In one of our imaginings, the external helper wore a vest and helmet. A suit of armor. Viktor, of course, wears neither of these.
Another more advanced idea was that he, as diver, could fly at me, spinning in the air, shooting. The three of them would shoot each other. He takes the bullets, shoots the bullets as he flattens me to the ground, protecting me with his body. Or vice versa, if I were the diver.
In Russian, he says. “You don’t have a choice. I’m the diver. I’m going to replace you with myself. Go back and find your peace, your Jesus.”
“Viktor.”
“I tried to kill you. This is right. It couldn’t be better.”
I look at him—really look at him. I look at him with my whole heart, feeling my love for him.
My love for him is sweet and bright. In a flash, I feel something beautiful come over me—forgiveness.
I forgive him. Jesus has taught me how to have a big heart, big enough to forgive.
I couldn’t have forgiven him before—the old Tanechka couldn’t have forgiven him. Oh, I used to hold such terrible grudges!
But Jesus showed me his shining face. He showed me he loved me and made my heart big enough for this. He made my heart whole enough.
“Ya tebe proshchayu, Viktor.”
He looks stunned. His whisper is hoarse—“I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”
“Of course you deserve it. I love you.”
He looks stunned. Uncomprehending. “I am a killer. What about Jesus?”
“I have room for both Jesus and you.”
“Jesus is just fairy tales to me.”
“I don’t care.”
“I’ll shoot if you say one more word in Russian!” the older guard says. An empty threat. The guard won’t shoot unless he has to.
“You forgive me?”
“Yes, pryanichek!” Gingerbread man, it means. A name I used to call him when he was being a baby.
“I tried to kill you!”
I smile. “Yeah, you really fucked it up.”
He blinks, speaks in a voice so soft. “I love you so much. But look where we are. We can’t have all things now.”
“No.”
“Remember how we visualized it? Like the Olympic team, we visualized this over and over. Remember?”
I shake my head. “Don’t do it.”
“Don’t you see what a gift it is? I threw you off the cliff,” he says. “I didn’t believe in our love, and I killed you. You remember how you clung to me?”
“But I forgive you, Viktor.”
“Do you know how that feels? To have your forgiveness? To take your place? I am complete now.”
“Save Nikki and let me handle this. Respect my choices for once,” I growl in Russian.
“I am respecting your choices. I didn’t have faith in you before, but I do now. Having faith in you means supporting you in all that you choose for yourself, even your Jesus.”
I shake my head, fighting the tears.
“We used to wonder whether the two might even shoot each other,” he says. “Remember?”
“Fantasies.”
“Lisichka—”
I begin to laugh. “We’re arguing over who dies. We promised never to do that, pryanichek.”
He smiles. “You said, ‘Shoot me if we ever argue about who dies in a standoff.’ And then I said, ‘No, shoot me if we argue about who dies in a standoff.’”
In Russian, I say, “You’re going to make me cry and destroy my peripheral vision, you jerk.”
“Tell Kiro I love him, and that I wish I could have met him, and tell Aleksio I love him. He always says we Russians are so fucking dramatic. What would he say about this?”
“Viktor.”
His face goes serious. “I never stopped loving you.”
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” I tell him. “I love you.” There’s a lump in my throat. I have him back, and now he’s going to do this.
He doesn’t telegraph—he flies at me.
It’s as if he comes in slow motion.
I see everything. His beautiful boxy face with his big jaw, clenched and determined. The sweet little dimple. The twist of his shoulders as he begins the spin, midair. Arms out. I see the flash of the gun barrels as they reflect the ceiling light. The blast.
The weight of him knocks the air from me. I go boneless, arms out. I feel the bullets hit him, feel the violent impact of them on his big body before we hit the floor.
Everything goes quiet.
Except for Viktor, a great weight on my chest, breath labored.
“Viktor!” I ease out from under him. My chest is wet with blood—his blood. Blood on my hands. Blood everywhere. The two guards are down. Everyone’s down.
I kneel over him. He looks up at me hazily.
“Pryanichek.” I rip apart his shirt.
There’s a big hole in his chest. Too big. Too big for his heart. Too big for life.
I press a hand to his chest. “Don’t you die on me, Viktor!” Maybe it’s his heart. Maybe not.
“You love me still,” he whispers. “You forgave me.”
Shots. “Nikki!” I call.
He’s losing so much blood. “I forgive you, yes, but only if you fight. Only if you stay alive.” I adjust my hand on his chest. I press a hand to his cheek, keep contact with his gaze. He’s sweating. But his skin is cold.