The Pieces Of Us (The Firebird Trilogy Book 3)

by Jennifer Loring

  He came, not with the violence of their kitchen encounter or even the fervor of their subsequent sessions last night, yet it satisfied him more. Quieted the demon slithering around in his head that whispered with its sour mouth he was not worthy of happiness, had not appreciated it enough while he’d possessed it. It often spoke with Brandon’s voice.

  “I have to get going.” Alex gave her a slow, soulful kiss. “Hopefully Anya won’t be awake yet.”

  Hannah looped a lock of his hair around her finger. “Thank you for last night. And this morning.”

  “Thank you.” He turned his head to kiss the heel of her palm, her wrist. “I’ll call you tonight.”

  “I’ll be looking forward to it.” She sat up with him and kissed his shoulder. “I told you, you were worth the wait.”

  Alex wriggled into his underwear and jeans before he yielded to the temptation to stay, to read the new beginning inscribed in each rumple of the sheets. He gave her one more peck as he buttoned his shirt. “See you soon.” He was shining, and moths had congregated in his stomach. He repressed the terror it would go wrong somehow, that it was already going wrong by virtue of his being a part of it.

  By the time he arrived home, that terror had dug its claws in with a wolverine’s ferocity. He mined the junk drawer for his not-so-secret pack of cigarettes and his lighter and took both to the patio, where he dropped into a chair and gazed out past the pool at the creek, the trees. The first buds had begun to sprout on the birches and hornbeams along the bank, the stream itself mostly obscured by Virginia wild rye, switchgrass, and fern. They had never bothered landscaping past the pool, beyond mowing, and fences delineating the edges of their property had been erected on either side before they bought the place. The yard became their private wildlife reserve, rich with owls, white-tailed deer, toads, and garter snakes.

  All of it had been Stephanie’s, and he was admiring it with the taste of another woman in his mouth, the feel of another woman on his cock, an apostate to her memory.

  He began to cry. The cigarette burned down between fingers he pressed to his face, and only when the ashes singed him did he fling it away.

  “Daddy?”

  Alex sniffed and ground his hands into his eyes. “Morning, baby.”

  “What’s wrong?” Anya hobbled across the deck and finessed her way into the chair beside him.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t stay here with you last night.”

  “That’s not why you’re crying.” She grasped his hand and skimmed her finger over the red spot where he’d burned himself.

  “It’s not an appropriate conversation to have with my daughter. I just want you to know I’m sorry I’ve been so selfish.”

  “I’m not stupid, Dad. There’s only one reason you’d spend the night.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh at her stern expression. With his free hand, he cupped her chin. “You know you’re everything to me, da? You always have been. And I understand why you’ve been so angry with me. Ever since your mom died, I’ve let you down over and over.”

  “I haven’t exactly made life easy for you. Not with my stupid crush on Lucas.” Anya bowed her head to his. “I love you, Dad. Please don’t cry.”

  “I can give you at least that.” He wiped his face and kissed her forehead. “Get inside before you catch cold, and lie down. Put your ankle up. I’ll make breakfast.”

  “In that case, we might both be crying soon.”

  Alex play-punched her. He hooked his hands under her arms and lifted her out of the chair, assisting her inside and to the couch, where he propped her foot on a couple of throw pillows. He covered her in the patchwork purple quilt his mother had made and wagged a finger at her. “Stay.” Alex laid the remote controls on her stomach before heading to the kitchen. Whenever they went out to brunch, at minimum once a week, Anya ordered either stuffed French toast or scrambled-egg hash with sausage and parmesan sauce. He was less likely, he decided, to screw up the hash. Behind him, the sound of channels changing in a quest to find something worth watching in the Sunday morning wasteland. She settled on Premier League football.

  He didn’t call Hannah.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alex

  Photographs were strange things. A facet of yourself captured on film, forever experiencing a moment that took on greater significance the further removed from it you grew. A memory contained in a single image whose power lay in its ability to trigger the spectrum of emotions. The consciousness of unfulfilled promise frozen in time. Moments you took for granted once you were roosted, once you’d established the routine of work and domestic responsibilities and assigned certain days on the calendar as “date night.” He’d vowed it wouldn’t happen to them. Their love had made of them something beyond the average person’s comprehension.

  Then came Stephanie’s diagnosis, and they were human after all.

  “Dad, are you sure you don’t want to invite…Hannah…?”

  Alex set the wedding photo back on the mantel. The colorless inflection of Anya’s voice assured him he did not. “Ey. No, this is our day. You and me. But you’re sure you don’t want to go out? Have dinner, do a little shopping, invite some friends over…”

  “Nope. You, me, pizza, cake, and movies. My friends just stare at you anyway.” Anya clasped her hands over her heart and batted her eyelashes. “Mr. Volynskyyyy, is it okay if I stay for dinner?”

  He’d be lying if he said he didn’t find the attention flattering, and that he didn’t on occasion size up those perky breasts her friends paraded in bikinis or, in colder weather, fitted sweaters. But at this stage, he needed someone who had already learned the ropes, not a trophy to massage his ego. And the admission he found some teenaged girls attractive creeped him out enough to jolt the smallest spasm of a budding erection back into flaccidity. Let Jagr sleep with them; he didn’t have a kid their age.

  He winked and tapped the browser on his phone to find a pizza place. He’d bought a double-chocolate cake that morning, while she was at school. “Don’t forget the presents.”

  With an incredulous tilt of her head, she fanned her fingers over her breastbone. “You already gave me the Mercedes.”

  “I’m not going to let you turn eighteen without marking the occasion.”

  “And I’m not going to let you turn forty-five without reminding you that you’re really old.”

  Laughing, Alex placed an order on GrubHub—he didn’t order over the phone; no one could understand his accent—for an extra-large pepperoni and sausage. “All right. Dinner is accomplished. What shall we do in the meantime?”

  “You shall open your presents.” Anya knelt before one of the cupboards under the sink, rummaged amongst the cleaning supplies, and produced two boxes she set on the counter. Sneaky kid. He’d have never thought to check there.

  Alex opened the smaller one first. From the pouch inside, he extracted a pair of gold, metal-frame aviator sunglasses. “Well. Fancy.” He put them on and peered at her through brown gradient lenses. “How do I look?”

  “Less old.”

  He snickered and opened the second box, which contained a wet shave starter kit. A metal safety razor, a shave brush and formula, and aftershave balm. “Thank you, baby. You didn’t have to spend all this money on me.”

  “Trust me, Hannah—or whoever—will thank you.” Anya hopped onto one of the high-back chairs and propped her face in her hands. “How are things going with her?”

  “Oh, you know…fine.”

  “Come on, Dad. I saw the way you were looking at that picture of you and Mom, and…Are you in love with her?”

  If or when he did fall in love again, it would be necessarily incomplete. Their parting had been involuntary, unwanted; as he would have always loved Stephanie had she lived, he would continue to love her until he joined her in death. Few women would accept second place, no matter what else he might offer. People wanted what they couldn’t have, and no one could have what belonged to Stephanie. “I, uh…Nyet. I mean, I
care about her. We’re taking it slow.” He twisted his wedding ring. So slow it had transformed into avoidance. He’d answered her calls and texts out of obligation but managed to squirm out of anything that required his physical presence. You know how it is this time of the year—prom and graduation and college prep. We’ll get together soon. “Soon” became a month, remorse yet another demon to combat.

  Anya sneaked a glance at her phone and glowered at it, then turned it over as if to pretend it didn’t exist. She hadn’t spoken Lucas’s name since the team’s disastrous ejection from playoffs, but young love was not so easily deterred. He ought to know.

  “Prom is next weekend. Did you decide?”

  “I don’t know. Ugh.” She groaned and stuck out her tongue. “Part of me wants to, even though I know I won’t care in a year.”

  “Just go. What do you have to lose?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t have a date, so my dignity?”

  “A girl doesn’t need a date to have a good time.”

  “Until the slow dancing starts.”

  Alex filled two glasses with ice from the dispenser and poured diet soda over it. A true splurge, having soda of any kind in the house. He cringed at the artificial aftertaste and the acidity, but enough of his teeth were implants that he wasn’t going to lose sleep over one glass. “All your friends have dates? Really? I think it would be fun if a group of you went together.”

  “You’re adorable, Dad. And I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I guess I can show up for a little while, like I did for Homecoming.”

  Alex laid his hand over hers. “You’re afraid you might see him, aren’t you?”

  Despite her attempt to keep her face immobile, there was no hiding the tremor in her lips or the gleam of tears. “I let him get in my head. If I’d gotten taped…”

  “It was one game out of the hundreds you’re going to play. People aren’t going to remember it forever.”

  “I hate guys. No offense.” With an exaggerated sigh, she dropped her head to her arms folded on the counter.

  “We can be pretty terrible. Here.” Alex reached into his pocket for the folded letter, its envelope long lost, the one he’d written Anya for Stephanie’s first Mother’s Day. Stephanie had read it often over the years, judging by its faded ink and creases nearly worn through the paper.

  Now it was Anya’s turn. She spread it out on the granite and read each line in silence. Tears dampened her cheeks.

  “You were a month old when I wrote that. I have never been so in love with someone as I was with that beautiful little baby. And look at you now.”

  Anya flung her arms around him and burrowed her wet face against his neck.

  Alex rested his cheek on her glossy black hair. “Ladno. No more crying during our birthday celebration. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  The doorbell rang; his eternally hungry teenager dashed to the door, and the greasy, bready aroma of pizza permeated the house. “Dinner is served,” she announced. She set the box on the counter, then picked up the letter and started for the stairs. “I want to put this in a safe place. Be right back.”

  Alex loaded each plate with a big, floppy pizza slice. Last night he’d been singing a baby to sleep; today he was celebrating her eighteenth birthday. An adult now, and the imminence of her leaving broke his heart. He’d spent so much of the past year clinging to the waning rays of her childhood, to preserve her the way those photos had preserved Stephanie, when he should have been honoring the fact she’d get to carry on where her mother had left off. Her forty-third birthday would not be her last—O Bozhe, I’ll be seventy. She would see her children grow up, if she chose to have any. Grow old with the love of her life. And he prayed she would not spend eighteen months tolerating that life rather than living it.

  His breath shivered, but they had made a deal. He checked his tears as Anya trotted back down the stairs, smacking her lips when she caught sight of the pizza.

  “You okay, Dad?”

  “Da.” He bumped her shoulder as she sat beside him. The pearl of hope from his Firebird. The glowing feather that remained of her until his own light faded one day. “Let’s eat.”

  ***

  Anya

  Anya stared into the mirror while Hailey put the finishing touches on her. She’d chosen the simplest possible style, smooth and side-parted with a braided headband matching her hair color. In a nod to her lack of enthusiasm, the only makeup she wore was mascara and a smidge of rosy lipstick. Hailey had demanded she at least put some effort into her shoes, to which she conceded and now sustained the agony of her sparkly T-strap Jimmy Choos.

  “You look amazing, Anya.” Sweet, blond, giddy Hailey bounced and clapped her hands. Her boobs bobbled along with her, barely contained by the strapless, bright red dress that flared at the waist. A walking cliché of a cheerleader, and she owned it. A beam of sunshine transmogrified into a human being. She opened the door and called down the stairs, “Close your eyes, Mr. Volynsky! Don’t open them until we tell you to!”

  Anya pictured her obedient father following orders. Earlier, he had served them a dinner of vinigret salad, Russian côtelettes with fried homestyle potatoes, and fruit, with plenty of black bread. While her body toiled at digesting it all, he had prepared tea. Why go out when he could feed them there? He needed to practice his cooking skills anyway; his days as the scourge of the kitchen were coming to a clear end.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he was still holding up his phone, ready to snap photos. She gathered two fistfuls of blue chiffon so she wouldn’t step all over the dress, and descended with Hailey right behind her.

  “Okay. Open.”

  A volcano of emotion erupted across Dad’s face. His eyes reddened, and tears gathered in the corners. “I wish she could see you in this.”

  Hailey, empathetic to a fault, bit her lip in an attempt to stop her chin from trembling.

  “You’re sure I look all right?”

  “You’re so beautiful.” Dad remembered the phone then. “Oh—pictures. Smile!”

  Alone, with Hailey, Hailey taking pictures of her with Dad, every possible configuration. At this rate, with her feet already aching, she’d end up sitting all night. The question of slow dances rendered moot before she got there. “I guess I’m ready.” Anya curled her lip. Hailey slapped at her arm. “Dateless and ready.”

  “You have me,” Hailey whined, oblivious to Dad’s gaze returning to her sweetheart neckline.

  “You know what I think?” A perfect gentleman despite his skeevy glances—Aren’t you already seeing someone with big boobs? Anya wanted to snap—he offered an arm to each of them and escorted them to the garage door. “I think you’ll end up having a great time, and you’ll be glad you went.”

  “Don’t hold your breath. I’ll probably see you in a couple hours. Or less.”

  Hailey’s lower lip pooched out even further.

  Dad kissed Anya’s cheeks. “Have fun.”

  Anya slid into the Mercedes, stuffing her dress around her, careful not to slam it in the door. “And here we go,” she muttered. Dad was waving. She raised her hand, then set the GPS for the downtown hotel where the dance was being held and backed out of the garage. She imagined the night of her parents’ prom, a vision based on nothing more than a handful of decades-old pictures. A smart, pretty athlete and a handsome Russian exchange student already head over heels for each other. Their night had been destined for magic.

  The prom committee had decided they’d force the enchantment with a fairytale theme. A castle’s grand staircase, with faux chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and white tulle strung between them. A fountain constructed of lights at its base and a grandfather clock at the landing. Back-lit stained glass windows. It had Hailey’s name written all over it. If her college-age boyfriend couldn’t attend, then by God, she’d give everyone else the time of their lives.

  “Oh God.” Anya’s guts clenched.

  “What? What’s—damn!” She dragged the
word into two syllables, and with good reason.

  Lucas, one of the chaperones, was lurking on the ballroom’s periphery, scrutinizing the prom-goers for any illicit activity like punch-spiking or groping, the typical shenanigans.

  “And he’s staring at you.”

  Anya obsessed over each detail, committing the image of him in his tuxedo to her memory with photographic precision. Satin finish buttons on his jacket and a satin side stripe on his pants. The crisp white collar of his shirt and the pinstripe bowtie. The high gloss of his tuxedo oxfords. His clean-shaven, stupid face with his stupid chin dimple and stupid lips, and eyes defying any description whatsoever.

  “So is Noah.” Hailey scrunched up her face. “What is his problem?”

  “Let’s just sit down.” Anya plopped into a vacant chair at a white-draped table, Hailey beside her.

  “You’re not telling me something. Anya.”

  She pivoted in her chair. “You cannot tell anyone. No one. Understand? I swear to God, I’ll kill you if you do.”

  Hailey nodded and swallowed hard. Anya possessed the physical strength and the hockey stick to make good on the threat.

  “Lucas and I…We kissed. A few times.”

  “Shut. Up.” Her Crest 3D White teeth gleamed. “I knew it! How did you not ever tell me this? Why?” Hailey slapped at her again. “Oh my God, you don’t trust me!”

  “I do! I just…He’d be in serious trouble if it ever got out.”

  Hailey jiggled her eyebrows. “Well, you need to go talk to him, because he’s trying to peel your dress off with his eyes.”

  “Stop.” Anya flushed and swiveled away.

  “I’m serious. Go get punch or something. I’ll make the rounds.” Hailey popped up and scurried to the next table, careful not to bend over too far lest the entire ballroom catch an eyeful of her lacy red thong.

  Anya drifted to the punchbowl, her mouth parched but not from thirst. They hadn’t spoken in weeks, but in such close proximity, the upwelling of emotion was instant and obstinate, and poured out of her in a fierce torrent. “You see me in the halls, and you turn away like I’m not there.”