I've had nightmares about seeing Polina again. I suppose there's some satisfaction in the fact that it's on my wedding day, an occasion that she explicitly assured me would never happen. And Ava, the child she said Art would reject and never support, is currently having a sword-fight with one of her cousins in the corner.
It's this thought that makes me lift my chin and turn to her with a smile plastered over my face. I have won this battle, and she can't take it away from me.
“Polina,” I say, keeping my voice sickly sweet. I use the tone that we’re taught to use when patients are being particularly difficult at the hospital. “How lovely to see you again.”
If she's taken aback, she doesn't show it. Her pale face has a permanently pinched expression, so it’s difficult to tell when she is truly annoyed. Today, her watery blue eyes are rimmed with dark makeup that stands out on her pale face with her white blonde hair.
“Welcome to the family, Nina,” she says, matching my tone. She shoots a look at where Ava is playing in the corner and gestures her metallic bronze nails towards the scene, where she’s currently wrestling with her cousins. “This is a first for us, you know.”
It’s hard to let her venom affect me. I’m barely holding back a laugh at the way that Ava is holding her own, wrestling her cousins to the ground.
“What is?” I know Polina is trying to bait me, but I can't help but be curious at what she's trying to say.
“The Petrovs don’t normally play with bastard children.” She drops the words like they’re a grave insult, her blue eyes hungry for my reaction.
I choke back my laughter. Is it the 1950s all of a sudden?
“I don't think it's contagious,” I say, as my laughter spills out.
I'm not the 20-year-old that Polina could terrify so easily, five years ago. And knowing what I know now, I wonder how I could have fallen for her transparent bullshit. She’s not even a good actress.
She looks almost crestfallen that I am not taking her bait.
A man appears at her side, his bald head so shiny that it looks like it’s been polished. “Denis,” she purrs, taking his hand. I don’t thinkI’m imagining the tinge of relief, as though she needed back-up to interact with me. “Meet Nina Petrova.”
“That’s not–“ I begin to correct her, but
“A pleasure,” Denis replies, taking my hand. Everything about him is slimy.
I fight the urge to pull away. This is Art’s family, so I should make an effort.
“You’re Art’s uncle?”
“And my husband.” Polina’s voice is a low purr.
I try to do the math on that in my head, but come up short. I know Art’s father died before he was born, but I don’t understand where Denis fits into the picture. His brother, I suppose. They offer no explanation, or small talk, both of them staring at me with an evaluating gaze, sipping their drinks.
Thankfully, Art rescues me from them, leading me away once his dance with Vanya is over.
I don’t understand his family.
“Your mother is married to your uncle?” I hiss at him as soon as we’re out of their earshot.
A strange expression passes over his face, then disappears. “Since my father died, they’ve been together.”
My family were – are, I suppose, though I’m not welcome there anymore – toxic as hell. But they were also fiery as hell. They didn’t ooze the same strange, iceberg-like coolness that I get from Polina and Denis. There are a million things going on beneath the surface that I’m unaware of, and it makes me feel out of my depth.
I am grateful to have Ava as an excuse for us to leave the receptionearly. We spend an hour trying to calm her down enough to go to bed, until finally, we wrangle her under the covers.
“Mischka said they get to go to weddings every weekend, Mommy. Every weekend!” Ava is overjoyed at the thought. It is her first time attending a wedding, after all. I can understand the excitement.
I shoot a look at Art. “I’m sure Mischka was exaggerating, honey. But you do have a lot of cousins now, and we’ll have to go to their weddings.”
She has to tell us about every child she met and the games they played, before I can finally get her to go to sleep.
When we’re finally alone, Art wastes no time in covering my mouth with his.
I don’t press him any further for an explanation of his strange family, or the way they acted like attending a wedding was a chore instead of a celebration. I don’t want anything to ruin this perfect moment.
