A short breath.
“Matteo?”
“Was it something I did?”
I breathe out, relieved that he hasn’t hung up on me.
“No. God, no,” I promise. “It’s the opposite, really. Being with you made me wish that I was more well-adjusted than I am. It’s been three years and I’m still living my life on edge and I feel like I’m moving so slowly. I need something to push me further and faster.”
“Are you sure, Anya?” He sounds worried. “There’s no rush?—”
“There is,” I disagree. “I’m tired of being in this limbo of better but not as good as I could be. I want to have more normal days. I want to not wake up and think about how much easier it would be if I didn’t.”
He sucks in a breath. “You still think about that?”
“Not in a way that should make you worry,” I say hesitantly. I’d reluctantly told Matteo weeks ago about my deep depression days and he took it very well. Likely only because I made sure to be clear that I hadn’t wanted to end my life for a very long time now. “I want to live, I really do. It’s just very hard sometimes, living this way. It’s beginning to be tiring, and I’m ready to make it stop. The right way.”
“So…inpatient,” he gathers, recognizing my reasoning. “For two months? When are you going?”
“I’ll check in in two days,” I admit. “I didn’t want to give myself time to get scared and change my mind. If I have to leave when I get there, I’ll be able to. But I’m going to try like hell to make it through. My therapist runs the program, and she’s had great success with it. I’m her only patient she works with whoisn’tin the program, actually.”
“Two days, fuck,” he says, almost sounding like he’s in pain. “And we won’t be able to talk?”
“Well, we won’t be able to text or call,” I tell him remorsefully. “But um, you can send letters to me. You don’t have to but?—”
“I will,” he interrupts. “I’m going to send you so many letters you don’t even know, Anya.”
Relief swarms me and my smile spreads, though he can’t see it. “You can email me too, but I’m only allowed like an hour of email time. I think there’s two days every week we can check for emails and write back. You just can’t send me pictures or write about anything troubling, whatever that means.”
“I can do that,” he vows, his tone going decidedly serious. “I…fuck, I’m going to miss you but I’m so happy for you. You’re doing this for yourself and you’re so fucking brave for taking this step, you know?”
Swallowing hard, I shake my head. “I’m trying to be. It’s not easy.”
“I’m here for you, okay? Whatever you need, I’ll be here. I’m going to come see you as soon as you’re done. If you want me to.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I reply, biting down a smile. “Oh, and can I ask you a favor?”
He doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Anything.”
“I’ll text you for it,” I tell him. “I have to go now, but we’ll talk again before I go, I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he echoes.
Not even ten minutes later, I’ve mustered up the courage to make another call. This one takes more than four rings before it’s answered.
“Who’s this?”
“Nico?” I ask, surprised by how groggy his voice sounds despite it being close to mid-day. “It’s Anya. Um, Anya Morozov?”
He grunts in recognition. “How did you get my phone number?”
“Um, I told Matteo that my Uncle Lev wanted it so he could talk to you about enforcer things. He texted it to me.”
“So why are you calling me and he isn’t? Did youlieto him, Anya?My, my, that wasn’t very nice of you.”
“I had a good reason,” I defend, despite his teasing tone.
“I’m sure you did.” He sighs and it sounds like he ruffles around with something nearby, inaudible noises coming over the line. “Am I the second Moretti you’ve ever spoken to? Seems like a fucking odd choice on your part. Couldn’t you have sought out one of the nice ones?”
