John was outside the restaurant at five minutes to five when Helen’s cab pulled up. She got out, dressed down in jeans and a light pink roll neck sweater.
John kissed her cheek, warm from the interior of the cab, and handed her the flowers. “Thank you for the soup. And for allowing me to reschedule.”
Her face broke into a grin. “How did you know that…oh.” She laughed. “Winston.”
“They were going to be roses, but he happened to be eavesdropping.”
“They’re beautiful. Let me just put these inside the foyer, so they don’t get ruined. I’ll pick them up later.” She dashed up the stairs and unlocked the restaurant and placed them on the table inside the foyer. She pulled the door shut and came to stand beside him. John looked amused.
“What?”
“I don’t think I quite realised how tall you are.”
“Urgh, I know. I’m too tall.”
John leaned in close. His breath warmed her ear, smelling vaguely of peppermint. “I like it.” He held out his hand, and twined his fingers with hers. “Boardwalk is that way,” he pointed. “Shall we?” They fell into an easy synchronised gait towards the water.
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“What was it like growing up in Belarus?”
John leaned against the railing, wincing at the twinge in his ribs. “Uh…cold,” he said. A ferry drifted past them on the water, its horn booming lazily. “My family was poor. My father was your stereotypical Soviet-era drunk. I didn’t speak any English until I was about ten. Both my parents died when I was a child.” He gazed out onto the water. “A fire.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” she said softly. There was silence for a beat, and she switched gears. “Also, I would not have picked a Soviet upbringing. You haven’t a trace of an accent.”
“Practice. A lot of practice. What about you? What was it like growing up as a Manning?”
She leaned next to him. “The exact opposite?” she said with a wry smile.
“You know, I met your father a couple of times.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. I know Winston, he knew your dad. Our paths crossed.”
“What did you think?”
“I liked him. Everyone did. I can’t remember many people being universally liked, but your father was one of them.”
Her cheeks reddened slightly. “I feel strange talking about my idyllic childhood when yours was…not.”
“Idyllic?”
“I can’t lie to you John. He was the man you say he was. Universally liked, universally respected. He was a wonderful father.”
John tilted his head to her from looking out over the water. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“If he was that man, then why no help with your own path in life?”
“Ah,” she replied. She straightened her spine a little, rolling her shoulders against the chilly air. John shrugged out of his blazer and pulled it over her shoulders.
“Thanks.” She leaned down against the railing again. “I get the feeling you might understand better than anyone why I wanted to do it on my own.” She turned to face him. “When you don’t have to work for something – when it’s given to you – then you owe someone. Right?”
YOU ARE READING
John Wick Origins: Helen
Short Story"It's okay," he said, eyes remaining on the road. "If you want to ask, I'll be honest. I owe you that." "Only one thing. Is that...one of the reasons I've only seen you a few times? You want to make sure those are healed before...?" "Yes," he said w...
