She stops and slowly looks back over her shoulder, her voice icy enough to frost the windows. “Yes, Mr. Rozanov?”
“Lunch reservations at Blue Sushi?” I ask. There is only one person who requests that restaurant. Or any sushi restaurant for that matter.
“Yes, Mr. Rozanov,” she answers. “Your mother scheduled lunch with you.”
I nod once. “Thank you, Miss Parker,” I say, and she leaves.
Proklyatiye.
I am going to need an ice pick later. For but now, I am focused on lunch with my mom. It’s not often we get together without my dad around. I always look forward to it. But I also know that she usually only snags us a high top for two at Blue Sushi when she wants to talk about something.
Sure enough, she is waiting at the high top in the corner when I get there. She comes to her feet when I approach the table.
“Sorry I’m late,” I tell her.
“You’re not late. You’re on time,” she tells me with her usual no nonsense tone. My mom is a hard woman, but a kind woman.
We sit down. The waitress brings gyoza and edamame along with two waters to the table. We order an array of sushi and a couple drinks, and she cracks her chopsticks before getting right into it.
“How is married life going?”
She has never been one to beat around the bush.
“It’s fine. For an arranged marriage.”
She dunks a dumpling in the ponzu sauce before popping it in her mouth. “This is Bratva,syn.Marriage is an economic proposition.” Her ability to say that sentence with little to no emotion is either concerning or commendable. Maybe both.
“So you’re not in love with dad?” I ask with an equal tone. She’s even better at indifference than me, but that’s how I know it’s a learned art.
“Love and loyalty are interchangeable,” she says. “At least when choice isn’t a factor.” After that, she dabs her mouth with a napkin and looks up at me with softer eyes. “Now tell me about this baby.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
Our drinks are set in front of us, and I’m grateful for it. I stir my whiskey with the small, black straw before taking a sip.
“The fact that you’ve barely touched the food and have been waiting for the booze tells me that’s not true.”
I eat a dumpling just to get her to back off. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why not?” she asks. “You’re having a son. That’s a big deal in the Bratva world.”
“Because the mother isn’t my wife.”
The waitress sets the boat of sushi down in front of us.
“No,” Mom considers. “The mother means more to you than your obligatory wife does.”
Did I mention she’s blunt? Jesus Christ.
“The way I feel doesn’t matter,” I tell her flatly, digging into a dragon roll just to give my hands and mouth something to do. This conversation is feeling a little obligatory too.
“That said, I know how Jenica feels.”
I stop chewing. That… is an interesting turn of the conversational wheel.
My mom dresses a piece of the spice tuna roll and goes on. “It’s not easy, being with someone you were told to be with. Hoping for the best but often feeling like their attention—alltheir attention—is everywhere but on you. If it weren’t for you kids… it would have been a very lonely life.”
Kids. Plural. The very mention of that feels like a ghost has settled into the room. It makes us both go quiet.
