“No.” I’m only being polite, I tell myself. “What's yours?"
"Pizza.” She lifts a finger. “But…onlywith extra cheese. My dad used to bring it home on Fridays after work. My sister and I would watch a movie while we eat.”
She stares at her food, no longer eating, like she’s trying not to feel sad or cry.
I don’t know what to say so I just don’t. All I know is, I shouldn’t encourage this—us talking.
"Can I ask you something else?”
“You’re going to anyway.”
She exhales. "Okay. This one’s serious. Was your father ever kind to you?"
The question catches me off guard.
“No.”
"Never? Not even when you were little?"
"Never.”
“I can understand that he was horrible to me. I was nothing to him, but you’re his son, his blood. He shouldn’t hate you the way he does.”
I shrug. What am I supposed to say to that? I grew up knowing I was a mistake, a failed attempt from my mother to trap my father into marriage. My father never cared that I was his son. Nala must think love is guaranteed after a person is born.
"I don’t give a fuck what Grigori thinks about me.”
"I know. I don’t care what he thinks about me either. I just think it’s wrong he wasn’t a good father to you.”
Why is she saying this? Why is Nala sitting here—knowing I’m keeping her locked inside this apartment—acting like she gives a fuck about my feelings, or feelings she seems to think I have. I don’t need her to care. Real or pretend. I don’t need any of this from her. I stand abruptly, moving to the sink.
She follows me into the kitchen, taking the plate from mebefore I can wash it. For a second, I’m almost convinced she’s fucking with me. It’s doubtful, though, she’s too young, almost like a child. Nala’s curious about things, life and people after being locked away for so long.
I have to remember that.
Ineedto remember that.
"I like talking to you," she says, squeezing soap onto the sponge.
I raise my brows. "No one likes talking to me."
"I do."
"Nala, people don't talk to me. They report and they answer my questions. That's it. That’s all I need."
“Well, I’m talking to you.” She lifts a shoulder. "I’m alone most of the day. I like when you come back and I like hearing your voice.”
I study her face to see if she’s lying. She’s not, her dark eyes are open and honest.
Of course.
That’s why she can say shit like this to someone like me. She’s too innocent. I’d even go so far to call her naive, but I know she’s not. She’s seen too much. She just doesn’t understand how I am yet. She’ll get it soon.
"Your father liked hearing himself talk,” she adds, frowning slightly. “You don’t talk too much. Maybe that’s why I like it when you do.”
"I don’t need to talk a lot. Most people already can’t keep their mouths shut.”
“Most people,” she repeats. “Or me?”
