Thirteen
“Your body is not who you are. The mind and spirit transcend the body.”
~Christopher Reeve
“This shirt is plaid.”
Nadia peeked out from the bathroom, a towel twisted on top of her head like a turban. Her body an absolute distraction. “Yes.”
“I don’t own plaid.”
“Now, you do.”
He frowned and rummaged through the bags. “Why are all these pants so narrow?”
“That’s the style in Europe.”
“Wonderful,” he mumbled. “Did you get any ties?”
“I bought you some sálak—scarves.”
“Scarves?” While James Bond could pull off an ascot, he could not.
Pulling out one of the many scarves, he frowned. There were a lot of patterns happening here. “How am I supposed to know what goes with what?” Everything clashed.
She stepped out of the bathroom, ripping his attention from the clothes in his hands to the damp towel swathed tightly around her body. “You are being fussy, Elliot. It will not kill you to try something new. Here.”
She took the plaid shirt out of his hand and bent to dig in the bag of pants. Her tapered thighs peeked out beneath the terrycloth as she rummaged and he swallowed.
Rising, she turned and held out a handful of denim “Wear these.”
“Jeans?”
“Yes. Jeans.”
His nose crinkled at the sight of all that denim. “I’ll look like a cowboy.”
She snorted. “Trust me, you won’t. Get dressed. I promised my nagymama I’d be home for lunch.” She returned to the bathroom and he sighed.
I should sue the airport for losing my luggage.
Sliding into the stiff pants that left little breathing room, he grimaced. The shirt didn’t help matters and the pattern made him dizzy. “I look like a reject from a Gap commercial.”
Nadia tsked and approached. She’d dressed and he considered how unfair it was that she would look good in anything. “You are supposed to cuff the sleeves. Stop frowning. This is very in style right now.”
She fussed with his clothing and then ran her fingers through his hair, sifted the strands out of order and destroying his part.
“I just combed—”
Her lips pressed to his, silencing him. His lashes lowered and he caught her waist, his body responding instantly to her nearness. She slowly pulled away.
“You were saying?”
What had he been saying? “I forget.”
“You look very handsome, mister. Let’s go.”
When they returned to érd the house was full of unexpected guests. Apparently, in Nadia’s culture when a person was on their deathbed, the family hosts a sort of living wake before the relative passed. Food was spread out on every open surface and numerous people mingled around the small home.
His ears had adjusted to the sound of Hungarian, but his brain was still frustratingly slow at picking up the language.
Though he could decipher short sentences, whenever anyone spoke more than a few words at a time he was lost. So many strange names and unfamiliar faces, he found it best to sit in the parlor and simply watch.
Nadia stayed by her aunt’s bedside, only coming out to refill the pitcher of water or check on him. He’d assure her he was fine and she’d smile, the other guests learning to ignore the strange American in the corner.
As he observed, he noted many qualities of Hungarian people.
They were, overall, a serene bunch, relaxed and laid back.
One woman even tried to help him with some common phrases, which he appreciated.
He could see where much of Nadia’s generosity stemmed from and thought it a shame that so many years had passed between now and her last visit.
As the sun set, the crowd thinned. He’d lost track of what day it was, realizing he’d probably recover from feeling jetlagged just in time to get home and back on American time. But it was worth it.
Thinking the last of the visitors had left, he gathered some dishes from the parlor and carried them to the kitchen where Nadia’s grandmother and mother tidied up.
“Elliot, akkor nem kell tisztítani,” her grandmother said, taking the dishes out of his hand and tsking. He sensed he was being yelled at so he went to find Nadia.
She wasn’t in her aunt’s room or any of the other rooms he passed. Returning to the kitchen, he asked, “Hol van Nadia?”
“Garázs,” her mother said, pointing out the window to the shed in the back. That was where they kept the spare freezer and much of the folding tables he’d helped bring inside that morning.
Traveling through the house, he let himself out the front door and followed the broken path to the backyard. His nose twitched at the familiar and irritating scent of aftershave. Frowning, he stepped softly onto the crabgrass and stilled at Roland’s deep voice.
The man spoke quickly, his tone level, but not necessarily kind. When Nadia spoke, her voice sounded harried and almost waspish, causing Elliot to take a quick pace forward.
She stacked folding chairs against the wall. Elliot scowled at the way Roland towered over her, not offering a single hand to help her move the items. Roland’s face was set in disapproval as he rattled off too many Hungarian words for Elliot to decipher.
He grit his teeth, recognizing a phrase about America and definitely something about family and marriage. This guy needed to back off.
Nadia turned, not noticing his presence at the door. Her glare hardened on the other man and her shoulders stiffened. “Elég! When will you get it? This is not my home and I am not yours.”
The man scoffed. “Because of your American boyfriend? You come here, with your fancy English. I speak English, too. I hear him asking you all his silly questions. The man does not have a clue about our culture.” He crept closer. “You need a real man, Nadia.”
As his hand closed around her upper arm, an indignant rage took hold of Elliot and he growled, “Don’t touch her.”
The moment the words left his mouth, bearing more threat than he could uphold, he regretted speaking.
Fear snaked through him, snapping with knee jerk regret and worry for his safety.
It was a response he hadn’t suffered since high school, but so ingrained in him, so familiar and beaten into his memory that his insides recoiled and he had to swallow back the bile rising in his throat.
He tried to soften his tone without sounding like a total pussy. “She…” His words withered and Nadia yanked her arm out of the other man’s grip.
Roland glared at him. “You’re not invited here.”
Certain this man could knock him out with one flick of his fat fingers, Elliot panicked but didn’t back down. Gritting his teeth, he stepped into the shed. “I… Nadia asked me to be here.” If his heart beat any faster he’d pass out.
Roland laughed. “This is not America, little man. You are in my home.”
Nadia scoffed and slammed a metal chair against the others. “This isn’t your home.”
Roland squinted at the ceiling, his gaze traveling through the shed door as he craned his neck. “It is if I pay for it.”
Elliot didn’t know the extent to which this man helped her family and didn’t want to damage any agreement that benefited them, but he would not stand by and let him harass his girlfriend. He knew a bully when he saw one.
Elliot held a hand out to Nadia and she took it. Pulling her out of the shed and a safe distance from Roland, he met the man’s stare and swallowed back his fear. “Touch her again and you and I are going to have a problem.”
Roland’s harsh laugh mocked him. “I’d like to see you try to give me a problem.”
Burying his anxiety, he edged her toward the yard. “Come on, Nadia. We can deal with this later.”
Without sparing the man a second glance, they returned to the house and he fought the urge to puke. Once they were inside, he turned to her. “I’ll be right back.”
“Are you okay? I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“I’m fine,” he lied. “Excuse me.”
By the time he made it to the hall, he was trembling with adrenaline.
Locking himself in the bathroom, he turned on the faucet and gripped the lip of the narrow sink, catching his breath.
His pulse was wild and his neck was sweating.
Glancing over the frames of his glasses, he looked at his reflection. He was white as a sheet.
“Fuck,” he breathed, shutting his eyes, trying to steady his breathing.
Dragging a hand down his face, he pulled off his glasses and collected himself. He wouldn’t survive another run-in with a man like that. He could be many things, but he was not a fighter. Bullies terrified him for good reason.
Closing his eyes he suffered through countless recollections of run-ins with people similar to Roland. He could smell a bully’s stink from a hundred miles away. And though the bruises always healed, the scars under the surface never seemed to fade.
“You’re safe,” he whispered, the words hardly carrying a sound as he forced out a breath. “You’re a grown man. You’re successful. You’re in charge of your life.” His heart rate gradually slowed.
Shutting off the faucet, he dried his hands, took a galvanizing breath, and opened the door, taken aback by the sight of Nadia waiting for him in the hall.
Her brow pinched as her eyes showed regret. “Are you okay?”
His gaze darted away from hers. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to involve yourself with him. I can handle Roland.”
Was she insinuating he couldn’t handle the asshole? She was right, but he didn’t want her making such assumptions. “He shouldn’t put his hands on you.”
The other man’s entitlement made him livid, but aside from empty threats, there was little he could do to stop him.
“He means nothing, Elliot. I just ignore him.” Despite her blasé attitude, he could tell the other man had upset her.
“He shouldn’t bother you anymore,” he offered lamely, almost laughing at himself for sounding so arrogant and equally ignorant. They both knew Elliot’s threat hadn’t intimidated Roland one bit, but he wanted to pretend it had. God, he was such a pussy.
Her head tipped as she studied him for a moment, a peculiar curve to her lips. “Do you want to get out of here for a while?”
Yes, he wanted to get as far away from there as possible. “Sure.”