Chapter 7 - Maksim #2
She leads me through the house to the kitchen, where she starts opening cabinets and examining the contents like she’s planning a military campaign.
“What sounds good?” she asks as she pulls ingredients from the refrigerator. “Eggs? Pasta? I found some amazing-looking steaks, but those might be overkill for a late-night snack.”
“Surprise me.”
What she surprises me with is the best omelet I’ve ever eaten, filled with herbs from the garden and cheese that probably has more flavor complexity than most restaurants achieve.
But it’s not the food that captures my attention; it’s watching her cook, the way she moves, and the little humming sounds she makes when she’s concentrating.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask before I take another bite.
“Necessity. When you’re living on your own from eighteen, you either learn to cook or survive on ramen and takeout forever.”
“Most people choose ramen and takeout,” I point out.
“Most people don’t have parents who spent the grocery money at poker tables.” She says it matter-of-factly, like it’s just another piece of her history rather than evidence of the neglect she survived. “I got good at making a lot out of a little.”
“Tell me about college,” I prompt, wanting to steer the conversation toward happier territory. “What did you study?”
“Business, with a focus on marketing. Not the most creative choice, but practical.” She refills my coffee cup, playing the perfect hostess in my kitchen. “I wanted something that would guarantee steady employment and the ability to support myself.”
“Smart.”
“Safe,” she corrects.
“What would you have chosen if safety weren’t a factor?”
She considers the question while cleaning up, and when she finds the answer, she clicks her tongue. “Photography, maybe. Or marine biology. Something that would let me travel, see the world, and explore places most people never get to experience.”
“What’s stopping you from doing that now?”
“Besides the psycho ex-boyfriend and complete lack of financial resources?” she asks with a chuckle. “Nothing at all.”
The laugh does something to me, makes me want to hear it again and again until I’ve memorized every note. How is it possible that this woman, who’s been through hell and back, can still find humor in her situation?
“After this whole thing is resolved,” I hear myself saying, “you could do those things. Travel, explore, pursue whatever interests you.”
“With what money?”
“I could—”
“No.” She cuts me off with a raised hand. “I appreciate all the help, Maksim, but I’m not your charity case.”
“That’s not what I was going to suggest.”
“Okay, enlighten me. What were you going to suggest?”
The question is loaded with implications I’m not sure I’m ready to say aloud. What I mean is that I’m already thinking about her future in terms of our future, which is insane considering I’ve only known her for a few weeks.
“I mean, you’re smart, capable, and clearly good at taking care of yourself when circumstances allow it. Once you’re free from Troy’s harassment, you’ll have options.”
“Maybe.”
She doesn’t sound convinced, and I can’t blame her. From her perspective, she’s broke and hiding from a stalker. Not exactly the ideal launching pad for a new life.
“Tell me about your dreams,” I suggest, because I want to keep her talking so I can learn everything about the woman who’s somehow become the center of my universe.
“Dreams are expensive,” she replies, but there’s a wistful quality to her voice that tells me she has them anyway.
“Humor me.”
She leans against the kitchen counter with a coffee cup cradled between her palms. “I used to want to photograph remote places—the kind of locations most people never see. Underwater caves, mountain peaks, and desert landscapes that exist unchanged for centuries.”
“What changed?”
“Reality. Dreams don’t pay student loans or rent.”
“But you still want those things.”
“Wanting and having are different animals.”
The resignation in her voice makes me want to promise her the world and hand her a camera and a plane ticket and tell her to chase every dream she’s ever shelved for the sake of practicality. The intensity of that desire should terrify me, but instead it feels right in a way I can’t explain.
My phone vibrates against the counter, and we both stare at it like it’s a venomous snake. The display shows Grigor’s emergency number, which means whatever we dealt with earlier wasn’t as resolved as we thought.
“You have to answer it,” Alyssa says, reading my conflict.
“I don’t want to.”
“But you have to.”
She’s right, and we both know it. Family comes first in the Barkov world, no matter what personal desires get trampled in the process.
I grab the phone, already mentally preparing myself for another night of damage control and crisis management. Whatever this is, it’s going to take me away from Alyssa again, away from the warm domesticity we’ve created in my kitchen.
“This better be important,” I answer.
“It is,” Grigor’s voice comes through tight with tension. “We’ve got a problem.”
Fuck. Here we go again.