Chapter 35 #2
“Anything. Ask her about her favorite food. Or childhood memory. Or you could ask what she wants for herself in life.”
I stare back down at the table. My thoughts tumbling over one another again. “Doesn’t it bother you?” I ask, brow pinched. “Faking that you’re interested in these things?”
“We’re helping you learn how to connect. That’s not fake,” Grigory says, leaning forward. “Dating and getting to know people isn’t black and white.”
“That’s not how I am though. I’m not…like you guys in this.” My last words are careful and quiet.
“I know,” Grigory says. “And this isn’t about changing who you are. It’s about getting you to open up a little. And learning about her.”
I release the breath I’m holding. They have my back—and I know it.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe I can do this…
By the time we wrap up, the mood has shifted.
The guys rib me a little less as we progress.
Grigory even nods at me as we finish. “You’re not totally hopeless.
” Which, from him, is as close to a compliment as I’ll get.
“And you don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not.
Don’t change who you are. Just be real. Avelina already sees something in you, right?
So just show her more of that.” The others nod in agreement.
Something thumps wildly in my chest when I hear they don’t want me to change.
Maybe she won’t need me to change either…at least, that’s what I’m desperately hoping.
I don’t know if this will work. I don’t know if I can give her everything she deserves.
But God do I want to try.
And that, for me, is enough to risk this all. To risk falling flat on my face, to be mocked again. To risk it all for her.
Sofia stands in front of me the following morning, clutching a fistful of neon-pink hair bands and sparkly unicorn clips like they’re priceless treasures.
She tilts her head back, her little face shining with hope. “Mama’s sick,” she whispers in a solemn voice like she’s sharing a state secret. “You have to do my hair today.”
My throat goes dry. Me?
I glance toward the den where Avelina is curled up on the couch, pale and wrapped in a blanket. She gives me a weak smile, clearly too exhausted to intervene. She’s probably got the same twenty-four hour bug that Leon just had.
I look back at Sofia. She’s practically vibrating with excitement as she bounces on her tiny toes. “Pigtails,” she declares, holding up the glittering pile of accessories. “Two. With these clips. Please.”
And the word ‘please’ wrecks me.
My neurodivergence and autism mean I don’t do touch well.
And bright colors like these send my stress levels spiraling.
And now I’m supposed to style her hair with those pink monstrosities called hairbands and hair clips?
That thought alone makes my skin crawl and has my pulse rate spiking like an out-of-control roller-coaster.
For God’s sake, why can’t this cute little girl just wear all black?
But I suppress my huge huff of frustration. Because she’s looking at me like I’m a superhero about to swoop in. And I can’t—I won’t—let her down.
“Okay,” I say gruffly, my voice rough. “Let’s…do this.”
Sofia beams and hops onto the chair, handing me a brush that looks like a medieval torture device. I take a steadying breath and focus on what I can control. One step at a time. Brush. Separate. Gather. Tie.
I wince as I work. Because the bright pink bands are blinding, like tiny suns burning holes in my vision. But I grit my teeth and push through. My hands shake, but slowly—painfully slowly—two lopsided pigtails take shape.
Finally, I clip in the sparkly unicorn clips, flinching at their neon glare, my fingers fumbling with the tiny accessories.
“I need more clips,” she announces as she rummages in her pockets and finds more of them, this time in the shape of tiny rainbows.
Rainbows made out of seven bright colors.
Why the heck does anyone need freaking rainbows in their hair?
And what’s wrong with black rainbows? I growl under my breath but do as requested.
“All done,” I mutter finally, stepping back like I’ve defused a bomb.
Sofia hops down and runs to the mirror. Her gasp is pure delight. “I love it!” She spins, her pigtails bouncing wildly. Then she throws her arms around me without warning.
“Thank you, Viktor,” she whispers against my chest.
I freeze, then awkwardly pat her back.
And something warm uncoils in my chest.
My eyes still ache, my hands still tremble…
But when she looks at me like that? Like I’m her hero?
Yeah. It feels totally worth it.
A few days later, just after dinner, I want to ask Avelina to go out for a drink with me. I rub the back of my neck and pace the length of the hallway outside the office. There’s a pit in my stomach like I’m about to jump out of a plane without a fucking parachute.
I’ve been in gunfights and military ops more relaxed than this. The idea of asking her out on a real date is unsettling to say the least. The kind of unsettling that makes my throat scratchy and dry and my brain race ahead to every possible thing I could screw up.
She could say no.
Or I could mess it up.
Or she could leave again—and I’m left off-kilter.
There are too many variables. And I goddamn hate it.
She’s on the porch when I find her, sitting in a rocking chair and looking up at the evening sky. Babulya is keeping an eye on the kids, and she told me not to rush back, giving me a knowing look when I said I wanted to take Avelina somewhere for the next couple of hours.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to pull myself together. I clear my throat.
Avelina turns.
And all the words I’d rehearsed on the way over here die before they can even pass my lips.
She’s stunning. The dress she’s wearing is some flowing material that ends just above her knees, showing off her shapely legs.
Her hair is twisted up into a clip, a few auburn curls slipping free around her face.
She looks like summer and softness rolled into one.
“Hi,” she says.
This is it. This is when I ask her to go for a drink with me.
I can do it. All I have to do is say the words without having a seizure, drive us there without crashing, sip a drink without choking, and make conversation like it’s something I do every day of the week.
So, why the fuck do I feel like a tsunami wave has swept me away from all sanity and is drowning me under its colossal weight?
“Hi,” I croak. I shift from one foot to the other and try to swallow down the lump lodged in my throat. “Do you wanna…um, do you wanna help me in the vegetable garden?” Immediately, I groan inwardly. And I can feel the tips of my ears turning red. Why the fuck did I just say that?
“Sure. That sounds lovely, Viktor.”
Huh, she’s agreeing?
She doesn’t think I’m weird?
She actually wants to spend time with me?
She looks up at me and laughs—a soft thing that curls around my ribs and makes me hard all at once.
I walk over to her, and inhaling sharply, I extend my arm.
She grabs it, and I’m acutely aware of the heat of her fingers through the fabric of my dress shirt. The smart dress shirt I’m wearing because I was supposed to take her out. I shake my head. It’s too late to backtrack—she’d definitely think I was weird then.
We walk down the path in silence, and I rack my brain for something to say. Ask questions. Compliment her. Don’t be a dick!
“You look…” I fumble for a second. Nice doesn’t begin to cover it. “Beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she says as her lips tug up.
But then I can’t think of anything else to say. Silence settles over us again. Fuck, I’m blowing this already.
By the time we reach the garden, the solar lights are on, twinkling above like fireflies in the summer night.
She drops my arm, and we both grab some tools.
We don’t speak for a few minutes as we settle at the same planter box.
The one with the flowers she planted. They’re growing in nicely, if a little over the edge.
I focus on the box beside her and see the beginnings of green beans whose stalks are just starting to sprout.
We work in silence. Dirt under our nails, crickets chirping in the distance, and the occasional rustle of leaves in the warm evening breeze.
Then she hums softly to herself, something light I don’t recognize. It doesn’t clash with the thoughts in my head. It just wraps around them. And it settles me.
“How do you know which ones to weed over there and which ones are the bean stalks?” she asks.
“The weeds are the ones that piss me off.”
She giggles, brushing soil from her hands. “That’s scientific.”
I glance at her sideways. I made a joke. Or she thinks I made one. I’ll take it. “Your daisies are coming in nicely.”
She beams. “They are, aren’t they?” And she gives me a pleased little smile before going back to tending to the flowers.
Time passes like that. Slow and simple. Unhurried. And the tension in my body vanishes almost completely.
“So, after the weeds, what’s on the agenda?” she asks.
“Well, the tomatoes need pruning, and I think some of the squash are getting a little too ripe on the vine.”
“Okay.” She stands, dusting her hands off on her dress, leaving smudges of dirt. Other girls might hate getting their pretty dresses dirty, but Avelina doesn’t care. She’s down to earth, natural, genuine.
We walk toward the planters with the tomatoes. “Grab those.” I indicate the pruning secateurs. She does, and I carefully lift the baby tomatoes, exposing the stalk a little. “Clip those brown leaves.”
She looks a little unsure, as if she’s afraid she might cut it in the wrong way. “Are you sure you want me to do this? I might mess it up.”
I nod. “Yeah. Here, I’ll show you.” Gently I take her hand and position the secateurs, letting her squeeze.
“So, that’s all we do? Take the brown leaves off?”
I nod. “More or less. Here, this stem too.”
We work in tandem, her arm brushing mine. The smell of her vanilla perfume fogs my head.
“This is fun,” she says.
I nod. “It is. You’re a natural at this.”
She turns back to the pruning. “What got you into gardening, Viktor?”
“I…read about how it can be calming. And it just took off from there. I needed something away from the noise of the house.”
“What happens to all the stuff you grow that you don’t eat?”
“We donate it to various shelters.”
“That’s really sweet of you.”
And the conversation just flows from there.
“Are these ripe enough to pick?” she asks, looking up at me.
“Yeah.”
She snaps a sugar pea in half before laughing in surprise as sap sprays onto her cheek.
I brush it away with my thumb.
She snaps another, and I startle as the sap lands on my face this time, her laughter filling the space between us. “Oh my goodness,” she giggles. “You look like someone insulted your favorite shirt or something.”
I wipe my face. And I…smile. A real, genuine smile. My face feels tight with it, but it’s there.
When the sky turns dusky, I stretch and roll my shoulders as she munches on some sugar peas. “Thank you,” I murmur.
She tucks a loose curl behind her ear. “For what?”
“Helping me with this.”
“You could’ve managed without me, Viktor. There’s no need to thank me.”
I shake my head. “What I mean is that…it was nice.” I rub the back of my neck. “And I didn’t want to do it alone.”
She smiles up at me. I brush a smudge of dirt from her cheek, my fingers wanting to touch her again.
“I wanted to take you on a real date, Avelina. I messed up.”
Her gaze searches mine before she leans in and kisses my cheek, a soft sigh leaving her. “You’re doing a lot better than most men. C’mon, you can walk me home and then kiss me goodnight.”
We walk back together. The stars are out now, the air warm but comfortable.
At the back door, I tug her toward me gently. “I want to take you on a real date.”
“This was a real date.”
I shake my head. “Dinner.”
There’s that smile again. “Okay.”
“Really?” I blurt the word out.
“Yeah.”
My lips tug up again. “Okay, Saturday night.”
She pushes up on her tiptoes and presses her lips to mine.
My eyes slip shut. Fuck. It’s perfect. She’s perfect. And for once, that part of me that likes to remind myself this is all just some fleeting fancy is suspiciously quiet.
“Goodnight, Viktor.”
I press one last kiss against her lips. “Goodnight, Avelina.”
Avelina isn’t trying to fix anything. She isn’t trying to fix me. She isn’t pretending my difficulties don’t exist. She’s meeting me where I am.
And that, that fact alone, makes me believe I can have a relationship.
A real one.
And I can really have her.