As I rise after eating, he says, “Wait.”
I pause near the chair. He gets up and stands in front of me, his hands in his pants pockets. “Will you go out with me tonight?”
My brows shoot up,is he asking me on a date?I blink, compose myself, and shake my head.
He nods. “Alright. Have a good day.”
My brows rise high again. I pull myself out of another shock and nod before turning to leave. Matleon has lowered my expectations of him so much that when he behaves like any man should, I’m utterly astonished.
???
“And how’s Matleon?” Dad asks, his mandatory question of the day.
“He is fine, just like yesterday.”
“Did he cook breakfast today as well?” Mom asks.
I nod. Mom and Dad exchange a look.
“Wait. Please, guys, don’t start thinking he’ll make a good husband just because he feeds your daughter breakfast,” I chuckle, but my smile fades at their serious looks.
I groan. “Don’t tell me you both are already thinking like that.”
Mom smiles. “It’s very rare to find a man who cooks good food. He will definitely become an excellent husband.”
And this sentence pulls Dad’s attention away from the whole world and toward his wife. He pulls Mom closer, making her eyes widen. She looks at him.
“You should have said that earlier, songbird. I would have become an excellent chef by now,” he says lovingly.
I giggle, watching Mom blush. My parents love each other so much that you can feel the love radiating from them.
“Okay, guys, discuss whether a man needs to know how to cook to be a good husband or not. I’m going out.”
They both look at me and nod.
“See you after six days,” I grin.
Mom grins back. Papa smiles.
I cut the call, get down from the bed, and move toward the window. The sun has gone down completely, but there is still some natural light lingering in the sky. Lights inside the buildings have started to glow, and soon, slowly, all the lights will turn on, making the city shimmer again. I like this time of day; most people living in New York don’t get to enjoy this short twenty-minute stretch during working days. Today, however, is Sunday—the sixth day of my stay in this house.
Next Sunday, I’ll be back in Russia. Back home. Away from this city and its people. Away from this house and the man who owns it. I draw in a long breath, an uncomfortable ache, almost likelonging, settling in my chest.
The city is now glowing in white and yellow lights; it looks beautiful from this height. But I’m not registering its beauty. A certain face refuses to let me see any other beauty. Matleon is a stubborn man, and everything related to him is equally stubborn, including the thoughts of him. No matter how hard I try, he refuses to leave my mind.
He’s been behaving like an absolute gentleman these past few mornings. Every day, he prepares breakfast for me himself, despite having an excellent chef at his disposal, and then asks me to go out with him. I refuse every single time, and he simply accepts it.
I eat my dinner outside, then return home and lock myself in my room. He could come in, like that night, but, as I said, Matleon is behaving like a gentleman. I’d be lying if I claimed it isn’t working perfectly, letting him carve out a place for himself in my heart, day by day.
Am I forgiving him? Yes, I am.And that terrifies me.
I was comfortable with my feelings when they were one-sided. Back then, every day was the same. I knew nothing would ever move from his side, and that certainty made it safe. I was happy in my own world, in the quiet fantasies I built around him.
Then everything changed. I wasn’t ready for it, but it happened anyway. It took me months to make peace with my heartbreak, to learn how to live with a broken heart.
And now it’s changing again. The wounds are trying to heal, but they’re healing around the very man who caused them. And I am helpless in the hands of my own heart.
I don’t want Matleon.
