Slowly, to leave no doubt in my mind, Mickey says, “I’m not asking for your permission, and I am not going to ask for your forgiveness after.”
I sigh, defeated. “Just… Not tonight.”
“Not tonight,” he agrees.
“It’s just you and me tonight, right?” I ask. “No Mikhail, no Maxim.” No talks about my health. “Just you and me and any food you brought, because I’m starving.”
He watches me carefully for a moment before chuckling humorlessly. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Great.” I put on my most cheerful smile and ignore my aching lungs.
Fake it until you make it, right?
Or at least lie to yourself until you start believing your own delusions to the point that they sabotage your life.
He doesn’t let on if he isn’t falling for my act, rummaging through the bag he brought with him and the box a couple of feet away from us. I still can’t believe everything he’s done for my birthday. Is this what he’s been doing at night? A daunting realization hits and settles low in my gut.
There’s so much about Roman that I don’t know.
He couldn’t have found this place by himself, and he’s never talked about anyone else other than to complain about people at work. How much of himself is he hiding from me? Have I spent all these years thinking there isn’t a side of him that I don’t know, but I’ve been fooling myself the whole time?
I don’t take my eyes off him as he lays out all the food: buns, roasted chicken, salad, chips, and fruit. It’s the biggest juxtaposition; he’s organized the cutest picnic in the creepiest shed and somehow made it romantic.
Once all the food is out on the blanket, he pulls out a little black box that he places right in front of me.
“What is it?” I ask hesitantly, picking up the velvet jewelry case.
“Open it.”
I give him one last look before flicking the lid open. I’m frozen in my spot as I stare at it. For the third time today, tears run down my cheeks. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much.
But this time is different.
This time, the tears don’t sting when they fall.
This time, when I cry, there’s a smile stretched across my lips.
“Mickey,” is all I can say.
He deserves the whole world, and I wish I could give it to him.
They’re an exact match to the pair of earrings that Mamá gave me on my fifth birthday that I lost when I was eight. Small, silver Mickey Mouse studs. I cried for weeks when I lost them. I had only two things left from Mamá: the earrings and the Mickey Mouse doll.
He looks back at me with an expression I can’t quite name. “How?” I breathe.
“I got them made.”
There’s no emotion in his voice, but I can see in his eyes that he’s battling some demons as he taps away on his leg. I want to know what he’s thinking. He usually looks pleased with himself or even excited whenever he gives me a birthday gift. He’s never so reserved.
I finally register what he said. “How—You remember what they looked like?”
He nods once. “I’ll never forget.”
We stare at each other for a long moment before I decide to break the silence. “Thank you, Roman. I love them. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
I replace the earrings I’m wearing with the new pair. The silver is heavier than the ones I was originally wearing. I can’t imagine how much it would have cost him to get them made.
“Movie or music?” He doesn’t look at me when he asks, focused on piling vegetables and chicken into a bun.
There’s something about the way he says it that makes my stomach dip uneasily. I swallow and tuck the box away into my pocket. Have I done another thing wrong? Said the wrong words or acted the wrong way?
“A true-crime podcast,” I joke, attempting to make him feel even an ounce of my elation.
It’s a terrible joke, because neither of us is that into them, but the trick works because his lips tilt up at the corner. “Are you sure you want to give me ideas after discussing the twins?”
“You’re right. Movie.” I force myself to grin, even though there’s still a sour taste in the air.
“As my lady wishes.”
I roll my eyes, and he winks.
Enough crap has gone on today, and if one more bad thing happens, I’m calling it quits.
We both get busy with our tasks, him setting up the projector, and me taking over with making the sandwiches—I make them better than he does. Roast chicken, coleslaw, bread buns, and potato chips. If there’s one thing we both learned at school, it’s that nothing beats a chip sandwich, as the Kiwi kid in my class called it.