Chapter 11
VALENTINA
The day my babysitter moved in, I seriously considered packing my bags and leaving him the apartment.
His name was Aleksander.
He told me to call him Sasha.
I told him to get out.
He didn’t. I was stuck with him. It was like he’d moved in with the sole purpose of reminding me how much I didn’t want a roommate.
There were man things everywhere. Beard hairs scattered around my sink like tiny black confetti, boot scuffs all over the floors I’d just cleaned, and a ridiculous mountain of protein-powder containers stacked on top of my fridge. Who needed that much protein? How big did one person need to be?
And he had opinions—too many of them. About everything.
My brand of coffee, even the rom-coms I left running in the background because the silence was too loud.
Every morning was a passive-aggressive debate about something ridiculous, like whether almond milk belonged in coffee or if cereal qualified as an actual dinner.
(It did, by the way, and his judgmental eyebrows could go straight to hell.)
I swear he existed just to drive me insane.
The worst part, though, was how annoyingly polite he was while invading my privacy.
He’d knock before entering a room but would come in anyway before I’d even said, “Stay out.” He cooked meals he claimed were healthy, forcing me to choke down kale salads and grilled chicken when all I wanted was macaroni.
I hated it. Hated him. Hated Max for thinking I needed this. I’d spent so long convincing myself independence was better, safer, less disappointing, and here was Sasha, casually taking every ounce of freedom I had left, one container of protein powder at a time.
I considered leaving at least once a day. Fantasized about throwing his clothes off the fire escape, maybe flushing his stash of supplements down the toilet.
I was over it, but apparently, that didn’t matter. I’d barely survived the first night, and now I was waking up to the blender roaring in my kitchen like it was trying to launch itself into space.
“What the actual hell?” I yelled as I stumbled from the bed half-asleep, hair sticking out in every direction. It was way too early for whatever nonsense was happening out there.
In the middle of my kitchen stood Sasha, bright-eyed, smiling, and transferring something green and suspiciously sludgy from the blender into a cup. He looked way too pleased with himself, like he’d accomplished something remarkable in waking me up at this ungodly hour.
“Good morning!” he chirped with zero awareness.
I narrowed my eyes, moving closer to inspect the crime scene. “What is that?”
“It’s breakfast in a cup,” he said proudly, holding the glass between us like a peace offering.
I stared at the liquid, barely disguising my horror. “It’s . . . green.”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Kale, spinach, protein powder, some chia seeds—”
I held up my hand to stop him. “Please don’t say chia seeds to me before noon.”
His smile faltered, but only a bit. “It’s good for you.”
“So is sleep, Sasha,” I shot back. “You should try it sometime. Preferably right now, so I can actually enjoy my morning.”
He ignored that, pushing the glass closer, practically waving it under my nose. “Just try it. You’ll love it.”
I looked him dead in the eye. “I can assure you, I won’t.”
“Just a sip?” he pleaded, giving me that look—the puppy-dog eyes I was pretty sure he reserved for getting his way. “Come on. What’s the worst that could happen?”
I stared at the cup again, then back at Sasha, who still looked disturbingly cheerful for someone who’d been awake before sunrise. “The worst?” I repeated, arching a brow. “Death by liquified vegetables.”
His smile widened. “Trust me, you’ll feel amazing afterward.”
I sighed dramatically, taking the cup from his hands and sniffing at it cautiously. It smelled exactly as awful as it looked. “This is a war crime,” I muttered under my breath before taking the smallest sip possible.
Instant regret flooded my taste buds.
“Oh my god. It tastes like punishment.”
Sasha laughed. “It grows on you.”
“I’m not looking for a fungus, Sasha,” I said as I handed the cup back. “Keep your breakfast to yourself. I’ll stick to coffee and carbs, thanks.”
He shook his head as if he pitied me and returned to blending the rest of his green concoction. I watched him for a moment, annoyed, sleepy, and contemplating how my life had spiraled to this tragic point: forced to drink kale smoothies at dawn by an overly enthusiastic giant named Sasha.
My mother didn’t raise me for this.
“Get ready for a run.”
“A run?” I repeated. “At eight in the morning?”
“Yes.”
I glanced back at the smoothie with disgust, made a face, then stared up at him. “You’re serious? You look serious.”
“I’m very serious.”
Ten minutes later, I found myself standing miserably on the sidewalk, glaring at Sasha. The smoothie was a terrible idea. Who on earth thought drinking liquid vegetables was smart before going for a run?
Apparently, my babysitter-slash-drill sergeant.
Also, I didn’t do this. I didn’t run. Ever.
I’d never run for anything in my life—not even to catch the subway—and I certainly didn’t plan on starting now, especially not at rock bottom.
What, was cardio supposed to cure alcoholism?
If anything, it made me desperately crave a cigarette and cheap wine.
Annoyed, I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my hoodie. “This is ridiculous.”
“You don’t have to be so dramatic, Valentina. This can be good for you if you let it.”
If I let it?
“You’re forcing me to run,” I shot back, annoyed. “I think I’m entitled to some drama.”
He sighed like he was dealing with a child throwing a tantrum. “I’m helping, not forcing. There’s a difference.”
“Helping me die faster, maybe,” I muttered bitterly.
“Start,” he ordered, gesturing firmly down the sidewalk before jogging away.
Dragging my feet and mentally cursing every step, I followed reluctantly. We’d barely made it two miserable blocks before my side cramped sharp enough to make me clutch at it dramatically.
“I can’t breathe!” I shouted.
“It’s because you smoke too many cigarettes!” Sasha yelled back.
Did I though? It wasn’t like I could afford them anymore. Plus, I was pretty sure it was just my lungs rejecting this unnatural punishment.
When we reached the next corner, I leaned heavily against a lamppost, panting. “Sasha, this is awful. I want to go home.”
He stopped and turned around, not even out of breath. Of course he wasn’t. “You’ve barely moved.”
“Exactly,” I wheezed. “And look where I am now—dying, in public. Running is not my thing. My body literally rejects it. I’m tired.”
“You’re not tired,” he replied flatly, approaching me slowly. “You’re lazy.”
I straightened up, genuinely shocked by the audacity. “Excuse me?”
“You have plenty of energy,” he insisted, folding his arms like some disappointed coach. “You just don’t like using it.”
“I prefer to reserve my energy for things I don’t despise.”
“And you despise running?”
“Yes,” I replied instantly. “Almost as much as I despise you right now.”
He watched me calmly, clearly waiting for me to give up my theatrics and get moving again. But I wasn’t going to play along with his little boot-camp fantasy. If he thought he could whip me into shape with kale smoothies and sunrise jogs, he was mistaken.
Instead of running, I stood there plotting. I was going to make him regret ever dragging me out of bed.
Because if I had to suffer through this, so would he.