Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
He shakes his head. “Nah. I don’t check it. But I still listen to her voicemail sometimes.” There’s a pause, then, “She doesn’t get anything anymore. No messages, no voicemails. Even when she was still here, it was always just you.”
“Okay. Well, I may have left her a voicemail. I miss her, and I—” My throat tightens.
“It’s alright,” he says softly. “I won’t listen.”
I try to breathe a sigh of relief, but it doesn’t come easy.
I don’t tell him about the text. I can’t.
I don’t know if I’m actually relieved. And then my phone buzzes with a message from Zoya.
Zoya
Located Mariah’s phone.
And the follow-up comes fast:
Zoya
It’s in his pocket.
Fuck my life.
Chapter 10
VADKA
I love seeing Ruthie with Luka. There’s something grounding about it, something whole. Knowing your kid doesn’t have what they need—whether it’s food, shelter, love, security—it breaks something fundamental in you. A good parent bleeds for their child. We empty our wallets and sacrifice sleep, comfort, even sanity, just to make sure they’re okay. And since Mariah’s been gone, there’s this one thing—this massive, gaping need in Luka—that I can’t fill, no matter how hard I try.
Because I’m not her.
She was soft where I’m hard. She nurtured where I protect. She was gentle in the spaces I don't even know how to reach.
And Ruthie… damn. I know I’m falling in love with her. It’s impossible not to. Watching her love my son, knowing how deeply she loved my wife—it’s overwhelming. And terrifying.
Because what we have, Ruthie and I, matters. It’s this delicate flicker of warmth in a world that’s been mostly cold and dark since Mariah died. And I’m so afraid that if I move too fast or make the wrong move, I’ll snuff it out. I’ll lose her. And I can’t afford that. I can’t lose Ruthie.
We get to the restaurant, and Ruthie’s a fucking wonder. Luka’s bouncing around, restless, and she just rolls with it. She pulls a crayon out from the table setup and starts drawing on the paper placemat—tic-tac-toe and little stick figures. Then she starts making up this ridiculous story about “King Luka,” brave and bold, ruling over his magical kingdom with his sword forged from dragon bones and his crown made of sunlight.
I sit back in my chair and just watch them.
“Papa,” Luka says, glancing over at me with that grin of his. “Do the voices.”
“Luka… not here. We’re in a restaurant. You’re playing with your aunt—”
“Papa, please. Do the voices, Papa.”
Ruthie’s eyes sparkle with mischief. She smirks. “Yeah, Papa. Do the voices.”
Jesus Christ. I roll my eyes dramatically, grab a napkin, and wrap it around my finger like a makeshift puppet. And then I’m off—doing this whole ridiculous act with finger puppets and over-the-top voices. Ruthie’s laughing so hard she’s crying, and Luka’s clapping like he’s at a Broadway show.
And you know what?
It feels… nice. It feels like not solo parenting for once. And not because Ruthie’s like Mariah—she’s not. She’s nothing like Mariah. And I have to stop comparing them. Ruthie is Ruthie. And I love her just as she is.
It’s not a new realization. I’ve loved her for a long time… in different ways. I loved her when she was that awkward, gangly teenager who needed someone—anyone—to love her back. Back then, I was her sister’s boyfriend. I was her protector, her pseudo-big brother. I fought off her bullies, taught her how to drive, and helped her learn how to budget. With Mariah’s help, we made sure she had everything she needed.
But this? What I feel now? It’s not the same.
And I keep asking myself—do I love her because I’m vulnerable?
The waitress finally brings out our food—burgers and fries stacked high, trays of ketchup on the side. Luka dives in like he hasn’t eaten in days.
“Boy, this guy’s going through a growth spurt,” she says with a grin.
“Tell me about it,” I mutter. “I’m fucked when he’s older.”
She chuckles. “Mariah would’ve killed you for swearing in front of him.”
It’s the first time her name’s been said aloud tonight, and I don’t feel like curling into myself and crying. Progress, I guess.
“Sorry, Luka,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “Don’t repeat that word.”
“I know,” he says, chomping on a fry. “I’m not supposed to say fuck.”
Ruthie snorts. Little brat. Pretty sure she swears more than I do.
We’re halfway through dessert when the hairs on the back of my neck lift. That electric, crawling sense that something’s wrong. That someone’s here.
No fucking way. Not now. Not when I’m out with my son and my sister-in-law.
But the Irish—they don’t stop. They don’t quit. And I know that. I know it too damn well. They’ve been too quiet, and I don’t trust it.
I tap the table twice to get Ruthie’s attention. Luka’s happily eating his ice cream. She looks over at me, questioning.