by Tawna Fenske
“I’ve loved having you here.”
“I’ve loved being able to be here for Izzy and—” she hesitates, meeting my eyes shyly before her gaze skitters away. “And you.”
We haven’t talked about the kiss. Not once in the whirlwind weeks since Bree’s wedding. It’s partly that we’re never alone, surrounded by a steady flow of friends and family and doctors cycling between my room and Izzy’s.
It’s partly that I’m a big chicken. That I know damn well I can’t start anything with Blanka. My life is on the sea, or on any landmass with a population in need. There’s no sense getting attached.
That doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about that kiss. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. As Blanka’s gaze drops to my mouth, and her cheeks go pink, I get a feeling I might not be alone.
But we are. For the first time in weeks, just the two of us.
I open my mouth to ask. To find out if she’s thinking the same thing I am.
But that isn’t the question I blurt.
“You grew up in Ukraine, right?” I ask.
Her hands go rigid on her knees, like she’s bracing herself for something. “That’s right.”
“Your last name—Pavlo. Is it your real name?”
“Of course.” Her voice is tight, guarded. “Why?”
“I’ve been trying to figure it out,” I tell her. “For weeks, I thought I knew you from somewhere. Thought you looked familiar, but I couldn’t place you. I think I’ve got it.”
She says nothing. Just watches me, waiting. Like she knows what’s coming and isn’t sure she likes it.
But I have to know. It’s been bugging me for weeks. “Your father,” I say. “He’s Thomas Kushnir Kramer, isn’t he?”
She blinks slowly, expression revealing nothing.
Then she closes her eyes and takes a long, deep breath.
Chapter 4
Blanka
Jonathan mistakes my silence for something else. An uncertainty who Thomas Kushnir Kramer is, though I’ve spent my whole life hearing that name murmured with the same reverence strangers use for sports heroes and movie stars.
“Thomas Kushnir Kramer,” he repeats, and I open my eyes to see him studying me with naked curiosity. “Internationally renowned humanitarian regarded for his work to end human trafficking. Established more than two dozen orphanages around the globe. Two-time winner of the Nobel Peace Prize. Otherwise known as the Male Mother Teresa.”
“That’s right.” I nod sharply, aware that my words are coming out clipped and tight. “He’s also a finalist for the Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights Award. They’re announcing it soon.”
“Your dad is a legend.”
“Yes,” I agree. “He’s built dozens of schools in Ecuador with his bare hands. He brokered an international peace treaty between two warring tribes in the Middle East. He spends his free time digging wells in Kenya.”
And he always puts his shopping cart back in the rack instead of leaving it in the parking lot. In summary, my father is the world’s most selfless man.
Jonathan’s still watching me, puzzlement growing in those green eyes. When he reaches out and slips his hand over mine, I’m too distracted to find it surprising.
Or maybe it’s just how natural it feels, Jon’s fingers lacing through mine. He’s watching me with concern in those deep green eyes. “Do you not get along or something?”
“We get along great,” I say brightly. “He’s very busy.” I clear my throat, hunting for something more meaningful to say. “He and my mother decided I’d have her last name instead of his. It had to do with feminist principles and the importance of honoring the maternal bloodline.”
In case there was any doubt about my father’s self-sacrifice.
Jon’s still watching me, and I look down to see I’m gripping his hand too hard. I try to release his fingers, but he holds on. “Is he not a nice guy?”
“He’s an amazing guy,” I tell him, throwing a hearty dose of enthusiasm behind the words. “The best in the world. You’ve read the headlines.”
“Then what?” His brow creases. “Was he abusive or—”
“No!” I need to stop this line of questioning fast. “Nothing like that. He just—he’s perfect.”
“I see.” The look on his face tells me he absolutely doesn’t.
I don’t know why I care to make him understand, but I hear myself trying anyway. “It can be difficult to live in the shadow of someone whose every atom is poured into saving the world.”
He nods, but I can’t tell from his face how those words strike him. If there are any familiar echoes there. “How do you mean?”
I uncross and re-cross my legs, aware that I’m treading on crackly ice by discussing this with a guy who has more in common with my father than I do. “My father’s an incredible human,” I say carefully. “Last year when he flew out here to visit, he brought ten thousand dollars in supplies for the local homeless shelter.”
I don’t add that he spent his entire visit helping them build a new cafeteria from the ground up. That the pierogi I made grew cold on the table as I watched the clock and wondered if he’d notice I’d used my grandma’s recipe. I even made the deep-fried straw potatoes and the stuffed cabbage rolls he loves.
I ate leftovers for a week, trying not to notice the bitterness of the cabbage or the fact that my father never joined me for a meal.
“You see him often?” Jon asks.
“As often as I can,” I chirp, hating the sound of my own voice. “It’s a long way between Oregon and…well, wherever he’s working.”
Which is wherever the charity work takes him. For years, my mother tried to have a career of her own. A talented painter, she had her own small gallery in Kharkiv when they met.
But it was too hard to maintain while following my father around the globe on his life-saving missions. Eventually, she gave up the gallery.
Then, slowly, year by year, she gave up painting.
I watch Jon’s mouth, braced for the next question. Braced to deflect.
Instead, I get distracted by his mouth. For weeks, I haven’t stopped thinking about that kiss. How tender he was, how I could swear sparks actually flew when his lips touched mine.
But no, we’re talking about fathers. Which means kissing is pretty much the last thing that should be on my mind.
“Your father,” I say, struggling to recall what I know about him. “Izzy showed me a photo. You kind of look like him.”
Jon’s face darkens. It’s like yanking the chain on a naked bulb and watching the light vanish. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”
“He was very handsome,” I offer, struggling to walk backward out of the hornet’s nest. “Izzy said she never got to meet him?”
“Right. She was raised by the Grand Duke of Dovlano. She never even knew about my dad—our dad—until recently.” He clears his throat, eyes brightening as he sees a way out of our conversational downturn. “I got lucky like that, too. My stepdad, Chuck. He’s the one who really raised me.”
“I met him in the cafeteria.” I picture him in my head, tall and imposing with kind eyes and a big laugh. “Your mother’s great, too.”
“They taught me everything I know about love and kindness and relationships.”
Some of the puzzle pieces begin clicking together, and I think back to how his parents held hands at the lunch table last week. “They’re very sweet together.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Sweet is one word for it. They’re always hugging and kissing and playing grab-ass when they think no one’s looking.”
I can’t imagine that. My own childhood couldn’t be more different if I’d been raised by polar bears on Saturn. “I can’t decide if that would be nice or weird.”
“It’s nice.” He strokes my thumb with his, sending goosebumps rippling up my arms. “Chuck’s a great guy. Makes my mother way happier than she was with—than she was before.”
He doesn’t need to explain. I’m not sure how old he
was when his parents split, but the emotion in his eyes reveals wounds that aren’t fully healed.
“He’s very proud of you,” I murmur. “Chuck, I mean. He must have told six people in the cafeteria about your kidney donation.”
There’s that light in Jon’s eyes again, thank God. “He’s a total badass,” Jon says. “Rescued a whole shipload of sailors from a sinking vessel off the coast of Tampa last year. He earned the Distinguished Service Medal.”
Not hard to guess how Jon became a hero in his own right. He does see that, doesn’t he?
What he’s seeing right now is my mouth, if his gaze is any indication. He’s not even pretending not to stare, not bothering to hide the heat in his eyes. I recognize the feral, hungry look from the first time we kissed.
His gaze lifts to mine, and he smiles. “We should probably kiss again.”
It’s a matter-of-fact statement, like suggesting we watch goat videos on YouTube before they wheel him back for surgery.
“What? Why?”
He grins, unfazed by my awkward reply. Or by the way I just licked my lips, which I’m positive he recognizes as a sign I’m not exactly opposed to the idea. “Yep,” he says. “Definitely, we should kiss.”
“Kiss,” I repeat, like it’s an unfamiliar word. Like I’m not sitting here dying to pounce on a man in a hospital gown.
“Consider it like a science experiment.”
I laugh, conscious of my fingers still twined through his. Of the fact that an electric current hums at every spot where my skin touches his. I order myself not to smile but fail before the thought fully forms. “This is your idea of sweet talk?”
His shrug makes his pecs flex, and my stomach flips over. “I figure we should test that dopey thing you talked about.”
“Dopamine?”
“Yeah, dopamine.” His grin tells me he already knew that. “I read something about dopamine helping with recovery rates.”
“You’re making this up, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
It is. “No.”
He winks, well aware I’m lying. “You know, it’s possible I won’t survive this surgery. It would sure be great to kiss you one last time before I kick the bucket.”
“Isn’t that emotional blackmail?” I don’t care what it is. My body’s shifting closer to his, already halfway to tearing off his hospital gown and giving him a sponge bath with my tongue.
God, I’m glad I didn’t say that out loud.
“What if I ask nicely?” Jon presses.
He doesn’t have to ask. I’m already leaning into him, lips moving to brush his. He lets go of my hand and threads his fingers into my hair, pulling me down.
I slide willingly from my chair, drawing my whole body up against his. There must be some hospital rule about making out on gurneys, but I can’t bring myself to care. His bare arms are delicious wrapped around me, his chest warm and solid beneath the thin fabric of his hospital gown.
He deepens the kiss, and I arch closer, forgetting my reservations and everything but how it feels to have his hand sliding up my side, skimming the edge of my bra’s underwire. I shift so my breast falls into his palm, making us both groan. As his thumb skims my nipple through my shirt, I try to remember why we shouldn’t do this. Why I shouldn’t ever do this with a guy so equipped to make me lose myself completely.
But I can’t seem to focus on anything but how good this feels, how soft his lips are, how I’m pretty sure that’s not his IV pole I just grazed with my hip.
“Aaaaand, we’re ready to—oh, I’m sorry.”
We break apart as a pretty, dark-haired physician sails through the door. It’s the second time we’ve been cockblocked by a doctor and a good indication I should reevaluate my life choices.
The doctor smiles at us and gives a knowing wink. “I see you’ve got the physical exam covered.”
Jonathan laughs, releasing me so I slide boneless back into the chair. “She has excellent bedside manner.”
I would die of embarrassment if I didn’t feel so damn good. I focus on fixing my hair. “The patient is in perfect health,” I manage.
Jonathan folds his hands over his abdomen and grins. “All organs functioning well.”
The doctor laughs and jots something on a clipboard. “As much as I hate to break this up, we’re ready for you now. Shall we do this?”
I dare a glance at Jon, not sure what I’ll see. His expression is calm, almost serene. There’s a flush in his cheeks, a tiny smudge of tinted lip gloss at the corner of his mouth.
But there’s something new in his eyes. A tiny flicker of fear.
Or maybe I’m imagining it, because he throws me a wink. Then he nods at the doctor. “Let’s do this.”
Several hours later, Jonathan comes to.
I know this because I’m keeping watch at his bedside. The Bracelyn siblings are down the hall being briefed by Izzy’s doctors on some minor complications. She’s fine—I hope—but with Jon’s parents racing across campus to make it back here, they asked me to fill in so he doesn’t wake up alone.
Jon gives a peaceful snore and smiles in his sleep, but his eyelids don’t flutter. I busy myself arranging the flowers beside his bed. He’s got five vases full, bright and cheery and bursting with color. As I fiddle with a vase of tulips, a memory hits like a club to the sternum.
I’m eight years old, watching my mother pace excitedly by the front door. “It’s our tenth wedding anniversary.” She smiles and adjusts the string of glassy blue beads at her throat. “I probably shouldn’t have splurged on this dress, but we’re going out to dinner.”
“You look pretty, Mama.”
She does look pretty, with her makeup and hair fixed special and an excited flush in her cheeks. “Your father’s taking me to Kanapa,” she says. “It’s where we had our first date.”
As if on cue, my dad’s car swoops into the driveway. He bounds up the walkway with a spring in his step and a big vase of flowers in his hand.
My mother practically levitates.
“Oh, Tom,” she says as he bursts through the door. “Those are lovely.”
She reaches out to take the flowers, but my father doesn’t notice. Not her outstretched arms or her dress or the fact that I’m hovering behind the dining room table.
“Galyna,” he says, planting a perfunctory kiss at her temple as he rushes past with the flowers just out of reach. “Sorry I have to run. That cancer patient we’ve been raising money for—he just got transferred. I’m on my way to visit the family.”
“Oh.” My mother blinks and takes a step back. “But our dinner reservation is at seven.”
“Dinner?” My father looks puzzled. “Now’s not really a good time. If we forge ahead with next week’s hunger strike, I should really be scaling back on caloric intake.”
My mother is too stunned to reply, but I see the tears in her eyes.
My father does not.
He just rushes past, murmuring something about a trip to India in August.
By the time he leaves, my mother is in their bedroom with the door closed. She’s careful to muffle her sobs in a pillow, but I hear them anyway.
I still do, more than twenty years later. It’s why I’m single, why I’m determined to stay that way forever. Marriage as I’ve seen it is about sacrifice. It’s giving up your dreams to stand in someone else’s shadow, and I’m not willing to do that.
“Oh, good, you’re here.” Jonathan’s mom, Wendy, bustles in, jarring me from the memory.
I paste on a smile as she slips into the seat beside me and glances at her watch. “I can’t believe he’s done so early,” she says. “Is that a good sign or bad?”
“Good, I think.” I hope, anyway.
“Any movement?”
I shake my head, wondering if I should leave. There’s no need for me now that his mother is here. I start to get up, but Wendy puts a hand on my arm.
“Please stay.” The smile she gives me is so much like Jonatha
n’s, and I find myself sinking back into the chair. “You’ve been such a comfort to him through all this. I know he’d want you here.”
“Okay.” I glance back at Jon, who’s still sleeping soundly. “Is Chuck on his way?”
“He’s donating blood.” Wendy fiddles with her wedding ring. “The transplant team didn’t expect Jon out of surgery for another hour, and Chuck saw a blood drive across campus, so—” she shrugs, pride visible in her eyes. “That’s just how these guys are.”
These guys. Jonathan and Chuck, she means. “Kindhearted?”
Wendy smiles, gesturing to Jon. “Case in point.”
I seize the opportunity she’s given me, the chance to study him in sleep. He’s so peaceful lying there, lashes fanned against his cheeks and his mouth open just a little. I wish he’d drool or snore. Anything to make my heart stop twerking like a drunk soccer mom at the sight of all that masculine perfection.
“The doctors said it’ll be any minute now,” I say to Wendy.
Maybe our voices rouse him, or maybe the anesthesia’s just wearing off. His lashes flutter and stay open. Green eyes land first on his mother, and he gives a small, wobbly smile.
Then his gaze shifts to mine. In an instant, the smile goes nuclear. “Hey,” he croaks, lashes fluttering like it’s an effort to hold his eyes open. “I lost count. I think I was on twelve?”
His mother tilts her head to the side. “What were you counting?”
Confusion creases his brow, and I can see he’s already lost his train of thought. “Gumdrops?”
“Oh,” I say, realization dawning. “They probably had him start counting when they were putting him under?”
Both of them smile at me, and Jonathan reaches for my hand. “You’re so smart,” he says. “This is why I married you.”
“I—what?”
His mother touches my elbow and responds before I have a chance. “Anesthesia’s always had a funny effect on you.” She smooths his hair back from his forehead, turning her smile on me. “When he got his tonsils out at ten, he came to and immediately looked between his legs.”
