Page 107 of Sticky Fingers
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Malcolm
Breakfast in Italy,dinner at Clarendon Tower.
And tomorrow, lunch with Dominic and Daphne, who still haven’t resolved their apartment issues and still are battling out their issues while probably falling deeper in love.
No, I’m not trying to make you jealous. I’m just trying to show you how amazing my life is. Sure, you already knew that, but a reminder never hurts, does it?
Besides, how long has it been since that day at Clarendon Tower, when the Picasso was finally returned? It seems like it was a fucking lifetime ago.
Jesus, right, it’s been a whole fucking year.
At first, we thought that we needed to stay away to get some of the heat off Sonia. I mean she donated the watercolor. So, even someone completely clueless would have made the connection that she was the art thief.
But it turns out that the crime was so elegant and the return was so amazing that not too many people at Clarendon Tower really held a grudge. And technically, it wasn’t even really stolen.
It was more like stolen and given back, which meant there was no crime.
“People actually are in love with you and Sonia here,” Dominic told me on the phone a month into our vacation.
We were in Monaco and having the best time enjoying each other.
Time sure flies when you’re having the time of your life. And there’s no mistaking it. This past year has been the best year in my entire life.
In fact, I think I only started to really live the moment Sonia stepped into my life.
All my life, I was never really alive... I was just surviving.
Until she came crashing into my life.
“Malcolm, you awake?” Sonia nudges me softly, pushing the sheets back and turning around to face me.
Her hair is slightly disheveled, and she still has that half-asleep expression on her face—and still, she looks as beautiful as ever.
That’s my wife: the most beautiful woman that has ever walked the earth.
“I’m awake, yeah,” I whisper softly.
“Will you check on him?”
“Of course.” I place a kiss on her cheek and then, moving as silently as I can, I get up from the bed and tiptoe my way to the end of our master bedroom.
There, I put my two hands on the railing of the small blue crib and peer inside. John is still fast asleep, his tiny hands gently clasped together. I stand there for a whole minute, watching his tiny chest rise and fall, and I shake my head softly.
I can’t believe I’m a fucking father now.
Right, didn’t I tell you? Shortly after we got married, we found out that Sonia was pregnant. And nine months later, a little John popped into our lives. Yeah, I know—I never thought someone like me would be the kind of man who’d be a good fit for a father, but now...
Well, suffice to say, all I want is to be a good father. I think I’m already doing a good job as a husband, but now the stakes are higher. Much higher.
I grew up without a family, and I made a promise to myself. I’m going to be the best fucking father that ever lived. When my kid tells a friend something like “My father is better than yours” I want it to be the fucking truth.
“He’s fast asleep,” I tell Sonia as I crawl back into bed, draping one arm over her naked torso. “Hasn’t even moved.”
“Good,” she whispers gently, pressing her warm body against mine and promptly falling back into a deep sleep.
I stay awake for a while longer, just staring at the ceiling with a fucking stupid smile on my lips.
