“Hey!” I glared at him.
He raised a brow. “Too frank?”
“Yes. Say, ‘Anything you make is delicious.’ Geez, I need to train you on being a supportive husband.”
He walked over to me and kissed the side of my head because I was busy flipping the grilled cheese over. “I’m a fast learner.”
“You are.” I searched his face. “Are you okay?”
His mouth twitched. “Is this you being a supportive wife?”
“No, this is me being genuinely concerned.”
A breath hissed out of him. “I didn’t mean the harsh wake-up call.”
I shrugged. “Hunger would have woken me up. These are ready. Grab the plates, will you?” I wanted to be as casual as could be, like if this was something normal for him, I didn’t want him to be defensive about it.
When Kirill returned, I asked, “It was a nightmare about your brother?”
“I haven’t dreamt of Roman in a long time. A very long time.” He muttered the last sentence as if to himself.
Suddenly, I had to know. “Did I trigger anything by shooting you?”
He shook his head emphatically. “I’d been shot several times, Lusenka.”
His back was a map of tattoos, but underneath them, I felt the bumps that painted a story of a violent life, including four long scars that might have come from a rake, which he seemed sensitive about. It didn’t escape my notice that he kissed me in the shower to shut me up from asking questions. But baby steps. My husband had a complex history that molded the man he was today. He didn’t have a sheltered childhood despite their Russian nobility bloodline and billions at their disposal. Quite the opposite. “I’ve added another one.”
We’d grown quiet. I transferred the sandwiches onto the plates. I already had the bowls out and served up the tomato soup. I had questions. A boatload of questions, but I didn’t know how to ask them. We transferred to barstools to eat, but I struggled to fill the silence.
“So, it looks like snow is coming our way,” I said.
Kirill didn’t say anything. He seemed to be concentrating on his grilled cheese sandwich like it was a Michelin-star meal. “This is good.”
“It’s usually better,” I groaned, thinking he was just taking the “supportive husband” role too seriously. “I usually pile on four cheeses.”
Silence again except for the tinkling of utensils against porcelain, crunching of bread—at least I got the crispness right—watching the snow flurries grow smaller but coming down faster.
Kirill was checking his phone when he said, “There’s more snow than expected, probably a foot.”
“Isn’t that too early for November?”
“It’s happened before. I’ll bring in the firewood.”
“Are we going to lose power?”
“There’s a generator, but it needs maintenance.”
“Okay.”
Another stretch of silence punctuated with a million questions.
Kirill wolfed down his food. And I expected him to stand up and go get the firewood, but he turned to me and said, “I don’t like talking about Roman.”
“I get it. It brings back painful memories, but have you talked to anyone about the loss?”
“Besides the wild animals in the forest?”
“I can’t believe Ivan sent you there. You were only nine years old.”
