Oh great, I’m allowed to want autonomy.
“Mikhail, I think you should go home. Whateverthisis, it’s gotta stop. Controlling men aren’t my type, and I need to be able to exist in the world without some guy yelling at me on the?—”
“You’re right. I was out of line, and I never should’ve spoken to you like that. I don’t ever want to control you or scare you, I was just… I was worried about you. Terrified that something like last time could happen again, and I wouldn’t be there to stop it. I almost didn’t stop it that night, and that thought has been tearing me apart. What if I never turned? What if I didn’t see you before he tried to pull you back?”
The sincerity in his voice surprises me, and he cracks as he says the last part, as if some guy trying to assault me was entirely his fault. His words mirror thoughts that I’ve been struggling with too; thewhat-ifsof that night haunt every drink I receive, every quiet moment in bed.
“I…I appreciate the concern, Mikhail, but that night felt like a complete loss of control for me, and what you did? It made me feel even more out of control. I can understand your reasoning, but it doesn’t change the action.”
“I know Menace. I never wanted to make you feel that way, and I couldn’t just go on with my day, knowing it was hurting you. I’ve turned tracking completely off. Look.”
He hands over his phone, and the screen is set to the privacy settings page. Visually seeing that privacy is enabled from both sides of ourcontact slightly eases the anger. Just to screw with him, I start going through the device. He doesn’t make a move to stop me.
I click on our text chain, surprised to see my contact named with the nickname he uses for me. Seeing the unread texts from his side has a twinge of sympathy zipping through me. I don’t want to examine the feeling right now, so instead, I shut off the phone and hand it back to Mikhail.
“Look, I appreciate you showing up and trying to be open, but it doesn’t change the fact that you were hiding stuff from me, or that you are continuing to do it. You still won’t tell me what you do for work, or details of your life, or even what happened the night we met. Our communication is like a one-way street, and that’s not going to work for me.”
“I get that. And I want to try and do this right, Cassandra. I want to earn your trust. Let me take you to dinner tomorrow night. No more invasions of privacy, and no more secrets. I might be out of practice at letting others into my private life, but I can work on it.”
The blend of his profound guilt and willingness to change feels tauntingly genuine. I’ve been wronged many times in my life, but no one has ever tried this hard to change for me. To beg forgiveness. No one has ever cared more about my feelings than about being right.
“And we’re going to talk? Properly?” I break my hesitation.
“Yes, we’ll talk. You can ask me anything you’d like.”
“…Okay, then.”
The short response lights up his face like a fuse, and I’m captivated by the look of hopeful joy that overtakes his eyes. I just hope I haven’t dug myself further into a hole I won’t be able to crawl out of.
Mikhail
“Mr. Solokov, it’s a pleasure to have you visit again. I’m sure she will enjoy seeing you.”
I nod to the desk attendant as I strip off my coat and hang it over my arm. “How is she doing today?”
The man’s gaze shoots down to the plush carpeting. If my last visit was anything to go by, she’s certainly not getting any better.
“She…” He trails, exuding nerves. “She’s been having a rough time this week, but she seems to be doing well, so far. She is currently in the sunroom having tea, if you’d like to join her.”
I thank the man, making my way through the familiar halls of the private care facility. Thanks to the hefty admission cost, the facility hasn’t spared a cent to make the place as lavish and homely as possible, boasting expensive furnishings and around-the-clock medical attention. Still, this place puts my senses on high alert. The faint combination of cleaning solution and calming eucalyptus from the diffuser on the front desk sears through my nostrils. The sharp scent sets me on edge like a Pavlovian response.
My eyes find her form the second I set foot in the sunroom. She’s positioned herself in front of the biggest window in the room, just as she always used to do every morning after breakfast. Her sight flits through the pages of the worn book she’s probably read a thousand times, a teacup resting on the little table beside her. If I squint just a bit, I wouldn’t even know any time had passed. Her long, blonde hair is still immaculately dyed and styled, her blouse crisp and pressed even as she curls up with her book, settled back against the chair.
After a few minutes of lingering at the entrance, her eyes finally lift to mine.
“Mikhail,” she whispers, slowly taking inventory of me with her gaze.
“Hello, Mother.” I take a hesitant step forward.
She launches up, haphazardly tossing her book aside and running over to me with open arms. I tense, preparing myself for the contact. The second her hands land against my back, I flinch, grinding my jaw to negate the feeling. She notices a moment later, instantly pulling back with an apology on her face.
“Sorry, love. I know you don’t like that.” Her voice is soft and meek. The voice she used with my father to coax him from his bad moods.
I hate it.
“It’s okay,” I say, taking a step back and reaching for a chair. She follows the cue, sitting back down. My skin still vibrates with physical irritation from the touch, but I shrug it off as best I can.
“You never did like being touched, even as a child.” She sighs wistfully. “The doctors all said you must have had some kind of sensory sensitivity issues, but I always wondered how much it had to do with your father and me. Perhaps I should have done better for you.” Her voice trails off, like she’s forgotten I’m even here.
