Or how our conversations were always about him. His problems with his family. His frustrations about not being taken seriously by Dimitri. His dreams for the future. And when I tried to talk about my life, my fears, my own frustrations with my family—he’d listen, but not really. He’d nod and make sympathetic sounds, but then redirect the conversation back to himself.
Or how he made grand promises about our future—“We’ll run away together, just the two of us, somewhere our families can’t touch us”—but never concrete plans. It was always someday, eventually, when things were different. Never now.
I thought it was romantic at the time. That the secrecy and the stolen moments and the forbidden nature of it all made it more special. More intense. Like we were fated lovers like my stupid romance novels always went on about.
But now, with distance and perspective I didn’t have before, I’m starting to think maybe I loved the fantasy more than the man.
The realization makes me feel sick and guilty. So guilty I can barely stand it.
Alexei is dead and I’m finding fault with him. Dismissing what we had as if it meant nothing.
What does that make me?
On the fourth night, after a quiet dinner of pasta and meatballs I taught Dimitri how to make (he only burned the meatballs a little), he pours us both tea and we end up in the library.
Somehow my space has become our space. He works on his investigation into the attacks, and I read or just exist in his presence, and it feels?—
It feels right.
Tonight, he’s not working. He’s just sitting in the chair across from me, tea in hand, staring at the fireplace with an expression I can’t read.
The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but weighted, like there are things that need to be said but neither of us knows how to start.
“Tell me about him.” Dimitri's voice breaks the quiet, and I look up, startled. “About you and Alexei. I need—” He stops, jaw working. “I need to understand.”
Everything in me wants to refuse. I want to keep that part of my life private and protected because talking about Alexei with Dimitri feels like the ultimate betrayal of Alexei’s memory and whatever I thought we had.
But maybe that’s exactly why I should do it. Maybe if I talk about Alexei, I can remember why I loved him. Maybe it will stop these confusing feelings for Dimitri. Maybe it will remind me who I’m supposed to be mourning.
“Okay,” I say, swallowing heavily. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” He takes a sip of his tea, his eyes never leaving my face. “Start at the beginning.”
So I do. I tell him about the bar where we met. It was some upscale place in the city where I’d gone with a friend from college. Alexei had been there with his own friends, and my friend had nudged me, giggling.“Don’t look now, but there’s a really cute blond guy staring at you, Vee.”
I obviously had looked and our eyes had met across the room in that cliché way and when he smiled at me, my legs felt so weak I had to hold onto the bar for dear life.
“He came over to talk to me,” I say, and I can still remember that moment so clearly. “He was so charming. So easy to talk to. We ended up talking for hours about everything and nothing. Books, movies, places we wanted to travel. He made me laugh. He made me feel—” I stop, searching for the word. “Seen. Like I mattered.”
Dimitri’s expression is impassive, but I see his hand tighten on his teacup.
“When did you learn he was a Volkov?”
“The second date.” I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. “He looked familiar to me, you know? I just couldn’t place him. He told me his last name, and I—I almost walked out right there in the restaurant.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, remembering the fear and anger I felt when Alexei told me he was a Volkov.
“But you didn’t walk out,” Dimitri points out. “Why?”
I shrug helplessly, arms wrapped around my legs again. “No, I didn’t walk out. Why I didn’t?” I’m lost in thought, remembering Alexei’s warm hand grabbing my arm as I stood up to leave. “He swore that our families’ war didn’t have to be our war. We could be different. That love could overcome anything.” I laugh bitterly, remembering how I fell for it hook line and sinker. “God, I was so naive. I actuallybelievedhim.”
Dimitri’s lips purse. “What happened after that?”
I hesitate. How much does he want to know? But from the look in his eyes, he wants to knoweverything. So I tell him.
The secret meetings in hotels and restaurants two towns over. The burner phones we used to contact each other. The elaborate lies I told my family about where I was going and how good I got at sneaking out. The constant fear of being caught mixed with the thrill of doing something forbidden.
“Did you love him?”
The question makes my throat tight. I would have said yes without hesitation a few weeks ago and would have been insulted by the question, hurt that anyone would doubt it.
