“Of course.” Ilya gets into the car. Before he starts driving, he texts somebody in Russian.
Is that another one of his shady contacts? Is it a hitman sent to collect on all those debts?
Or maybe it’s something innocuous.
Ilya starts up the car and points to the car’s GPS. “Enter your address.”
I obey, putting in the address before settling back in my seat again. “Thank you for this,” I tell him quietly. I still have no idea how we’re going to get into the house, but my need for my cello is so strong that I don’t really care.
Besides, if he does something illegal to get inside, it’s something to tell Adam, right?
It’s a long drive to Adam’s house. On a cop’s salary, he can’t afford a fancy condo inside the city like Ilya. I think he didn’t even technically buy the house; it’s one he inherited from a late uncle. It’s small, a bit run down, and most people wouldn’t say it was in the city proper.
The traffic is as bad as ever, and I keep stealing glances at Ilya, expecting him to rage about the conditions of the road.
He doesn’t.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” I blurt out despite myself.
“Doesn’t what bother me?” Ilya asks. Traffic moves enough that he manages to get through the next light, but then he has to stop for pedestrians who are jaywalking across the street.
“The traffic,” I tell him, cringing as more people cross the road. “The people. They’re making everything slow, and it’s taking forever.”
“We aren’t in a rush,” Ilya answers. He laughs. “Americans always expect everything to follow an exact schedule. But in Russia, we all know that meetings can run long, that some things take time.”
“Oh,” I say. “Adam gets mad. Road rage, I guess.”
I don’t know why I’m telling Ilya this.
“I just figured everyone who drove did,” I add quickly.
“I used to be angrier,” Ilya admits. “My father… he was an angry driver too. He would cuss at every person who was too slow. He almost hit many pedestrians. But when I came to New Bristol, I told myself to change. I said, I will not be like him anymore.”
I don’t like the comparisons between Ilya’s father and Adam.
I don’t like the way I feel like I can relate to his mother, either.
“That’s good,” I say softly, only to fall silent as traffic inches on, bit by bit, until we finally pick up speed as we leave the city proper.
We get to the neighborhood with its small houses packed close together. Ilya finds a parking spot down the street, just outside the “No Parking” signage.
“I will help carry cello.Thecello.” Ilya shakes his head. “I get too excited to speak carefully around you.”
“Excited?” I ask, blinking at him. “What?”
Ilya smiles at me. “I want to speak properly. But Russian has no articles, so I forget sometimes.”
“I don’t even notice,” I tell him. I hesitate, then reach out, squeezing his hand. “It doesn’t bother me at all.”
And it doesn’t. Adam would probably sneer at him and think something derisive, but to me, it’s only part of Ilya.
I release his hand almost immediately, feeling awkward. “We should get this over with, before he comes home for lunch or something,” I say.
Not that he would. The commute is too long for that. But if he decides to come home early, or he was injured, or he’s taking the day off…
Ilya nods. We walk to the front door, and I stare at it, intimidated by the same door I’ve walked through so often.
“Are there cameras?” Ilya asks in a low whisper.
