The room tilts in a way that isn’t physical. Everything in me tries to split at once, and every word in my head eddies away.
6
ROMAN
Perhaps I should have openedwith something less abrupt than “I know the twins are mine.” But I’ve wasted enough time.
Mina looks bewildered, wide-eyed. But she steps aside to let me in and does not retreat.
I step in first. Tanner holds the landing, and Marcus waits by the stairs to cover me and give us privacy. Not sure we’ll get much of that here.
The apartment is small and relatively clean. The orderly chaos of babies decorates the floor, with toys here and there. A plastic mat by the door, a double-deep stroller folded against the wall, a bowl of keys and coupons, a green light on a baby monitor. Soap scent in the air. Thin door, thinner chain. The kind of wood a strong breeze could break.
I don’t say that out loud, but it’s dismaying.
Mina stands with her chin high. The thin scar along her jaw catches the light and vanishes when she turns. She is more striking than she was that night at Rope. The bright lights ofthe miniscule apartment afford me a better look at her than the club’s colored lights ever did.
She’s thicker now, and the weight of carrying twins suits her. Her long hair isn’t auburn like I thought, but brown with red undertones. Devious blue eyes that sparkle, or they would, if she weren’t trying to size me up. Simple jeans and a tee shirt and somehow prettier than the night she came to me in a little black dress and fuck-me heels.
I am angry she didn’t tell me about my boys. I’m also drawn to her. The fates have a wicked since of humor. I’m not sure why they enjoy laughing at me, but I’ll silence them soon enough.
Mina clears her throat. “Roman, this is my mother, Jennifer.”
“Good evening,” I say as the older woman steps from the living room. Fifties, I think, with wiry, tired eyes that miss nothing. Truly, it’s hard to know her age—taking care of twins in midlife sounds daunting enough for me, and I have the money to hire help. I imagine the twins have added to the grays in her ash-brown hair. She wipes her hands on a dish towel and nods instead of offering a hand.
“Pleasure to meet you.” Her tone says otherwise. “We were just feeding the boys.” She measures me in one pass and sets the measure aside in favor of immediate work.
The boys are awake, making small, satisfied sounds. A playpen sits under the window. Two bouncy seats, folded blankets, bottles drying on a rack. Two faces turn toward me as I draw closer.
I stop at the rail. Up close, one has my eyes and both have Mina’s mouth. The one on the left is heavier through the shoulders.The one on the right has a crease at the chin that will become a dimple. I count fingers. Healthy. Seemingly happy.
Mine.
Mina stands beside me. “This is Alexander,” she says, touching the larger boy’s foot. “We call him Xander. And this is Yuri.”
“Russian names,” I say.
“It felt fitting.” She meets my eyes.
I leave the words where anger wants to spill. I am angry at time lost. I’m angrier at myself for not finding her sooner. None of that helps a child, so I put it away. There are bigger concerns at hand.
Jennifer gestures to the table. “Tea?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Jennifer moves in the small kitchen with practiced economy. Kettle, cups, tea tin, sugar. The apartment is meager. It is cared for, but small and falling apart at the seams.
Mina’s place is clean the way a ship is clean before a storm. Surfaces scrubbed to a shine. Corners swept until the broom bristles splay. Lemon and bleach haunt the air.
The cleanliness does not hide the age. It only proves her effort.
The baseboards tell the truth. Paint is nicked to the wood where a vacuum chewed too close. In one stretch the molding has a crack that runs like a river on a map. The ceiling carries water stains in two rings above the kitchen light. They look like continents. The landlord chose a coat of cheap white and a promise. The stain pushed through both.
The floor is scuffed in a path from the door to the little table and back. They keep a folded postcard under one leg to stop the wobble. The cabinet hinges squeak when Jennifer opens them for tea. The refrigerator hums too loudly, and every few minutes, there’s a rattle.
Everything she owns is neat. The couch is worn, but unstained. The curtains are sun-faded, washed, and ironed. It is a modest room held together by care and stubbornness.
I hate that my sons are being raised in a place with a door I could break, windows that should have been replaced twenty years ago, a chair that wobbles, and chipping—possibly lead—paint.
