It’s a room packed with people she’d usually rail against, elites and career politicians and bankers. Most of their ideas and goals are more than distasteful to her: profit and power, hidden under the language of cultural understanding, bilateral cooperation, global prosperity.
And she does feel that: the distaste, a bit of shaky concern, skittering around the surface of her feelings, about her possible hypocrisy, what itlooks like for her—a fairly fervent democratic socialist—to be here; the shape of feeling like she should be nervous—in this crowd, around these people, with this man.
But instead, she feels remarkably steady: able to hold her own beliefs; able to stand on her own two feet, stand beside him, in his world, for an evening, with some understanding of the priorities he balances, his perspective that’s different from hers but not—she realizes—irreducibly incompatible; and more than that—the idea that perhaps compatibility isn’t a measure of overlap, but rather, intention.
It doesn’t feel like compromise, like bending her morals or convictions, to feel this way, to think this way. It feels like understanding.
Sudden, within the surprising calm of that realization, she feels the sharp spark of discontent, heart jumping into her throat: how much this must mean to her—how muchhe’sbeginning to mean to her—for her to feel like this, for her to want to do this.
But before the thought twists into something ugly, she takes his hand.
“Yes.” She nods, smiling. “I can handle some socializing.”
It’s not the usual New York gala crowd of too-rich men and brittle wives, habits of sailing and bourbon, cologne and cashmere, ivy and red brick. Instead, the gala is full of Chinese and American diplomats, politicians from D.C. and Beijing, bankers who move between the Treasury and Wall Street; translators and aides mediate interactions at shoulders with the low murmur of languages; subdued suits, qipao, familiar handshakes, service stripes on sleeves; translucent earpieces, coiled wires slipping into collars, posture that speaks of hired security; power that gleams low and dark, rather than the flash of wealth.
Surprisingly, people do not glance over her like she expected, as if she’s an accessory to appraise, the usual optics of a younger girl with an older man. Rather, she’s evaluated like a person to measure: What does she mean, why is she with him? Sheltered by his name and presence, but more than that—it’s clear, from the way he orients himself around her, that he expects regard to be shown to her.
Yes, it’s not her world, but beside Aleksandr—with his hand resting at the small of her back or holding hers—subtle but protective, a sense of claiming her, proudly and openly—there is a stutter of growth forher. Because it’s difficult to see that, and stay; to receive, and not run away. But she pushes away at that unease lurking, the breath she feels like she’s holding.
Once, Lili squeezes his hand, in between conversations with others.
Aleksandr looks down at her, curious.
Are you alright?
She nods, slight. An attempt to convey something wordless, an uncertain, vulnerable radiance she’s trying to swallow.
Breathe, Lili, she thinks.
Breathe.
“So, a neurosurgeon,” Lili teases, while they wait for the car.
It’s late, close to midnight. Aleksandr’s suit jacket rests around her shoulders, the lining soft against her bare skin. Light summer rain lingers, the wash of tires over wet pavement. A few feet away, Andrew and Michael laugh, speaking to colleagues waiting for their cars. A hazy happiness drifts through her: tired but relaxed.
Aleksandr frowns, looking down at her. “A neurosurgeon?”
“The woman you were seeing,” she prompts.
“Ah. Gossiping with Michael?”
“More like sparring, I think.”
“Good to know battle lines are still drawn,” he says. “The day you and Michael join forces will be my downfall.”
Lili smirks, knocking her shoulder against his arm. “Right, so—a neurosurgeon. Impressive.”
Aleksandr raises an eyebrow. “I don’t quite think I can claim her accomplishments as my own.”
She rolls her eyes. “What was her name?”
“Nathalie.”
“Nathalie,” she repeats. The name is French, light, a thin, serene sound. “It didn’t work out?”
“Evidently,” he remarks, a humorous smile as he looks at her, wearing his suit jacket.
“Why not?” It’s not jealousy, but rather curiosity that makes her ask.
