All this time I thought she hated me. The sharpness in her voice, the fire in her eyes, the way she pushes back against everything I say and do. I thought she was counting the days until she could get away from me and run back to her normal life to forget any of this ever happened.
But she doesn't hate me. She's scared of how much she doesn't hate me, and that's not the same thing at all.
I take another drag of the cigar and let the smoke fill my lungs while I think about what this means, what it changes, what I'm supposed to do with this information now that I have it.
Maybe the rough edge between us isn't animosity at all. Maybe it's two people who don't know how to say what they feel, crashing into each other over and over because fighting is easier than admitting we want something more. Maybe she's just like me in that way.
She gets angry at injustice, at cruelty, at the ways I fail Sasha without meaning to. Her anger comes from a place of caring too much, of seeing wrongs that need to be righted and not being able to stay quiet about them.
And me? I get angry because I can't communicate what I'm feeling. Every emotion I've ever had has been locked down and controlled, shoved into a box where it can't hurt me or make me weak. I don't have the words for what's happening inside me, so it comes out as frustration, as coldness, as the kind of rage that pushes people away.
We're the same, her and me. Both of us getting angry for different reasons but ending up in the same place every time. Both of us too stubborn or too scared to say what we really mean.
I finish the cigar and stub it out in the ashtray on the nightstand, return her journal to its place beside her, then slide back into bed beside her. She stirs when I pull her against my chest, murmurs something soft I can't make out, and settles back into sleep with her hand resting over my heart like it belongs there.
I close my eyes and try to match my breathing to hers, try to let the rhythm of it pull me down into rest.
Maybe tomorrow I'll figure out what to do with all this. But for now, I just hold her.
18
NOEMI
Sasha's voice drifts through the bathroom door, singing some pop song I don't recognize high and off-key while the shower runs. I lie in bed for a moment listening to him, letting the sound wash over me. My body's still warm from sleep and my mind slowly catches up to the fact that the space beside me is empty. Fyodor is gone again with no note or explanation, and the sheets stink like cigar smoke instead of his cologne.
I should be used to this by now. He disappears whenever he wants and comes back whenever he feels like it, and I'm supposed to sit here and wait like a good little captive without asking questions or making demands. I'm frustrated and sort of disappointed after last night, but there's no point in wasting the day being angry at a man who isn't here to hear it.
The clothes I packed are running low, and I make a mental note to ask Fyodor about shopping—or at least laundering my things—as I pull on a simple sweater and dark jeans. My journal sits on the nightstand where I left it, and I slide it into my purse. Then I turn toward the bathroom door, which is still closed, Sasha still singing, and I knock twice to let him know I'm awake.
"Almost done," he calls out over the sound of the water.
"Take your time. We'll go down to the hotel cafe for breakfast when you're ready."
"Really?" His voice pitches up with excitement. "Like a real restaurant?"
"Like a real restaurant."
He's out of the shower and dressed in ten minutes flat, his dark hair still dripping and sticking up in places. I chuckle at how he put his shoes on the wrong feet and point it out. He switches them with a sheepish grin quickly. Then we take the elevator down to the lobby and follow the signs to the cafe.
The hostess seats us near the window and hands us menus, but Sasha barely looks at his. He seems too excited to focus, and I wonder if Murial ever took him to a restaurant before. I don't have money for this, but I can charge it to the room and Fyodor will pay it. So I take my time looking through all the breakfast options to decide what I want.
"Can I get pancakes?"
"You can get whatever you want," I say absently as my eyes pore over the words and images.
He grins and I catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye. It warms my heart to see him happy. This boy has been through so much in the past few weeks. He deserves special things now, sweet and happy things that settle him and heal his heart.
The waitress comes and takes our order, pancakes for Sasha and eggs for me, and we settle into easy conversation while we wait for the food to arrive.
"Papa said he might take me to the horse track," Sasha says, stirring sugar into his orange juice even though it doesn't need it. I chuckle at him again, but I let him do it. What's the harm? "The one he told me about at the museum. He said we could watch the horses run."
I hesitate, trying to find the right words. The hippodrome isn't exactly a place for children, full of gamblers and drinking and cigarette smoke and the kind of atmosphere that Sasha doesn't need to be around. Fyodor means well, I think, but he doesn't always consider what's appropriate for a ten-year-old.
"That sounds fun," I say carefully, "but I was thinking we could do something even better. Have you ever heard of the Moskvarium?" He shakes his head, pausing his spoon mid-stir. "It's an aquarium, one of the biggest in Europe. They have sharks and dolphins and fish from all over the world, tanks so big you can walk through tunnels under them and watch the animals swim over your head. You could see species you've only read about in books."
His eyes widen. "Real sharks? Like the ones that eat people?"
"Well, they're behind glass, so they won't be eating anyone. But yes, real sharks. And octopuses and sea turtles and all sorts of things."
