“You knew,” he said quietly.

  “I guessed. I did not tell him I guessed, but I did. Your friend does not have a face made for hiding things.”

  Mikhail had to laugh at that. He pictured very clearly the wonder and wanting that had been transparent on Shane’s face that day at the Faire as Mikhail had performed. How could Mikhail not single him out? Grab his hand? Make him a companion for a day and see who this tall, strong man with such a child’s heart could be?

  The subterfuge must have been agonizing.

  “No,” he said to his mother now. “He has not a face for hiding things.” It was as Mikhail had said in the hospital: Shane had a heart as open as the clear blue sky. Mikhail would be damned if he was the fucker who shot an arrow into that and watched it rain blood—but he couldn’t ignore it, either.

  When he made his phone call the next day, the rest of the ship—including his mother—were dressed gaily and eating an extraordinarily fattening meal in the dining room. Mikhail had been there for a time, enjoying watching his mother charm people with her still amazing smile and her new red dress and a blonde wig bought special for the occasion. There was no mistaking her illness or the ravages of it, but Ylena kept her face so very proud and pain-free when she was in a crowd. She had made many friends on this trip, as she had sat on deck “dying in style” as she called it, and Mikhail was proud to be able to leave her at the table, surrounded by people who would not leave her alone.

  As he was leaving, she had put her hand on his arm and said, “Tell him hello for me, and thank him for me if not for yourself, yes, Mikhail Vasilyovitch?”

  “Yes, Mutti.”

  But of course he would tell Shane “Thank you.” He would make it clear that the gift was unnecessary, but he would say “Thank you.”

  “Were you ever going to tell me?” he asked now, still at loss.

  “Wasn’t planning on it.” Once again Mikhail had an impression of Shane in a darkened room, and he felt a sudden frustration that they could talk on the phone in a dark room but not in person. It felt supremely unfair that some of the best near-sex in his life had happened in a hallway and in the chair at work.

  “How could you not?” And this is what bothered Mikhail the most. “You would just… just let me have this thing—this enormous gift—and not tell me it’s from you?”

  Shane’s retort was irritated. “It’s not all from me, dammit! You’d made most of the money. It was your dream. It was your promise. It was your goddamned will. I just gave you a hand up the last of the hill. Is that so bad?”

  “But I would have asked you!” Oh God. It was the truth. He had thought it—many times—before he counted his bills. He would have hated it, but he would have done it.

  “You never would have forgiven me for that,” Shane said glumly, and Mikhail caught his breath.

  “That is true,” he said unhappily. “God help me—that’s the truth. I would not have. And this… this, I can forgive. I have no choice.” He laughed softly, without humor. “Damn you, Shane—for a man who claims to have no grace, you have managed to waltz with a porcupine until the end of the song.”

  There was a silence, and Mikhail wondered if he had finally given a metaphor that Shane could not follow, but he needn’t have worried.

  “Want to dance to another one?”

  “Yes.” Mikhail swallowed, feeling as though he were looking at the edge of the void. “Yes.” He closed his eyes and jumped. “Would you like to hear the tune?”

  “Springsteen?” Shane asked hopefully, and Mikhail had to laugh.

  “Springsteen is too sad. How about U2?”

  “I can live with that. What are the steps?”

  “I want to be that man. The one your family calls when you are sick. The one who gets to see your house and the rail you just put on the porch and the big hole your insane dog has dug. I want them to see me at dinner at least once. I….” Oh God. His hands were sweating. He had to stop, or he would rabbit through the corridors of the ship until his heart failed from sheer fright at his own bravery. “I cannot promise tomorrow. I cannot promise next week. But as long as you still call me, as long as I know you will be there every Wednesday to bring me dinner, as long as you look forward to seeing me next, I want to be that man.”

  Shane’s voice shook on the other line. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay. Abracadabra—you’re that guy. Dinner at Deacon’s, as soon as you get… as soon as you can. You can meet everybody. Benny can cook for you—she’s much better than I am. You’re that guy.”

  “Are you going to be all right?” He didn’t sound all right. He sounded strained and stressed. There was a thump that sounded like a large body flopping ass-first on a floor.

  “I’m sitting down,” Shane muttered. “I’m fine. Jesus, Mickey—I just didn’t think you’d ever have that much faith. Merry Christmas, Mikhail. Merry goddamned Christmas.”

  Mikhail was sitting on the floor of the cabin too. “Merry Christmas to you, too, you persistent, irritating man. Can I give you a blowjob now?”

  Shane giggled weakly into the phone. “Man, I might actually be up to phone sex—but I’m in Crick and Deacon’s bedroom, and that would just be awkward.”

  “Da—I am in the cabin I share with Mutti. That might possibly be worse.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  Like Mikhail would know? This was like a butterfly pretending to be a horse. “Maybe you could tell me about your day?”

  And that was all Shane needed. “The baby loved the things you helped pick out, and so did Benny. She loved that you helped too. I think you really impressed her when I was so out of it. Have you ever watched a little kid open gifts? I don’t know how other kids do it, but Parry Angel just rips off the paper and jumps in…. Benny had her make confetti angels like you know, snow angels, when the ripping was done….”

  When the conversation was finally over—Shane had needed to go because his phone was beeping—Mikhail stayed seated on the floor of the cabin and rested his head on his knees. He was there when his mother entered, wheeled to her cabin by a newfound friend who had noticed she was growing tired, and he rose to help her from the wheelchair to her bed, where she sat languidly while he attached her IV and settled her in with pillows.

  “Did you tell him thank you for me, lubime?” she asked while he was taking off her brilliant red shoes.

  “Nyet,” he replied absently. “You may do so yourself, Mutti, when he comes to pick us up on our return.”

  “He will be well enough to do that?” she asked excitedly, and Mikhail blinked. Shane had spoken of being cared for at Deacon’s ranch, and he had just volunteered to drive a long distance in a week and a half.

  “I suppose so—he has promised. I do not think he will break it.” And he did not.

  “He is having a nice Christmas?” Ylena prodded, and Mikhail finally looked up at her and smiled, catching the hint that he was not being as forthcoming as his mother would like.

  “He is having a wonderful Christmas. I think I gave him what he wanted most, Mutti—that is why I am not talking so much. I am still wondering what it is I have done!”

  He moved to sit next to her and took her hand automatically. More and more as her body failed her, she had sought the reassurance of human touch.

  “What is it you have done?” she asked now, kindly.

  “I have made a promise to be important,” he admitted. “As long as we will last, I have promised to be important to him.” He swallowed. “It is terrifying, you know? I have been important to you, and I am not sure it was always in your best interest to stay that way. I so very much do not want to hurt this man.”

  Ylena squeezed his hand, her bones brittle and thin beneath his hard fingers. “You will, you know,” she told him gently. “Not irreparably. Not intentionally. And certainly not enough to drive him away, unless you try very hard or fail very badly. You need to live with your failings, Mikhail Vasilyovitch. You are a good man, but you are not perfect. Lovers hurt each other—it is in the nature of things. Mothers hurt sons and sons hurt mothers, and then at the end they are together to say goodbye. It is really all we can hope for. It is the best we can do.”

  “What about lovers, Mutti? Can they be together at the end as well? I was not there for Olek.”

  Ylena’s jaw clenched, and she closed her eyes. “Olek was not really a lover, you know that. He was a boy—you were both boys. You were lost and had each other, but a real lover does not take his beloved down into misery with him because he does not want to go alone. This man will—he already has—sent you off alone because he wants to see you happy. This man can be there for you at the end. You just need to make the choice to journey with him.”

  His mother was very tired, and Mikhail felt badly for keeping her attention for so long. But, he thought selfishly, she would be able to rest forever soon enough, and he so badly had need of her now.

  “I am so afraid I cannot do this,” he muttered softly. She was already sleeping, but just hearing her even, raspy breathing in reply was enough.

  And that terrible fear did not keep Mikhail off the phone or from texting. It did not keep him from celebrating when Shane talked of returning home, weakness and all. It did not keep him from showing his mother pictures of the dogs (frighteningly huge animals) and the cats (infinitely preferable), and the rail to the porch that Shane finished in his spare time while he recovered. It did not stop him from staring in fascination at the pictures of the family—he never had seen Parry Angel in person or Jon’s beloved wife and daughter. He saw Jeff wearing a funny party hat for New Year’s Eve while bouncing Parry Angel on his lap, and laughed at the mayhem of Jon sitting on the floor between the little girls, helping his daughter with a large plastic top. He recognized Deacon and Crick as the two men he’d passed in the hospital that first day and wondered that he could see the love between them even from the small, grainy photo on his phone.

  This was Shane’s family, he thought in wonder and dread. They would have to like him too.

  He enjoyed the trip—he took many pictures, the kind that would be processed, that he could keep forever. He forgot that it was Shane’s money he was spending on the trip, and resumed thinking of it as dream money. He bought souvenirs for Benny, Andrew, Jon, Jeff, and the babies. He talked to his mother often and honestly, content as the boat pulled into the foggy harbor in San Francisco that they had said nearly everything they could say that was important and that she could get on with the business of dying without any of the pain of living to hinder her or weigh down on her heart.

  And in the end, as he pushed his mother’s wheelchair down the ramp and saw him leaning against a rail, waiting for them with eager eyes, he realized that Shane was all he could see. The man was thinner, and he was pale. He stood with his body cocked, as though he were avoiding pain. And when he saw Mikhail looking uncertainly at him, his face lit up so brightly it was like the Mexican sun.

  His mother patted his hand. “Are you happy to see him, lubime?”

  He swallowed. For a moment, he could not even answer. “Oh God, yes, Mutti.”

  “Then lock this machine in a corner and go kiss him. If there was ever a time to forget your mother, it is when someone is looking at you like that.”

  He did. He locked the wheelchair in place, out of the way, and trotted forward. Shane’s eyes grew wide, and his mouth opened in a little O, and he looked so vulnerable and so sturdy, standing at the end of the gangplank, that Mikhail could not help but smile widely. He practically knocked Shane over with his momentum, and as the big man steadied them both and grinned down at him from his impossible height, his laughter warmed the chill fog around them.

  “Miss me?” he asked hopefully.

  “If I tell you how much, you will be impossible to live with. Shut up and kiss me, you miserable man. I am happy to be home.”

  Chapter 14

  Close your eyes and try to dream.

  “We Belong”—Pat Benatar

  MIKHAIL tasted like sunshine and sweet and bitter tea. His mouth was open and his tongue aggressive, and Shane opened his mouth and groaned and kissed harder. Oooohhhh…. Those wiry, hard biceps felt so good under Shane’s hands, and his body, small but substantial, was the sweetest weight against Shane’s chest. The feel of that compact, strong body under Shane’s palms seemed to give him strength, and he needed it because he’d had to lie to Deacon about how good he felt in order to get to borrow Crick’s car.

  Mikhail wrapped his arms around Shane’s middle and squeezed, and about the time Shane couldn’t keep in the whimper of pain, Mikhail released him and glared reprovingly.

  “You have lost weight. And you are still not healed. I do not know what idiot left you off your leash, but you should have stayed at home.”

  “And missed that kiss?” Shane gasped. “Not on your life!”

  Mikhail’s expression sobered, and he held Shane’s face between his palms. People were surging around them, and Shane hardly noticed they were there, and it was San Francisco so the two of them kissing didn’t attract much attention. It was just the two of them, and it was wonderful—or it would be if Mikhail wasn’t looking so very serious all of a sudden.

  “It very nearly was on yours, you know.”

  Shane wrinkled his nose and shrugged. “On my life? It’s all good now. I’ll live.”

  Mikhail shook his head and turned away. He held onto Shane’s hand but showed Shane his back as he pulled them toward his mother.

  “Mikhail…,” Shane muttered, unhappy to upset him. He was unprepared for Mikhail to whirl on him, his eyes bright and shiny and his chin quivering.

  “You cannot joke about that,” he snapped. “Ever. You cannot say ‘I lived so it was okay’. It is still not okay. It will never be okay. You and your stupid impossible job. I will live in fear every day you work, and I will never take for granted that you will walk away in one piece. Never again. If you knew, had any idea what you put us through….” Mikhail shook his head and yanked his hand back. “If you knew, you would never joke about ‘I’ll live!’ again.”

  Shane reclaimed his hand. “I’m sorry—I was really surprised how many people got upset this time. I really didn’t mean to worry you.”

  Mikhail’s upper lip curled, and his sulky lower lip thrust out. “This time. Pfaw.” He spat, and Shane raised his eyebrows, and Mikhail glared back at him as though daring him to do anything about it. “Well, worry us is exactly what you did. You almost destroyed me. I wanted to run away. I left you a terrible message, screaming obscenities in Russian, just so I would not have to care if you lived or died.” He shook his head, and his mouth relaxed a little. “I am so very happy to see you well, but if I ever have to leave you again when you are hurt or sick, it will break my heart. You cannot do that again.”

  “I don’t plan to,” Shane said shortly.

  Mikhail nodded and made a visible effort to get himself together, but he kept hold of Shane’s hand. In fact, he clutched it convulsively as they stood in the middle of the crowd. Shane watched his jaw clench and then saw him swallow once or twice, and he wanted to haul him up and hold him and be sweet and soft and all those things, but not here. Not when Mikhail’s mother was watching with sympathetic eyes. Not when a thousand people would be there to watch Mikhail come unglued, because he would really hate that.

  Finally, he simply turned and tugged Shane after him. “Come. Mutti hides it well, but she is really very tired. We should go home.”

  In fact, Ylena was more than tired. She was silent in the back of Crick’s sedan, and when they made a pit stop in Dixon, she was more than sleeping, she was nearly losing consciousness. Instead of driving to Mikhail’s apartment, Shane stayed on I-80 and took her to the hospital in Roseville.

  She woke up a little as Shane lifted her up in his arms and carried her through the parking lot into the emergency room. She weighed nothing.

  “Look at me,” she murmured. “In the arms of a big strong man. All that time I hoped for a handsome prince when Mikhail was a child, and I had to wait for my son’s boyfriend to sweep me off my feet.”

  Shane chuckled gently. “Well, I might have gone for you when I was younger, you know. I had a weakness for femme fatales.”

  Ylena gave a paper-fragile laugh; her voice, when she spoke, was weak and hoarse. “I was beautiful then. Not so much now.”

  Shane paused then, to let Mikhail go through the doors first and find them a wheelchair. “Look at him, Ylena,” he said, watching Mikhail’s brisk movements, the way he was aware, always, of where the two of them were, even as he spoke to hospital officials with the confidence of a lion. He looked up and indicated Shane and his mother, and his eyes—which could be brutally cold, Shane knew from experience—were soft and concerned. “See the way your son looks at you? You are beautiful to him.”

  Ylena leaned her head against Shane’s chest and patted him with a wasted hand. “And so are you, mal’chik. So are you.”

  She was admitted there, given fluids and some pain medication, and the doctor—fortunately her doctor was on duty this day—took them both aside out of her hospital room for one of those little chats that Shane could tell Mikhail dreaded.

  “You both know this is going to end soon, and it’s not going to end well, right?” He was in his early forties and had “family man” plastered all over him. Mikhail seemed to trust him, so Shane did too.

  Mikhail’s eyebrows arched sardonically. “Since you have been telling her she’s dying since June, it would certainly reflect poorly on you if that was not the case,” he said dryly, and the doctor managed a smile.

  “Fair enough. Mikhail, this could last a while—a couple of weeks. She’s very sick, but she’s got a tough will, we both know that. She’s very reluctant to leave you alone. Have you discussed whether you want to do this here in the hospital or…?”