Anya sets down her pencil, thinking about the question.
“She would say,Bernard, I’m not saying your plan is bad. I’m saying you haven’t thought about what happens if it rains.”
“That’s better.”
“I know.”
Then there’s the pigeon. The nemesis. Anya named him Gerald. He steals seeds from other birds, claims the best perching spots through dubious means, and has an ongoing rivalry with Bernard.
“Gerald would definitely try to mess up the swimming lesson,” she says, picking her pencil back up. “He’d tell Bernard the pond is deeper than it actually is.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because Gerald doesn’t want Bernard to learn new things. If Bernard gets better, Gerald can’t win anymore.”
I watch her draw, concentration furrowing her brow.
The pride I feel fills my chest.
We’re walking back from the sunroom with Anya’s hand in mine, her steps matching mine in the way she’s started doing lately, syncing her rhythm to mine. That’s when I hear him.
He rounds the corner.
White shirt. Dark trousers. Sleeves rolled. His hair is pushed back. He looks like he’s been working, or fighting, or doing whatever it is that makes the muscles in his neck taut and the veins in his forearms visible and?—
Stop. Ellie. Stop.
“Papa!”
Anya releases my hand and moves toward him with a speed that catches me off guard. She doesn’t run but walks fast, faster than I’ve seen her move, and when she reaches him, she wraps her arms around his legs.
He immediately drops to one knee and wraps his arms around her. She disappears into him, small against large, her dark hair against his white shirt, Mr. Whiskers crushed between them.
Next to her, he looks even bigger than usual. The scale is almost absurd. His hand spans her entire back, and his arms could wrap around her twice.
He holds her. His eyes close for a fraction of a second.
When his eyes open and find mine over Anya’s head, the unguarded expression vanishes.
“Good afternoon, Miss Calloway.”
That’s it. That’s what he says. As if the last time we were in the same room, his fingers weren’t inside me.
I want to scream. I want to grab him by his perfectly rolled sleeves and shake him and say,You made me beg on a kitchen counter two days ago, and you’re going with GOOD AFTERNOON?
“Good afternoon, Mr. Belov,” I reply instead.
He turns his attention back to Anya.
“Malyshka. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”
“What kind of dinner?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want?” She challenges him.
“Within reason,” he answers with a sincere and innocent smile that makes my heart skip a beat.
