“It is. Sexy, but scary.”
He rolls me onto my back and kisses my neck. “That’s because you’re too American. That’ll change in time.”
“I’ll become a regular Russian girl?”
His lips graze my skin, his voice teasing, “No, you won’t. You wouldn’t look the part.”
I let out a fake gasp and swat his shoulder. Roman laughs under his breath, wraps an arm around me and rolls us so I’m sprawled on top of him.
“You’ll always be the prettiest girl anywhere you go,” he says.
Then he leans in, saying something in Russian against my ear. It sounds low and intimate, but I don’t understand it. Hedoesn’t give me a chance to ask what it means before he’s tugging the sheet away. “Time for me to work.”
He climbs out of bed and I do the same. After we shower and dress, Roman doesn’t waste any time slipping back into business mode. By the time he’s ready to leave, the man who held me in bed is already fading, replaced by someone harder. Colder.
“I’ll try not to stay out too late today. Should be back around four.” He kisses me, pulling back to get his jacket. “Stay away from the window.”
I don’t get a chance to answer before he’s gone.
As soon as the door closes, I grab my book and sit at the table, trying to repeat the words he’d said to me in Russian. I replay the sound of them, over and over, breaking them into pieces, and writing them out in English the way I think I heard them.
Last night I told him I loved him. He didn’t say it back. Not that I expected him to. But maybe that’s what he whispered to me.
My hands shake as I flip to the page I’m looking for. I find the wordsI love youand stare at them. It’s not what Roman said.
I close the book, swallowing down my disappointment and slide it back into place. I try to focus on something else, like the letter I’ve decided to write to my sister. I don’t know if she still lives in New York or a different state although I don’t think it would make a difference. I’m not sure I’ll ever have the courage to mail this even if I find her address. I just want her to know I’m alive.
I want someone from my old life to know I still exist. That’s all.
I start the letter, trying to remember the proper format I learned in school.
Dear Kayla,
I hope you’re okay. I know this might come as a big shock to you, but it’s me, your sister Nala. Please keep reading even if you don’t believe this at first. I hope you remember me. I remember you and mom and dad. I’m very sorry about what happened to them and what happened to you.
I know everyone thinks I died. I didn’t. I didn’t purposely ignore you all these years, I just wasn’t able to write. I don’t think it’s good if I say too much about what happened to me, but I want you to know if I could’ve come home, I would’ve tried really hard to.
I’m writing to you now because things are different. I’m okay and happy again.
In case you don’t believe it’s me Nala, I know it was you who broke that pen and spilled ink on the couch. I never told on you.
I’m writing you this letter because if you remember me and ever think of me, I don’t want you to be sad, believing I’m dead. I don’t know if we will ever see each other again, but I still love you and I always will.
Your big sister,
Nala
I read the letter, analyzing what I wrote. I hate it. It sounds like it was written by a child. I crumple it up and tear it into pieces. Next time I’ll ask Roman to get me a dictionary. I’ll use better words, smarter words so Kayla won’t think badly of me.
I sigh. Who am I kidding>
No matter how many times I write a letter to her or how carefully I choose the words, I know I’m not going to send it. It’s pointless. I’m never going back to America, and I’d hate for Kayla to come here and see this dark side of my world.
I push all thoughts of my sister away and focus on practicing my Russian again. I work through a few pages, learning how to tell time, greeting and phrases to use for acquaintances and some more grammar.
By the time I’ve made lunch and curled back up on the couch with my book, I hear the door open.
I stiffen, frozen for a moment.
