Biker gangs, doctors, mafia, Bratva, petty criminals, lawyers, they’re all the same. Big ego, tiny fortitude. And none of them can take being corrected by a woman. It’s annoying as hell.
Mr. Kerr swings by and points at the cabinet where the binders sit exactly where I left them. “Good,” he says, like I just now produced them.
The junior associate drops a file and calls it urgent. Everything is urgent to him. “Can you get us in on Friday?”
“Not without a reason, and you don’t have one. I have other work to do. Sorry.”
He tries to use his salesman smile on me, and when it doesn’t work, he utters, “Right.” He carries the file away and will call the clerk himself. She’ll tell him the same thing I did. Maybe he’ll learn. Maybe he won’t. Either way, my day moves.
Between tasks, the night I won’t think about pushes in. It isn’t the heat of it. It’s the way it shifted the floor under me. I thought I knew where home was. When I was with Vitaly, I thought I had it made. After all the other bad boys, this one was different. This one was going places.
So, I learned Russian phrases. I cooked his grandmother’s dishes. I stood at the back of rooms and memorized who nodded to whom. He talked about being pakhan one day, when hisfather was gone, like it was weather you plan around. I thought if I knew the customs, I would be safe inside them. I was dead wrong. Almost literally.
When I think of him, I feel his knife on my jaw. I see the almost-loving look in his eyes as his men held me down while he cut me. To his mind, scarring me was proof of his love.
It was proof of his ownership. Or, so he thought.
Screwing his father was stupid of me. I know what could happen if Vitaly ever found out. I knew it then too, and I didn’t care. I was so angry about the damn scar…I wasn’t thinking straight. But it’s been a year since that night, and Vitaly hasn’t made himself a nuisance, so I assume he never found out.
I consider that a favor from the universe, and I’m grateful every day. If he ever found out that I slept with his father and had his father’s twins, I’d be a dead woman. And I won’t let myself think about what he’d try to do to my sons.
At noon I eat half a sandwich and text my mother. She sends a picture of two sleeping faces and writes,Like angels when unconscious. I laugh. No one hears me but the plant on my desk. I work through the rest of lunch because that’s what you do when your phone isn’t ringing and your hands can stay busy. Busy is better.
The afternoon is a string of small fires. A client shows up early and scared. I make tea and listen until she remembers her own strength. The copier jams. I fix it. Court calls with a question. I answer it and send the corrected exhibit by four. Being good at things is a kind of shelter when the rest of your life feels like a storm.
At five I close my inbox and open it again because I don’t trust the quiet. I look out at the city. Glass, water, roofs, smoke. Somewhere in that mess, a man sits on a throne in a room where privacy comes at the touch of a button. I touch the edge of the scar and take my hand away.
It was a hell of a night with Roman. But it feels like a lifetime ago. Not just a year.
I leave at six, which counts as on time here. The elevator brings me down with a handful of associates who whisper about a bill they forgot to send. The lobby guard nods. “Night, Ms. Harbor.” Outside, the air is softer. People loosen their shoulders on the sidewalk. The light at the corner changes. I step off the curb with the group.
Halfway across, I feel it. Not a sound. A pressure. The sense of being looked at by a hunter. I raise my eyes, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight.
Vitaly stands on the far side behind the newspaper boxes. Black jacket. Hands in pockets. Hair cut yesterday. His attention locks on me the way it always did, like a hand closing around my throat.
I don’t stop. I don’t speed up. I pass him with two people between us and keep going, as if I didn’t see him. He doesn’t call my name. He never has to. I turn at the next corner with the crowd and go down to the train. I don’t look back. If he follows, I don’t give him the pleasure of watching me check.
On the ride I stand with my back to the door and keep my bag in front. I count stations. I don’t check my phone. I take deep breaths instead, trying to look normal instead of how I really feel. Sick. Breathless in a bad way.
A woman reads. A man naps and wakes right before his stop with practiced timing. Two teens trade a pair of earbuds and make each other listen to a chorus, then swap back. The normality of it calms me and hurts at the same time.
I’m tempted to avoid going home, but he’s Vitaly Ekimov. He’s found my route, which means he knows where I live already. So I go home, because there’s nowhere else to go. Nowhere else to hide.
Home smells like soap and rice. The TV is low. Toys strewn across the rug. My mother sits with the babies and looks up only when she knows I can see her face. I wash my hands and pick both babies up and hold them until I can breathe at the pace they breathe.
“I saw him,” I say when I set them down. “Across from work. He didn’t come over. He watched me.”
My mother’s mouth goes flat. “Did he follow you?”
“I don’t think so. I went straight to the train.”
“We can go to Jo’s,” she says. “Tonight. She has the pull-out.”
“She’s too far. Work is here. The pediatrician is here. And he knows every address I’ve ever said out loud.” I keep my voice even. “If we run, he’ll smell it.”
“What do we do, then?” Her voice is careful, like she’s trying not to wake something.
“I don’t know.” The honesty scrapes, but lying to my mother helps no one, and I’m bad at it anyway. “We change routines. I text you when I leave and when I arrive. We don’t open the door unless we’re expecting someone. We keep the chain on. We keep the stroller and a bag by the door in case we need to go fast.”
