Page 92 of Convenient Vows

I can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “Yeah. I’m calling.”

“I thought you were dead—or in Mars, or ran off and joined a cult or something!”

“No cult.” I laugh nervously.

“Where are you?!”

“Barcelona airport,” I say. “On a layover.”

He goes silent again as if processing my words, “Wait. Wait. Are you coming back?”

“Yes.”

“Today?!”

“If all goes well,” I affirm. “I should arrive at JFK airport by nine tonight.”

Cristóbal practically booms. “Oh my God, I’m coming to pick you up. Which terminal? Send me your gate—”

“No.” My voice is firmer than I mean for it to be. “I mean—thank you. But no.”

There’s a pause. Then he speaks again, confused.

“What do you mean ‘no’? You’re not letting me come hug you at Arrivals like a good telenovela reunion?”

“I want to go straight to my parents’ first,” I explain gently. “Before I start… fraternizing.”

He exhales, long and dramatic. “Fine. I can see you haven’t changed. Still as stubborn as ever.”

“I’m sure you miss that about me.”

“Debatable,” he teases. Then softens. “You okay?”

“No,” I admit. “But I’m coming home.”

He exhales again, this time quieter. “Call me when you land, okay?”

“I will.”

“There’s so much to catch up on.”

“I know.”

There’s a pause, then we both say at the same time, “Bye.”

We laugh and hang up.

I place the phone face down on the table and close my eyes for a moment.

Cristóbal doesn’t know about Maksim yet, which means either he hasn’t spoken with my parents since yesterday, or they chose to let me tell him myself. Whatever it is, I am grateful he is not yet aware. I’d hate to start explaining myself in public.

I watch my son reach for a napkin to wipe his fingers. He’s so capable, sweet, and innocent. I wonder if people can see Zasha in him once they meet him.

The cabin hums with a steady quiet. Just the low murmur of distant voices, the soft rustle of blankets being adjusted, and the occasional click of a flight attendant’s heels moving down the aisle.

I paid extra to be here—this quiet row at the back of the Airbus A330, away from families, businessmen, honeymooners. It’s just us here—Maksim and I.

He’s asleep, curled across two seats with his head in my lap, his hand clutching mine even in dreams. I stroke his hair slowly and gently, as if I’m trying to memorize his shape before the world changes everything.

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