23. Paige
Paige
We drive for most of the night before turning into a crowded rest stop to sleep for a few hours. When I ask, Vanya explains we’re just circling the city—not leaving, not really, but not stopping until he’s certain we’re not being followed.
While I understand, I’m so tired of being in the car. By the time we finally exit the highway and cruise into a rural but residential area midmorning, my legs have gone numb from sitting still.
The second house Vanya brings me to is an old ranch-style home with shutters painted a spruce green to match the tiny porch.
They stand out against the pale brown vinyl siding.
I sense that the roof, currently smothered in pine needles, has seen better decades.
Mature trees spread out behind the house in every direction.
Vanya parks in the short gravel driveway.
The air smells like pine and rotting leaves, and my stomach twists with anxiety as I climb out of the car. We’re going to spend the next few days together here?
Maybe once we get inside, we can enjoy a little catnap.
Unfortunately, Vanya doesn’t head for the front door. Instead, he walks around the side of the house.
Trust him to blow all my plans to smithereens without a word.
Even though I’d prefer to sleep for several hours, I follow him because what else am I supposed to do?
The backyard’s a stretch of overgrown grass that gives way to dense forest. Off to the left, one particular sight ices my blood.
A shooting range.
It’s basic, barely more than a plywood table nailed to sawhorses. Targets are rough rectangles of wood nailed to trees, starting at ten yards out and going to what looks like a hundred. They’re backed by a natural hill that rises up deeper into the woods.
My feet stop all on their own. Then I rush to catch up with Vanya, like he might protect me from my memories rather than bringing them to the surface full force.
Vanya halts at the table and faces me. “Come here. I want to show you this.” His hand disappears into his jacket before pulling out the gun from the glove box.
I rear back, my palms sweaty as he shows me the weapon.
Black barrel on black grip. Nothing flashy or showy. Just lethal, like a black hole.
“I’ve seen it before.” I train my eyes on the weapon. Is he making some kind of point about me reaching for it before? Or is this a punishment?
“This is a Makarov. Also known as a Makarov PM, or just PM, which is short for Pistolet Makarova.” He flips his hand, and I struggle not to swallow my tongue at the sight of him holding the barrel.
“Take it by the grip. Keep your finger out of the trigger guard. Safety’s on.
” He continues to ramble about the safety and the rounds…
I’m not really listening.
My hand moves before my brain catches up.
The gun is heavier and colder than I ever imagined, the grip textured against my palm. How I’d expect a hand grenade to feel.
My skin crawls at the thought. I close my fingers around the Makarov, my entire arm trembling.
Though I’ve heard plenty of gunfire, I’ve never actually touched a gun. Never even seen one up close before meeting Vanya.
In movies and books, they never mention that it feels like clutching a bomb that might explode at any moment.
My heart thuds in my ears, drowning out whatever Vanya’s saying. The weapon sits in numb fingers, weighing me down.
I’m afraid if I move, it’ll eat me alive.
The scrape of wood-on-wood jerks my attention back to Vanya, who pulls a paper target from a wooden box beside the table and heads toward the trees.
Once finished securing the target, he gestures to the gun. “You need to know how to protect yourself, especially if you plan to use a gun when we’re in trouble. But safety comes first. I want you to be comfortable handling a weapon.”
I’d love to shove this grenade back at him and refuse. Argue that my life would be better if I never had to think about a gun ever again. But my mouth won’t form the words.
Pop. Pop-pop-pop.
The memory causes me to flinch and drop the PM on the makeshift table.
“It’s okay.” Vanya comes up behind me, his voice low and reassuring, almost as if he’s reading my mind and knows how terrified I am of guns.
He places one hand on my shoulder, the other guiding my fingers back to the weapon.
“Use both hands. Exhale slowly. Aim downrange. Never point a gun at anything you don’t want to destroy.
Even if you don’t plan to touch the trigger.
” His breath tickles my ear. “That includes your feet and most especially me.”
The metal sits heavy in my hands as I contract my fingers.
In front of me, the trees blur.
My pulse beats so intensely, I can feel the throb in my tongue.
That may be why I can’t talk. My heart is in my mouth, blocking my words.
Vanya’s grip tightens on my shoulder. “Now squeeze the trigger.”
I do.
The gun kicks back with a force that jars through my wrists, my elbows, and my chest. The flat, vicious crack tears through the quiet woods. Only Vanya’s hand on mine prevents the weapon from flying back to hit me.
Because right now, I’m in the past.
In the dark. In the rain. With gunshots ripping apart the night.
Pop. Pop-pop-pop.
The gun clatters to the table. My knees buckle, and I catch myself on the edge of the plywood, the rough border biting into my palms.
I can’t stop shaking.
“Paige. Hey, look at me.” Vanya pulls me away from the table by the shoulders.
I see him, but his voice penetrates through layers of cloth. My vision mists, my chest tight and aching.
Are my lungs even working?
“Now you know what the kickback is like, just like I warned you. This time, relax your elbow. When you pull the trigger, I want you to squeeze it, nice and slow, instead—”
“I can’t.” I take several steps back, forcing Vanya to move behind me. “I can’t do it again.” My voice trembles.
Vanya’s palms slide down my arms. “Paige.”
I spin, pressing my face against his chest. Solid. Warm. Real.
Safe.
“Talk to me.” His voice almost vanishes beneath the echo in my head.
Pop. Pop-pop-pop.
After a long, deep breath, I tell him everything.
I’ve never disclosed this to anyone, not even the cops back then. But I can’t keep pretending the rules I built my life around were anything but a cage I locked myself into fifteen years ago.
“It was on Isla de Huesos.” He tenses beneath me, but I don’t stop.
“I was fourteen…almost fifteen. There was a local boy. We just bumped into each other. He had a leather jacket, motorcycle, all the things good girls aren’t supposed to want.
He was so hot. And my longing for him felt like drowning.
I never even got his name.” I suck in a shuddering breath.
“He said if I wasn’t a coward, I’d steal some booze and meet him in the trees. ”
Vanya doesn’t even tease me for being so foolish. He just cradles me, letting me inhale the scent of him through his clothes as his hand rests on my spine.
“So, I stole rum from the bar and snuck out to meet him. We drank it straight from the bottle, and I thought I was so freaking cool.”
He offers me that smile he wears when he’s unsure.
The laugh that escapes me comes out as more of a sob. “We were making out when the shooting started. Like firecrackers but worse.”
The memory is so vivid, I can taste the rum on my lips. Feel the rain soaking into my shirt.
No.
That’s Vanya’s hand rubbing my back.
I’m not there. I’m here in the chilly woods.
Not on that hot, humid, stormy island.
“Before I even figured out what the sound was, he fled. Didn’t say anything. Just bolted. He made it three or four paces. The gunshots started again.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “He jerked. Then fell. No sound. No scream. And there was so much blood. The rain couldn’t even rinse it all away.”
Vanya’s arms tighten around me. “Paige, I’m so fucking sorry. You don’t have to—”
I can’t stop. “I ran then too. There were bodies everywhere. People yelling. Fires. I didn’t understand what was happening. I just knew I needed to find my parents.” Tears stream down my cheeks.
He kisses the top of my head and mumbles in Russian. I’ve no idea what he’s saying, but he keeps his voice gentle. Calming. Akin to the soothing nonsense you’d use with a frightened child.
I’ve never considered Russian to be a particularly beautiful language, but now…
“Then I found my mom…on the ground. My dad said she went outside to look for me. She died trying to find me.” The horror of that memory is all mixed up with my father’s blurred and confused explanation.
To this day, even with my photographic memory, I can’t remember exactly what happened after I stumbled on mom’s body.
Vanya lowers us both to the grass, keeping me upright in his embrace while I sob into his chest.
“It was my fault. All of it. If I’d just stayed in my room. If I’d been good. If I hadn’t wanted…” So many ifs.
He hums softly, his lips against my hair. “That’s when you started making rules.”
I cough, struggling to slow my tears. “I created rules that made sense to me. And I followed them. Then I came up with more. And more, to stop myself from doing stupid things that get people killed.”
“That’s not the way things work, Beautiful.” His face presses against the top of my head as I nod.
“I know. I know it’s PTSD. And I’ve tried to overcome it. But whenever I hear a gunshot…” A squeak follows as more pops echo in my head.
He rocks me while his hand glides down my back in soothing strokes. “I know about PTSD, Paige. I understand what triggers do.”
I don’t think we’re talking about the same triggers. A man as solid and unshakeable as Vanya could never comprehend what I’m going through.
“There are ways to reclaim the things that remind you of terrible experiences. Tried and true methods.” His hand hasn’t stopped petting my back. “Ways to associate a trigger with something new. Something that’s yours.”
I wipe my face with my knuckles. “How?”
“In your case, you fire the gun.” He flexes his arms, stopping me from shaking my head.
My muscles continue to quake. “Your line of thinking is logical, but I won’t be able to do it. What makes you even think I can?”
“Because.” His mouth curves into that dangerous smile. Mountain lion eyes glitter like he’s just narrowed in on prey. “Every time you pull the trigger, I remove an article of clothing.”