24 #3
"They're real," I confirm, lean back in my chair, and don’t bother hiding my smile. "They breathe, eat, argue, and have more backbone than this entire table put together."
A murmur swells instantly. The kids fire off questions in whispers. My brothers-in-law huddle together, talking under their breath with crooked grins. My sisters lean toward me, waiting for details. I take a sip of cold kvass and give them two seconds of suspense. I earned this today.
"So what are they like?" Katerina presses, eyes bright with gossip, her glass halfway up.
"Are they pretty?" someone else blurts—and there it is, the one question they think matters.
Boris watches me from the corner of his eye; the corners of his mouth tug a little, but he keeps a soldier’s face. I feel the shift. Today I’m not the odd one out at the table. Today, they’re looking at me. And yeah, it goes to my head a notch—I’m not going to pretend otherwise.
I run my tongue over my teeth and set my glass on the wood. If they knew half of what’s behind all this…
Ivan, who’d been inhaling pelmeni in silence for a while, lifts his head, clears his throat, and goes, "They’re smoking hot, yeah? Gorgeous, both of them. I’d sign right now. But tough luck: they looked identical and I got the lesbian."
A dry laugh slips out of me. I can’t help it. I cuff him upside the head, light but unmistakable.
"Don’t talk about them like that, dumbass."
"Mikel was quick and snagged the straight one. What a damn shame," he finishes, slumped in his chair, the back of his hand to his forehead, faking tragedy.
"Don’t even think about going near her," Boris snaps. His voice comes out low, slicing through the noise on the first hit. He points a finger straight at him. "Fifteen feet, minimum. You hear me?"
Ivan huffs and leans back. "And why not? Mikel already hooked up with Vega. If the other one were straight too, he’d already have her in bed for sure."
I choke on my wine. My throat burns.
"What do you mean he hooked up with Vega?" I turn to him. My voice doesn’t shake. My fingers do. I hide them under the table.
"Exactly that. Kisses, cuddles, hands all over. He hasn’t screwed her yet, okay?" He raises his hands, all fake innocence. "But give it time. Mikel never misses."
Tatiana lets out a squeal that makes half the table look. "That’s outrageous! That boy should be more careful! We’re talking about a princess!"
Boris sets his elbows down and grunts, already tired of sermons. "Mikel’s Sabina’s son. You think Irina’s going to care? If anything, it’ll amuse her."
Ivan perks up at that. "And I’m Rashel’s and yours. She wouldn’t mind me either, right?"
Oksana starts fanning herself with her napkin, all posh, like it’s a private party.
She lives for this. "Exactly, exactly. With all that mess of relationships they’ve got in there…
Even Rashel’s turned lesbian. No wonder Natasha caught it.
She’s been trailing after them since she was little, glued to their skirts. "
It’s incredible how she can always twist the conversation just to jab at me. I clench my molars. The roof of my mouth itches. A comeback hits me, the kind that leaves a mark. I swallow it. I’m not getting mad at them today.
Footsteps on the grass. I don’t need to look to know who it is. Still, I look. Irina comes in through the garden, straight-backed, calm. She doesn’t raise her voice.
"Watch what you say, Oksana," she says, unruffled. "Next time, think twice before you talk about my family."
Oksana’s spotlight goes out. Color rises from her chest to her ears. Good.
Irina circles the table without hurry. She goes straight to Boris. They hug hard. I move my glass so they don’t knock it over.
"Irinushka!" My mom lands on her with two suction-cup kisses, one on each cheek. She holds her face in both hands and squishes her cheeks into little balls. "Come here. Eat. You're skin and bones."
"I... I already ate."
"Sit, sit!" My mom practically wedges her into the chair next to her. "Or what? You too important to eat with us?"
"No, Lidia, but..." Irina stammers, all queen, all boss, half laugh, half panic.
"No buts!" Mom taps her arm and bam, a bowl of borscht appears in front of her. "Eat! You look like you haven't seen a spoon since last week."
My sisters look up and bite their knuckles to keep from exploding. I glue my eyes to the soup, because if I look at Irina I'm going to burst out laughing. I press the napkin to my mouth and breathe through my nose.
Irina obeys. She surrenders with elegance. Spoonful one. Spoonful two. I watch her swallow, pure resignation at the corners of her mouth, that face only Julia and my mom can pull out of her.
"It's very good, Lidia," she says diplomatically. "Really."
"Of course it's good!" My mom puffs up. "What do you think? We cook for real here. At the mansion you people don't want anything Russian. Here we do. This is real food. Look at the color, look at the good fat. Healthy."
My sisters trade looks, teeth hidden behind their fingers. I duck my head and take another spoonful, or I'm going to lose it.
"Okay, that's enough, I tried it," Irina tries, getting to her feet in slow motion, her chair gliding back without a sound—very spy.
"No way!" My mom plants a firm hand on her shoulder and pushes her back down. "The whole bowl. And then pelmeni. Lots. With onion. Piping hot."
"Lidia, really, I have to…"
"Pelmeni!" My mom's eyes go wide like she just saw the Pope—only Russian. "Try them. I'll be offended if you don't."
Irina looks at me. Silent SOS. I cover my mouth with the napkin and nod like I'm at a funeral. Queen Popov, brought down by Mama Velikanova. A big day. I mark the date in my head.
Under direct supervision, Irina puts away half the bowl. She takes a deep breath, smooths her suit skirt, and shoots me a curt little signal.
"Natasha, come with me."
"Me?" I ask, just to go through the motions. I already know the answer.
"Yes. Now." There's no room for jokes. Not a crack.
Boris raises his hand like somebody asked for permission.
My sisters whisper shamelessly. My mom complains because Irina didn't touch the blini.
There's no going back. Irina catches me by the elbow and pulls me out of the noise.
I wipe my palm on my jeans. She didn't come for Boris.
She came for me. And whatever she's brought doesn't sound like small talk.