Page 119 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

"Thanks, Ekaterina." Nick pours himself coffee and leans against the counter, still looking tense. "Any word from Alex?"

"Not yet," I say. "He left around three this morning. Didn't say where he was going."

Nick's jaw tightens, but he doesn't comment. He's been disappearing at odd hours for the past week, working on the Zach situation. None of us ask for details, respecting his wishes.

The contrast between this domestic morning scene and the reality of what we actually do is jarring. My mother making breakfast, Marla eating blini at the counter, Nick drinking coffee in his business clothes while coordinating shipments and planning God knows what else. This is our life now. Family and violence, breakfast and bloodshed, all tangled together in ways that should feel wrong but somehow don't.

The front door opens and closes, and a moment later Alex walks into the kitchen. He looks exhausted, his brown hair disheveled and his clothes rumpled like he's been up all night. There's a tension in his shoulders that tells me whatever he was doing, it wasn't pleasant.

"Coffee," he says by way of greeting, heading straight for the pot.

"There's food," my mother offers.

"Not hungry." Alex pours coffee into a mug and leans against the counter beside Nick. His brown eyes find Marla, and something in his expression softens. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Marla says. "Your mother is trying to feed me enough for an army."

"Good," Alex says. "You need to eat more."

"See?" My mother gestures at Alex triumphantly. "Even he agrees with me."

Marla rolls her eyes but takes another bite of blini. I watch the four of us standing in this kitchen, this strange family we've built. My mother stands and starts clearing plates, moving around the kitchen like someone who's already claimed the space as her own. She's humming under her breath, some old Russian song I remember from childhood.

"I'll need to see the nursery room today," she says, rinsing dishes in the sink. "And we should discuss paint colors. Nothing too bright. Babies need calm environments."

"Ma, we have time," I say. "The baby isn't due for three more months. Plus, we already painted it a nice yellow so it will be perfect no matter if it's a boy or girl."

"Three months goes faster than you think," she replies. "And there's a lot to prepare. Furniture takes weeks to arrive, and you'll need time to assemble everything."

Nick and Alex exchange a look over their coffee mugs. I can tell they're both amused by my mother's takeover of the household, though neither of them would dare say it out loud.

Marla finishes her breakfast and stands, stretching slightly. Her hand moves to her lower back, and I'm on my feet immediately, steadying her.

"I'm fine," she says, but she doesn't pull away from my touch. "Just stiff from sitting."

"You should rest more," my mother says without turning from the sink.

"I rest plenty," Marla argues.

"Not enough."

I catch Marla's eye and mouth "pointless" at her. She bites back a smile.

My mother dries her hands on a towel and turns to face us, her expression thoughtful as she studies the four of us standing around the kitchen. Nick and Alex with their coffee, me with my arm around Marla's waist, and all of us looking like we belong together.

She pours herself a cup of coffee and leans against the counter, her dark eyes moving between us with that calculating look she gets when she's thinking about something important.

"I have a question," she says casually, taking a sip of her coffee.

"What's that, Ma?" I ask.

She sets down her mug and looks directly at Marla, then at me, then at Nick and Alex. Her expression is completely neutral, but I know my mother well enough to recognize when she's about to drop a bomb.

"Which one of you plans to marry Marla first?"

50

MARLA