Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
The conversation stumbled for a while—awkward pauses, his father’s suspicious questions, Adrik’s clipped answers. His heart was pounding the whole time. He’s going to hate this. He’s going to want to leave. He’s going to think my family is too much.
But then, somewhere between the main course and dessert, things softened. Anneliese asked about Adrik’s favorite German foods, and he actually laughed. She complimented his accent. That started another storm.
“Adrik, you speak English as if it’s your native language,” Anneliese said.
“I was educated in America, and both my parents are bilingual.”
“You sound like you’re from New York City,” Fredrich said.
“I received most of my education there.”
“Your parents sent you away?” Anneliese asked.
“Yes. I have cousins there, so I stayed with them.”
Then Anneliese smiled warmly and said, “Traveling so young must have been exciting. Did you fly often as a child?”
Adrik hesitated, then nodded. “More than I wanted to.”
Friedrich lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? Why’s that?”
Hans felt his stomach clench. Please don’t let this turn into another interrogation.
But Adrik surprised him. He straightened a little, as if deciding to offer something real—something safe.
“When I was ten,” Adrik began, “I flew home alone from New York after the school year ended. My parents were supposed to meet me at the gate in Moscow.”
“What happened?” Annaliese asked.
Hans saw the flicker of discomfort in Adrik’s eyes, the way he rubbed his thumb against the edge of his napkin. He doesn’t tell stories like this. Not easily.
“They weren’t there,” Adrik continued.
Anneliese’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh no. Why not?”
“They were given the wrong gate number.” He let out a small, humorless breath. “So I walked out into the terminal and… nothing. Just crowds. Noise. People rushing past me. I didn’t recognize anyone.”
Hans felt the ache of it—ten-year-old Adrik, alone in a foreign airport, trying not to cry. But that was just another lie. He had never lived in Russia.
“That must have been frightening,” Anneliese said softly.
“It was.” Adrik’s voice stayed even, but Hans heard the strain beneath it. “I remember standing there with my backpack, trying to decide if I should ask for help or just wait. I kept thinking maybe they weren’t coming.”
Friedrich frowned, arms crossing. “Airports don’t just lose children.”
Hans shot him a sharp look. Dad, not now.
But Adrik didn’t flinch. “They didn’t lose me. My parents just… weren’t where they were supposed to be. They were given the wrong gate number.” A pause. “Still, that feeling—being alone in a place that big—it stays with you.”
Anneliese reached across the table, her voice gentle. “I’m so glad they found you.”
“They did,” Adrik said. “Eventually. But I’ll never forget that moment before they did. It felt like being abandoned.”
Hans’ chest tightened. Why is he lying? He lived in New York, not Russia.
Friedrich studied him, eyes narrowing slightly—as if trying to decide whether the story was truth or performance. “And this was in Russia?”
“Yes,” Adrik said quickly. “In Moscow.”
Hans caught the tiny shift in his tone. A practiced answer. A shield. He’s still hiding something. Even now.
But his mother smiled warmly, softening the surrounding air. “Well, you’re here now. Safe. And we’re glad you’re joining us tonight.”
Adrik nodded, grateful. “Thank you. I’m glad to be here.”
Hans watched him closely—the way he held himself, the way he avoided looking at Hans for too long. You shared something almost real… but not everything. And I don’t know why.
He reached his foot out under the table, brushing lightly against Adrik’s again.
Adrik didn’t look up, but Hans felt the faintest press back.
By the end of the meal, Annaliese was smiling warmly at him. “I’m glad Hans has someone like you,” she said.
Adrik blinked, surprised. “Thank you.”
Friedrich didn’t say much, but he gave a curt nod. Not approval, exactly, but not rejection either. Hans would take it.
When they stepped outside into the cool night air, Hans exhaled hard. “You okay?”
Adrik smirked. “Your dad hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” Hans insisted. “He hates everyone at first.”
Adrik laughed, and the sound loosened something tight in Hans’ chest. He’s still here. He’s not running.
“Hans, you said they wouldn’t ask me any questions.”
“I told them not to ask you anything and to keep it light, but they didn’t.”
“I see. I didn’t know what to do when they cornered me with a barrage of personal questions. So, I lied.”
“I never knew you were such a storyteller. Maybe you should write books too.” Hans would let his lies fly by until they had more time to discuss it.
“We could be co-writers,” Adrik added.
“Come on.” Hans grabbed Adrik’s hand. “We’re going dancing.”
The club was loud, colorful, packed with bodies, and pulsing with music. Exactly what Hans needed to shake off the dinner tension. Adrik pulled him onto the dance floor, hands on his hips, moving with a confidence that made Hans’ breath catch.
“You’re staring,” Adrik said over the music.
“Yeah,” Hans admitted. “Can you blame me?”
Adrik leaned in, lips brushing Hans’ ear. “I’m not going home early, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Hans froze for half a second. He knew. Of course he knew.
Then he laughed, relief washing through him. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”
They danced until their legs ached, until the stress of dinner melted away, until all Hans could think about how lucky he was that Adrik had stayed with him, and in that moment he felt like it was the start of something real.