“Woah, not a lot of women in business, I hear,” he says. “I’m in my third year of bio.”
“Not a lot of women in STEM either, I heard,” I parrot back, glancing mockingly toward the large group of nerdy women sitting at the table.
“Touché,” he laughs, taking another swig of his drink. Awkward. I take one more glance at mine before sliding it away and standing from the table.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, patting Soph’s arm so she knows I’ll return. She shoots me a nod before focusing on the game.
I make my way out of the kitchen and find a back door that someone must’ve propped open to let in some cool outside air.
Don’t ask me why, but I find myself opening my text chain with Mikhail for about the tenth time today, scanning over the last three texts he sent a few days ago. I haven’t gotten myself to respond yet, for some reason, becoming incredibly nervous every time I try.
I don’t even know what he is to me. A friend? Is that what you call it when you send a guy to the hospital, steal his gun, and sleep over in his bed? I know he’s older, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. I don’t want to be the love-sick college girl who clings to his obvious wealth and success.
Cassandra:
Hey.
I push out a shaky breath as I hit send, leaning back against the frame of the back door. The chilled air cools my clammy skin, offering a calm reprieve from the waves of body heat wafting out of the house. I look down when my phone buzzes, but then it doesn’t stop. It takes my dumb ass way too long to realize I’m being called, Mikhail’s contact flashing across the screen. Worried it will stop before I can react, I slide my shaky finger across the screen with a harsh flick and lift the device to my ear.
“Hey,” his soft voice rumbles across the line, immediately relaxing my nerves. “It sounds loud over there. Are you out somewhere?” His voice hardens at the end of his question.
“Yeah, I went to a house party with my friend, Sophia.” I pick nervously at my nail. “I think I’ll probably leave soon, though.”
“Why? Not having a good time?” he questions. I pause for a second, debating how much I want to share, until my filter—clearly obliterated by his pretty voice—crumbles to pieces.
“I couldn’t drink my drink.” I push the phone closer to my face and drop my voice like I’m sharing a secret. “I can’t stop thinking that somebody put something in it, which is crazy because I literally watched the guy make it and it never left my goddamn sight.”
“That sounds like a perfectly rational response for your body to have,” he coaxes in a comforting voice that rolls over my nerves like a soft blanket and a cup of tea.
“But I have too many things already, Mikhail. The last thing I need is another thing.”
“Things?” he presses.
“Issues. I have too many issues, and I don’t need to be scared of something as silly as a freshman pouring me a drink.”
He makes a low, noncommittal noise when hearing the word “freshman.”
“Not really making me feel better about this party, Little Menace, but I promise, you don’t have too many things. Your mind’s natural responses from past trauma are just these intelligent, beautiful shields that can sometimes accidentally misfire in safe situations.”
I absorb his words carefully, spinning them over in my head like a line of poetry. He says stuff so simply. It’s like he peels off all the layers of my bias coating the concepts and presents them to me again once they’re raw and bare and clean.
“Why do you call me a menace?” I deflect, asking in a lighter tone. “You know, most people think I’m really fucking nice.”
“Nah, nice is so boring. You are anything but boring, Cassandra.”
My cheeks flushed against the chilling wind.
“That night that we met?” he probes, voice crackling through the phone.
“When you were bleeding all over that alley on 5th street?” I finish for him. A raspy chuckle fills the speaker before he replies.
“Yes, exactly. There I was, ready to give up on it all, face my reckoning... but then you showed up. Such a force of fight with so many demands. Not a useless angel, but a bossy little spitfire who took my gun and sent me an ambulance.”
He relates his version of events so wistfully, as though looking back on a beautiful moment rather than a painful memory. It causes a heavy, peaceful sensation to fall over me like a weighted blanket, settling the nerves in my stomach that I didn’t even realize were still fluttering with anxiety.
“Mikhail?”
“Yes?”
