Page 55 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

"You're pushing food around your plate." She turns from the stove, wooden spoon in hand, and fixes me with that look. The one that says she knows I'm full of shit. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Rustik." She uses my full name, which means she's not playing around. "I've known you since the day you were born. Don't insult my intelligence."

I take a bite of blini just to appease her, but she's right. I can't taste it. My mind is somewhere else entirely. On a cottage in the woods and a woman with flame-red hair.

My mother sits down across from me, setting her teacup on the worn wooden table. She's wearing a simple gray dress with a cardigan over it, practical and comfortable. The kitchen smells like butter and honey and the faint scent of her lavender soap.

"Is it a woman?" she asks.

I nearly choke on my tea. "What?"

"You heard me." She leans back in her chair, studying me with those sharp black eyes. "You've been distracted. You barely call. When you visit, you're somewhere else in your head. So I'm asking, is it a woman?"

"Ma, I don't have time for this."

"You're thirty-eight years old, Rustik. You should be thinking about settling down, finding a good woman, and starting a family." She waves her hand at the empty kitchen around us. "I'm not getting any younger. I'd like to meet my grandchildren before I die."

"You're not dying."

"Everyone dies eventually." She takes a sip of her tea, completely unbothered by the morbid turn of conversation. "And you're not getting any younger either. The older you get, the harder it becomes to find someone suitable."

I set down my fork, my appetite completely gone now. "I'm fine the way I am."

"Fine is what you say when you've given up. When you've decided being alone is easier than taking a risk."

"I'm not alone. I have you. I have the family." We both know I'm talking about the business family and not our immediate family.

"Your organization." She shakes her head, and I can see the disappointment in her expression. "That's not the same as having a partner. Someone who knows you and who you can trust with more than just business."

The irony isn't lost on me. I'm currently sharing a woman with two other men, and the situation is so complicated I don't even know how to begin explaining it. Not that I would. My mother doesn't need to know the details of my personal life, especially when those details involve the kind of arrangement that would give her a heart attack.

"I'm working on it," I say, which isn't exactly a lie.

Her eyes light up immediately. "You are seeing someone."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. I can see it on your face." She reaches across the table and pats my hand, her touch warm and familiar. "Tell me about her. What's her name? What does she do?"

"Ma, it's complicated."

"Love is always complicated." She sits back, looking pleased with herself. "But that's what makes it worth it. The complications mean you care. If it was easy, it wouldn't mean anything."

I think about Marla and the way she looked at me when I showed up at her cottage with Alex and Nick. About the fear in her eyes when she realized what we really are. And then the way she responded to all three of us despite that fear. Complicated doesn't even begin to cover it.

"She's a writer," I hear myself say. "Lives out in the woods and keeps to herself mostly."

My mother's expression softens. "She sounds lovely. When do I get to meet her?"

"It's not like that. We're just figuring things out."

"Figuring things out." She repeats my words back to me, and I can hear the skepticism. "That's what men say when they're afraid of commitment."

"I'm not afraid of commitment."

"Then what are you afraid of?"