I don't know what to say to that, or how to accept something that feels so far from the truth of what I am and what I've done. So I just stand there and smoke and let the words settle into me somewhere I can hold onto them later when I need them.
She steps closer and rises up on her toes, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek that lingers for a moment before she pulls back. Her lips are warm against my cold skin, and I close my eyes and let myself feel it without trying to lock it away or push it down the way I do with everything else.
"Don't stay up too late," she says, stepping back toward the door. "Sasha's going to need his father in the morning."
She slips back through the door and slides it closed behind her, and I watch through the glass as she climbs back into bed and curls up next to my son. The two of them fit together so naturally, and I want so badly to be part of that, to fit with them, to be the kind of man they deserve instead of whatever broken thing I've become.
I finish my cigarette and stub it out on the rusted railing, then light one more and stand there watching the highway in thedistance and thinking about what she said. Good things exist, even in the worst moments. Maybe she's right. Maybe there's still something good buried in me somewhere, hidden under all the years of violence and walls I built to keep myself safe.
I don't know how to be a father and I've never known because no one ever showed me. I don't know how to comfort my son or show him that I love him or teach him that it's okay to feel things even when the world tells you it's weakness. But maybe I can learn. Maybe if I swallow my pride and let Noemi show me how to be the man Sasha needs, I can figure it out before it's too late.
Or maybe it is too late and the expiration date is already set. There's no way of knowing that. The only thing we can do is keep living one breath at a time and pray it's not the last.
20
NOEMI
The chair by the balcony door has become my spot over the past two days. It's the one place in this cramped motel room where I can sit with my journal and pretend I'm somewhere else entirely. The fabric is scratchy and the cushion is flat from years of use, but it's got a view of the parking lot and the highway beyond and enough distance from the TV that I can almost block out the sounds of Sasha's video game—purchased by Fyodor as a consolation for losing everything.
He's been playing for three hours straight now, sprawled on the bed with the controller in his hands and his eyes glued to the screen. Some racing game Fyodor had brought in yesterday morning. I completely disapprove of buying a child's affection, but Sasha is suffering and he needs something good to cling to right now.
I watch him over the top of my journal and try to figure out how to break through the fog of sadness that's settled over him since we got here. His studies have been dead in the water since we arrived. With no books to work from, there is no structure or motivation. I can't even get him to concentrate. I've tried toengage him a few times, suggested we do some math problems together or practice his reading with the hotel Bible sitting in the nightstand drawer, but he just shrugs and goes back to his game.
He's depressed, I know that. Still grieving his mother, still reeling from being ripped away from everything familiar, and I don't know how to motivate a ten-year-old who's drowning in sadness when I can barely keep my own head above water.
Fyodor's voice drifts in from the balcony where he's been making calls for the past hour, pacing back and forth in the cold with his phone pressed to his ear. I can't hear everything he's saying, but I catch enough to piece together what's happening.
He's talking to Lazar and asking him to bring Vasili and meet him here in Moscow. The job he told me about—killing this Marat character—can't fail and he needs backup. All I need is some peace and safety, but I doubt I'm going to get that here.
I stare down at my journal and try to make sense of the words I've written over the past few days, but they blur together until I can't read them anymore. My life choices flash through my mind like a movie playing too fast, all the moments that led me here to this shabby motel room with a broken man and his broken son. My life wasn't perfect but it made sense to me, and now I’m not sure which way is up because I slept with a Mafia hitman.
The thing that scares me most isn't the violence or the danger or the constant threat of men with guns showing up to kill us all. The thing that scares me most is that I still want him. Even knowing what he is and hearing him talk about finishing the job of killing that man, my heart still races when he walks into the room. My body still aches for his hands on my skin. I still catch myself watching him when he's not looking, still feel that pull toward him that I can't seem to break no matter how hard I try.
What does that make me? What kind of woman falls for a monster and can't stop falling even after she sees the teeth and the claws and everything else he's been hiding?
Sasha laughs at something on the screen and I look up, watching his face light up for a moment before it settles back into that flat expression he's been wearing since we got here. He's so young and vulnerable, and he has no idea what his father really does for a living. He thinks Fyodor's a businessman, maybe, or something. He doesn't know about the blood on those hands, the bodies in the ground, the life that waits for him if he stays in this world too long.
I close my journal and set it aside, then push myself out of the chair and move toward the balcony door. Fyodor's back is to me, his shoulders tense under his jacket, and I can hear him talking to someone else now. The conversation sounds more formal, and I catch a name that makes me pause.
"I understand, Yuri," he's saying. "The job will be done soon. I just need a few more days to get everything in place."
I stand there with my hand on the door and listen to him reassure this man that everything is under control, that the hit will happen, that Marat won't live long enough to testify against anyone. And it sickens me almost to the point that I want to throw up. These men are playing God with someone's life, and I'm somehow a part of it and I hate it.
He ends the call and shoves the phone into his pocket, then stands there staring out at the highway with his hands gripping the rusted railing. I can see the tension in his body, the way his jaw is clenched and his shoulders are drawn up toward his ears. He's stressed, I know that. He's got people trying to kill him anda job he can't seem to finish and a son he doesn't know how to connect with.
But I'm stressed too. I'm scared and confused and trapped in a situation I never asked for, and I need something from him that he doesn't seem capable of giving. I don't know if he'll ever be capable of giving it.
I slide the door open and step out onto the balcony, wrapping my arms around myself against the cold. He doesn't turn around or acknowledge my presence. It's like if he takes his eyes off the horizon someone will sneak up on him and he can't let that happen. Just like last night.
"I need to ask you something," I say.
"What," he growls, and I feel my patience start to fray at the edges.
"Can we go to a store? Sasha needs clothes that actually fit him, and I'd like to get some books so I can continue his lessons. He's been staring at that game for hours and it's not good for him."
"Not today."
"Why not?"
