Chapter Nine: The Small Gesture
One year later, Randall stood in his living room.
The IKEA couch was back. The garage-sale coffee table. The bookshelf full of engineering textbooks and dog-eared novels. The walls were beige again. The carpet was back.
It looked like home.
Maya walked in from the kitchen. She was wearing one of his old T-shirts and a pair of jeans. Her feet were bare. Her hair was down.
“Dinner’s ready.”
“Smells good.”
“It’s lasagna. From a box. I’m a surgeon, not a chef.”
He laughed.
The sound surprised him. He hadn’t laughed much in the past year. But with Maya, it came easier. Lighter.
They ate at the kitchen table.
The same table he’d bought when he first moved in. The one with the scratch on the corner from when Annie dropped a pot. The one he’d almost thrown away because it reminded him of everything he’d lost.
He was glad he’d kept it.
“Sarah called today.”
Maya twirled spaghetti around her fork.
“The restitution fund is being distributed. Your share is one hundred twenty-seven thousand dollars.”
Randall nodded.
“I know. David told me.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m putting it in a trust. For victims of attorney fraud. People who can’t afford to fight back when their lawyers screw them over.”
Maya set down her fork.
“Randall, that’s—”
“Don’t say generous. It’s not generous. It’s survival. Someone helped me when I had nothing. I’m just paying it forward.”
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then she smiled.
“The first time I met you, you were wearing a Hawaiian shirt and drinking cheap beer at a college party. You told me you were going to change the world someday.”
She reached across the table and took his hand.
“I didn’t believe you. But I should have. You’re not the same man who left for Dubai. You’re better. Harder. Wiser.” She squeezed. “And I love you. I never stopped. I just learned to live without you.”
Randall’s throat tightened.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“You’re right. You don’t.” She grinned. “But I’m staying anyway.”
