had become corporeal, his eyes puffy and his stare empty. Alex had gone out of his way to avoid speaking to him, and they hadn’t crossed paths since.

  “Dad, what is this dress? I’ve never seen it before, and it’s so pretty!” Anya pranced out of the walk-in, and Alex’s heart stopped. The evening-blue chiffon gown with a matching belt around the empire waist. Stephanie’s wedding dress.

  Words stuck in his throat, choking him. Tears slipped down his cheeks. Of course she didn’t recognize it. In the wedding photo, with Niagara Falls backdropping their kiss, the photographer had zoomed in to capture the rainbow haloing their heads. Only the dress’s neckline was visible.

  “Her wedding dress,” he rasped.

  “Oh…Oh, Dad.” Anya scrunched up her face. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—”

  “Shh. Come here.”

  She flopped onto the bed and buried her face in his shoulder, hers heaving with sobs.

  “It’s all right, milaya.” Alex stroked her hair. When she lifted her head, he flattened out the dress over her lap, if only as an excuse to touch it again. “She was already pregnant with you when she wore this. We were so excited. And terrified, but mostly excited. I know”—he knuckled away a tear from the corner of his eye—“she would want you to have this, whatever you decide to use it for. She would’ve loved to see you in it, but…well, at least I’ll get to.”

  Anya sniffed and danced her fingers over the chiffon. “Maybe prom, if I even get a date.”

  “Why do you think you won’t? You’re beautiful, smart—”

  “Almost six feet tall…”

  Alex snickered. “I guess I have to take the blame for that one. Any boy who sees nothing but your height isn’t worthy of you anyway. Not even for one silly school dance.”

  “Silly? Mom said you lost your virginity to each other on prom night. Couldn’t have been that silly.”

  He winced. “Anya!”

  “Oh my God, Dad, you’re blushing. That’s so cute.”

  “It’s not cute, it’s—” He cleared his throat. Sweat percolated along his hairline. “When did you have this conversation, anyway?”

  A faint smile crossed her lips, and she shrugged. “Things come up. Girl talk. So, I found something else in the closet, on the top shelf. I didn’t open it. I thought you would want to first.” She darted back into the closet and returned with the black walnut keepsake box. “This picture on top is you and Mom, right? When you were my age.”

  “Da.” He smiled, his lips quivering, and set the box on his lap. “Your mom kept this from the time she was sixteen.”

  “How did you know, Dad? That she was the one.”

  An absolute certainty and yet inexplicable. He’d had nothing to provide Stephanie then except his instant and alarming capacity to love her with his entire being. Somehow, it had been enough. “The second I looked into her eyes and saw the only future I wanted.” Alex removed the lid. “I used to pick wildflowers for her on the way to school. She took all these pictures of me playing hockey, and I didn’t even know it at the time.” He sifted through the mementos, each one inspiring a new complement of emotions. “All these things we did together. Ah, there’s our prom picture.”

  “Weren’t you ever awkward and horrible-looking? God.” Anya elbowed him and plucked the picture from his fingers. “I’ve never seen two people so happy.” She kissed his cheek and spread the wedding dress out behind her on the bare, stained mattress. “I’ll keep working in the closet. Maybe I’ll find some other good stuff.”

  “No doubt.”

  “I’m not gonna find anything weird, like your porn stash or something, am I?”

  Alex, laughing, bowed his face to his hands. “Nyet. I don’t have a porn stash.” One thing he’d never needed.

  “It’s good to see you laugh, Dad.” Anya wrapped an arm around him.

  “I’ll try to do it more often.” Alex rested his head against hers. “You’re a good kid, you know.”

  “You’re a good dad, so that’s probably why.” She bounced up and across the room. “You know where to find me.”

  Once she was out of sight, Alex dug to the bottom of the box and brushed the spine of the battered, leather-bound journal that had been his first Christmas gift to Stephanie. He put on his glasses, his farsightedness having given way to post-forty presbyopia, and flipped through pages over twenty-five years old.

  Today was my birthday, and Alex gave me a vintage Pooh bear. It was the sweetest thing. Then he took me to the drive-in to see The Silence of the Lambs. His host mother even let him borrow her car. We sat on the lawn, watching the movie, and ate a huge brownie-stuffed chocolate chip cookie that he pretended was birthday cake. It was funny to see such a big guy hiding his face during the movie!

  We went back to his host family’s house and made out for a while. God, he is the most amazing kisser. I was hoping we’d finally…you know, but we didn’t. Soon, I hope. It’s getting hard to wait.

  Why does he have to go back to Russia so soon? It’s not fair. Something like this should never have to end.

  Alex rubbed his eyes. Nothing beautiful lasted forever. He thumbed to the last few pages.

  What the fuck do I do now? He’s almost six thousand miles away. What about college? If I keep it, I’ll have just turned eighteen when it’s born. Dad will kick me out. What if Alex wants no part of it, or me?

  What if he does? Would he move back here? Would I move to Russia?

  A sob rose in his throat. The final entry was dated a week later.

  It doesn’t matter now. Yesterday I knew something was wrong when the pain started, like something trying to knife its way out of my stomach and back. I locked myself in the bathroom. My underwear was soaked with clots and blood.

  The cramps and bleeding stopped out of nowhere while I was sitting on the toilet, the nausea and breast pain all gone. As if Alex’s baby had never been growing inside me at all.

  I’ve lost him again. Somewhere in there was the one thing that would’ve tied us together forever, no matter what. He would’ve stepped up. He loves me too much not to, right?

  I can’t tell him now. What’s the point? He’s better off this way. Better off without a mess like me.

  “No, baby.” Tears spattered the page, blurring the ink. “I was never better off.”

  “Dad,�
�� came Anya’s voice from the closet’s depths, “you have, like, a thousand suits.”

  He snapped the journal shut and secreted it back inside the box. The wound that moments ago seemed it might heal after all had burst open again. Stephanie hadn’t believed that, not anymore. Not at the end. Not after all these years. “I know, baby. I needed them.”

  “Do you need them now?”

  “I thought we were focusing on Mom’s stuff.”

  “Yeah, but it would be nice to donate some, don’t you think?”

  He chuckled and set the box aside in his designated “keep” pile. “We’ll see.”

  “Speaking of dresses”—she poked her head out—“I need a dress for Homecoming.”

  Alex cocked an eyebrow. He glanced at the dress on the bed, then at Anya. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s a dress.”

  “I can’t wear Mom’s wedding dress for Homecoming. It’s not important enough.”

  “Well, see what else is in there. She had a pretty black dress—strapless, sparkly…The point being, I’m not buying you a dress you’re going to wear once.” Millionaire or not, the kid had to learn some fiscal responsibility. He was fortunate enough to have his millions still, unlike so many of his pro-athlete peers, thanks to Stephanie’s sound investing.

  “What did she wear it for? Sounds fancy.”

  “Our first anniversary. We went to the opera in Milan.”

  “Ooh, I was right.” Anya capered into the walk-in once more. “Found it,” she announced five minutes later. “You were right, it’s pretty. I think this will work with some alterations.”

  “Great. Who are you going with, since you’re convinced you can’t get a prom date either? Not that you need one.”

  She arranged the dress over the chiffon one. “I don’t know. I guess I could ask Noah.”

  “Don’t do it because you feel sorry for him, Anya. It’ll only make things worse.”

  She groaned and tendered her patented eye-roll.

  “Anya Aleksandrovna Volynskaya, do not give me attitude.” Alex gathered the bundle of soiled bedding from the floor and tossed it into the hall.

  “What do you know about people feeling sorry for you? No offense, Dad, but you’ve never been unattractive, unpopular, un-anything.”

  He dug his nails into his palms. “Anya, you know I tried to kill myself once. Do you think it was because I felt good about myself or believed anyone liked or cared about me?”

  Anya regarded him with a wary expression.

  He pointed to the bed. She dropped onto it like a stone, and he sat beside her. “Twenty years ago, I was self-medicating because I didn’t know I was sick. My career was over. I was alone, and I hated myself. I couldn’t stand the thought of living with myself anymore, and I was coming off a week-long cocaine binge when I did it.”

  Her wet eyes widened. Daddy was no hero, not now, though she hadn’t known how fragile the illusion was.

  “When I found out what was wrong, I thought the only reason anyone—your mother especially—would want to be with me was because they pitied me. My looks, my money, none of it could fix what was broken inside me. So da, I do know what it feels like.”

  Anya hung her head. She twisted the Pooh necklace. “I’m sorry.”

  “Fortunately, your mother didn’t pity me at all. And she didn’t let me feel sorry for myself.” He glanced around the room, at the gathering shadows in the corners. The longer he and Anya remained, the less of Stephanie’s presence he felt, as though talking about her had granted her the freedom to move on after he’d held her spirit hostage all these months. A bittersweet parting, but a necessary one.

  “I miss her, Dad.”

  “Me too.” He snuffled back a bout of tears and fixed his attention on the framed poster-sized print of him above the bed, wearing nothing but the white briefs he’d modeled in Milan. “Goddamn, that is an embarrassing picture to have hanging up while sitting next to your seventeen-year-old daughter.”

  Anya laughed, her cheeks stained red. “Yeah, um…it would be hot if you weren’t my dad. So it’s just gross. Not that my friends wouldn’t love to see it.”

  “Don’t they get enough every summer?”

  “Ew. But thank you for not being totally European and wearing Speedos or something.”

  “I still have a pair—”

  “Dad. God. Stop.”

  He snorted and pulled her into a side hug. “The whole point of having children is to humiliate them later.”

  “Great. So what do you want to do with Mom’s clothes? Sell or donate?”

  “We don’t exactly need the money. Let’s donate them. But do me a favor—she had a Seattle Earthquakes jersey I bought her. See if you can find it. And anything else you like, you can keep.”

  “You got it.”

  “Anya.” Alex caught her hand as she stood up. “Thank you for doing this with me. I know it isn’t easy.”

  “I’d do anything for you, Dad.”

  “I know, baby girl. And that means everything to me.”

  She went back to work on Stephanie’s clothes. He waited until he heard her soft singing before opening the nightstand drawer and removing Stephanie’s most recent journal and her long-dead phone. Her rings were there too. He cupped all three in his palm. He’d keep the wedding band and engagement ring for himself, but Anya ought to have the promise ring.

  Alex slipped the platinum band and journal into the keepsake box. “My heart will always be yours, Stefania.”

  ***

  After several days of internal debate, sleepless nights, and even sitting in the master bedroom asking her if he ought to do this, Alex recharged Stephanie’s phone. As he depressed the On/Off button, part of him hoped it wouldn’t power up. Then her home screen, a simple bubble pattern on a red background, appeared along with her various apps. In the top right corner of the mail icon, a red number indicated the thirty-seven unread emails still in her inbox, none of which mattered anymore. Not after a year.

  Alex opened the Photos app. Many pictures of Anya, and of him, including a few dirty ones he’d forgotten about. Yes, he had sent his wife dick pics. He laughed as warmth stole into his cheeks. The long months of travel had never gotten easier, and he’d collected as many racy photos of her on his phone. He swiped through the rest. She hadn’t allowed any pictures once she started chemo, and she had never liked getting her picture taken in the first place. He found one Anya had snapped on their most recent trip to Saint Petersburg, in front of the flamboyant Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood. He caught himself searching Stephanie’s eyes, her expression, for signs that the cancer had already established roots. Nothing except the vivacity he so missed. A relief, that the delayed diagnosis hadn’t been a result of his inattentiveness but of a silent assassin whose symptoms did not emerge until its late stages.

  Alex returned to the Home screen, tapped Contacts, and scrolled until he located Brandon’s number. He transcribed it into his phone, then powered down Stephanie’s and placed it back in the drawer.

  You don’t have to do this. Let it lie.

  He dialed. The ringing stretched on until he was sure the call would go to voicemail.

  “Hello?”

  Alex opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Hi. Sorry. It’s…Aleksandr Volynsky.”

  Brandon cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”

  “I just…I feel like we have some things to say to each other. So maybe we could have a drink? If you have time. Whenever.” I sound like I’m asking him on a fucking date. Alex rubbed his temple.

  “I have some extra time before the season starts.” Brandon had worked his way up from pre- and post-game analyst to the Gladiators’ play-by-play commentator. Training camp was well underway, but half the games weren’t televised anyway. “But it’s been a year, eh? I don’t know if I want to revisit all of that.”

  “Do it for her, then. You were a good friend to her, and…”
Alex raked his fingers through his hair. “She would want us to clear the air.”

  Brandon let out a heavy sigh. “All right. Fine. I’ll call you next week.”

  He wouldn’t. He’d delete his call logs, thus conveniently losing Alex’s number. Why in the hell would he want to sit down with the guy who had swooped back into Stephanie’s life just as he’d been about to make his move on her? “Spasibo. Talk to you soon.”

  It was eighteen years ago. She’d been content to let it lie, but if she wanted him to do the same, that little voice in his heart remained conspicuously silent.

  Chapter Five

  Anya

  “Noah.” Anya selected the books she needed for homework and shut her locker. “Wait.”

  Avoiding eye contact, he let out a noisy sigh and slumped against the metal. “What.”

  “I wanted to ask you something. About Homecoming.”

  Beneath his freckles, his skin turned pink. “First choice turn you down?”

  “Don’t be like that, Noah.”

  Lockers slammed shut around them, excited chatter brought on by the final bell permeating the halls. Dates and athletic practices beckoned. Noah swirled the dial on his lock, crammed some books into the locker and crunched a number of papers in the process, then bashed it shut. “I have to go. See you around.”

  “Why are you pissed at me? I don’t owe you anything just because we’re friends.”

  The hall had cleared out; the few stragglers’ voices echoed and faded. Noah, lips thinned and jaw muscles pulsing, glared at her. “I know your dad has convinced you you’re a special snowflake, but get over yourself. You’re a spoiled brat.”

  Tears simmered in her eyes. “Wow. I used to think you were the nicest guy I knew, but you’re just like everyone else. Get back to me when you’ve watched your mother die from cancer and your father completely fall apart, when you’ve had to mostly take care of yourself for a year, and ask yourself if you would be thinking about relationships.”