Roman #2
The vodka has made her loose in the knees, brave in the eyes, careless with her balance. She’s not senseless. She knows where she is. She knows where we’re going. Mostly.
I take her bag.
“I can carry that.”
I give her a look. “You can barely carry yourself.”
“That’s a cruel exaggeration.”
“It’s a precise observation.”
She mutters something in Russian. Terrible Russian.
I look at her.
She blinks innocently. “I practiced.”
“What did you think you said?”
“Something elegant.”
“You called me a winter onion.”
She stops walking. For one second, she looks so sincerely devastated that I have to look away.
Then she starts laughing, so much so that people have started looking at us. For some reason I don’t mind the attention. Because I get to see her face move like that.
By the time we reach the gate, the line has started moving. The passengers around us are polished and impatient. First class always boards with the quiet entitlement of people who expect the world to part for them.
Katerina, however, is staring very hard at the boarding pass in her hand.
“Roman.”
“Yes?”
“I think there are two gates.”
“There is one gate.”
“No.” She frowns. “It has split.”
“It has not.”
She looks up at me with grave concern. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The air hostess at the boarding door notices.
Her smile remains fixed, but her eyes move over Katerina carefully. Flushed face. Unsteady feet. Hand gripping my sleeve now, though I do not think she realizes she’s doing it.
“Good evening, sir,” the hostess says, then looks at Katerina. “Ma’am, are you feeling all right?”
Katerina straightens with great dignity. Too much dignity.
“I’m perfect.”
The hostess’s smile tightens.
If they decide she’s too intoxicated to fly, they can deny her boarding. Then she’s trapped here… With whoever cancelled her ticket. With whoever she’s running from.
I step closer before Katerina can say anything else damaging.
“My wife is nervous about flying,” I say smoothly.
Katerina goes still beside me.
The hostess looks at me.
I hold her gaze with the kind of calm people mistake for truth.
“It’s her first international flight,” I continue. “She had two drinks in the lounge. Less than wise, but not dangerous. I will take responsibility for her.”
Katerina’s fingers tighten around my sleeve.
The hostess hesitates.
I let my expression cool by a degree. “She will sleep as soon as we are seated,” I say.
Katerina looks up at me. I do not look down.
The hostess checks the boarding passes. Mine first. Then hers. Her eyes flick once to our different surnames.
I smile faintly. “Newly married,” I say.
Katerina makes a small sound.
I cover it by reaching for her passport and boarding pass.
The hostess’s face softens at once in that predictable way. “Oh,” she says. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Katerina turns her face toward my shoulder. To anyone else, it might look like shyness.
I suspect she’s hiding the fact that she’s either laughing or furious.
Possibly both.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Sokolov,” the hostess says. “Mrs. Sokolov.”
Katerina’s head snaps up.
I place my hand lightly at her waist. A warning.
The hostess steps aside, and we board.
The jet bridge is narrow, dimmer than the terminal, humming faintly beneath our feet. Katerina walks beside me in silence for six steps.
Then she whispers, “Your wife?”
“It worked.”
“Mrs. Sokolov?”
“For the next several hours.”
“I did not agree to that.”
“You were about to tell airline staff the gate had split into two.”
She considers this. Then, with as much dignity as a drunk woman in a torn coat can manage, she says, “It did look suspicious.”
I look ahead. Because if I smile, I’m finished.
At the aircraft door, another flight attendant greets us.
Katerina lifts her chin, trying very hard to look sober, respectable, and married.
It’s a terrible performance.
It’s also, somehow, the most charming thing I’ve seen in years.
I guide her into first class before anyone can question it. Our seats are together, enclosed enough to give her privacy. She sinks into hers with a soft sound of relief and immediately tries to buckle the seatbelt backward.
I crouch in front of her.
“Stop fighting the aircraft.”
“I know how a seatbelt works.”
“Clearly,” I chuckle.
She glares at me while I fix it. Her perfume surrounds me again. For one brief second, my knuckles brush the curve of her waist.
She goes quiet. So do I.
Luggage compartments close. Flight attendants murmur in English and Russian. Outside the small oval window, the city lights smear gold against the dark.
But in the private hush of her seat, there’s only her.
Katerina looks at me through her lashes, cheeks flushed from vodka, eyes bright with too many things at once. Anger. Shame. Exhaustion.
And something else. Something I should not answer.
“You’re very good at this,” she says.
“At seatbelts?”
“At taking over.”
I let the belt go and sit back on my heels. “Someone had to.”
“I was managing.”
“No, you were not.”
Her mouth parts in offense, but no argument comes.
Even drunk, she knows when a lie has no legs.
Instead, she looks around the first-class suite instead, as if truly seeing it for the first time.
The wide leather seat. The little lamp. The folded blanket.
The glass panel that gives the illusion of privacy.
Her fingers skim the armrest with wonder she tries and fails to hide.
“This is ridiculous,” she whispers.
“It’s a seat.”
“No.” Her gaze moves slowly over everything. “This is not a seat. This is definitely more than what I can afford.” Her mouth twitches, then falls again. “I can pay you back.”
“I know. You made that very clear.”
“Well… I mean it.”
“I know that, too.”
“No, you don’t.” She leans closer, and the scent of her reaches me again.
“You did run away with no plan.”
Her eyes flash. “That’s not the point.”
“You’re very irritating.”
“So I have been told.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then her voice drops. Not much. Enough. “How about I do this? Will this be irritating?”
One hand comes to my shoulder, light at first, then gripping the fabric of my jacket as if she needs it to steady herself. Her face is close enough now that I can see the faint dampness still clinging to her lower lashes.
I should move back. She’s had too much to drink. She’s not thinking clearly.
I know all of this. I know it in the same cold, certain part of me that has kept me alive for decades.
But then her mouth touches mine, soft and warm. She’s uncertain for half a heartbeat before her mouth opens under mine.
And fuck me, I’m gone.