Katya stands for a moment, looking too stunned to move, then slides into the chair I’ve pulled out for her with the efficiency and silence of someone who was taught to be seen and not heard.
“We always eat breakfast in the kitchen. Five boys teach you quickly that it’s better to eat where it’s easiest to clean.” Ma pulls plates of bacon, eggs, pancakes, hashbrowns and sausages from where they were keeping warm in the oven, and places them on the table. “Mind you, Iris is no better when it comes to her food.”
I watch Katya as she watches Ma move around with the ease that only comes from familiarity and routine. I watch the column of her throat move when she swallows, and I’m surprised to see the emotion in her expression.
“If you’re not hungry, you don’t have to eat,” I tell her quietly as I sit beside her. “My family can be a lot, so if you’re overwhelmed or anything, we can eat elsewhere.”
The smile she gives me is tight, and from politeness more than anything else.
She shakes her head no.
“Thank you, Mrs Orlova,” she says instead as Iris walks into the kitchen with her hair still in rollers.
“Oh, darling, no. It’s just Saoirse,” Ma says to Katya, who nods as she drops her head. Ma notices and looks at me, realizing the thing I’ve been battling with since the Lazovski’s graced us with their presence yesterday. Katya needs patience, kindness, space. Maybe she needs something I can’t give her. I’ve never had to deal with such a complex situation before. But now ma has seen, she will help.
“Morning Fam,” Iris sing-songs. I keep my eyes on Katya, trying to gauge her discomfort, but something loosens in her as Iris plops down in the chair beside her.
“Good morning,” Katya responds, this time, her smile considerably more real.
And devastatingly beautiful.
Jealousy courses through me because, I realize, I want her to smile at me like that.
We get through breakfast with only half the family rocking up, thankfully. Then we help ma clean up before I lead Katya out of the kitchen.
“Your mother is—” Katya begins.
“Terrifying?” I say
“I was going to say kind,” she answers.
I think about this for a moment. But then notice her eyes flitting around, doing that thing again where she is taking information, storing it away.
"You don't have to do that here," I say.
Her eyes come to mine. "Do what?"
"Map the room. Calculate the exits. Figure out where the danger is."
A beat of silence. Then, with a frankness that catches me off guard: "I don't know how to stop."
I can see the instant she realizes what she's said. The micro-flinch, the tightening around her mouth that means she's already editing, already constructing the follow-up that will smooth over the vulnerability and restore the surface.
I don't give her the chance.
"Then don't stop," I say. "Map the whole house. Every room, every corridor, every door. I'll give you a tour."
She blinks. Whatever she expected me to say, it wasn't that.
"You want me to learn the layout?"
"I want you to feel safe. If knowing the exits helps, then know the exits." My hands are itching to take hers and guide her around the house, so I put them in my pockets. "But you should know that every door in this house opens from the inside. Including the front one."
The implication settles over her slowly. Her eyes widen by a fraction, the careful recalibration happening behind her expression as she processes what I'm actually telling her.
Every door opens from the inside.
Including the one to this marriage.
