Silence stretches as the steam fills the air. Roman shifts slightly, water rippling against his chest. I’m still in awe at how unbotheredhe is.
He studies me for another moment. “I don’t mix women with my son.”
My breath catches. There’s a firmness to his words. He’s drawn a line, carved out a rule. Then a thought of what else that could mean reveals itself to me—whatever happens here, stays here. My stomach flips and I don’t quite know what to think.
Before I can figure it out, Roman reaches behind and lifts a bottle of vodka, pouring some into two glasses near his hand. I notice a sleek little silver bucket of ice nearby, and he drops a few cubes into each glass.
He holds one out to me. “Come. You look like you need to take the edge off.”
He isn’t wrong, but part of me feels like if I take that glass, I’ll be crossing a line I can’t step back from.
Screw it.
I move forward on uneasy feet and take the glass, my fingertips brushing his, causing fire to rush through me. Roman nods toward the bench next to the tub for me to sit.
There’s a bit of froth in the water from the jets, enough to obscure what’s under the surface. All the same, I keep my eyes locked forward, not wanting to look as if I’m looking.
Roman watches me as I take a slow sip of the vodka. “So,” he says, shifting his weight a bit. “Tell me what’s keeping you awake.”
I let out a shaky breath. Roman’s my boss, and there’s no need for him to know anything about my personal background, only what was on my resume. But there’s something about the tone of his voice, the tranquility of the room. Not to mention the fact that I’m tired of keeping everything inside.
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” I lower my eyes.
“That’s easy. At the beginning.”
That gets a humorless laugh out of me. I shake my head, then take another sip of vodka. I’m going to need it.
“How about you begin with your art. Tell me about that.”
“Well, that’s the real beginning. My mom was an artist.”
“What kind?”
“Clay. Both pottery and sculpture.”
He nods slowly, as if in approval and appreciation.
“But it was a small-scale thing, you know? She made stuff to sell at farmer’s markets, craft fairs. She does most of it through Etsy now.”
“No sculpture gardens in Chicago, you mean.”
“Right.” I take another sip. “And as an artist, that was tough for me.”
He says nothing and I can tell I have his undivided attention.
“So when it came time for me to put my art out into the world, I didn’t have any connections. And that’s when I learned a valuable lesson.”
“Which was?”
“Art is for rich kids—the ones who can live off a trust fund while they make art they’ll never sell.”
“More like a fashion accessory than an actual living.”
My eyes light up. “Exactly! I tried, even sold a few pieces. But there was no way I could live on what I made, not even close. So that’s when I turned to my other passion—children. I went to college, got my degree, and worked with children in need with artistic talent but no guidance. And that’s what brought me here.”
I can’t tell if it’s the vodka or his presence, but the words just flow out of me. I make sure to check myself, a little reminder not to spill everything.
“That’s not entirely what brought you here,” he says. “Your mother.”
