Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Anya
I’m supposed to try and do three brave things every week. Talking to Matteo Moretti, even over text, feels like I’m doing three thousand brave things. Exhilarating and terrifying things.
My father gave me the Italian boy’s phone number—along with a lecture about not pushing myself and letting him know if Matteo does anything to insult or frighten me—two days ago.
I don’t know how soon after the wedding he obtained it, but it took me forty-eight hours to digest that I possessed it.
I almost crumbled up the piece of paper and tossed it away simply to rid myself of the anxiety that comes along with not knowing what to do.
From our short time together at my brother’s wedding, I knew that Matteo was a confident person. He could probably walk into any room and find someone to strike up a conversation with. I had no idea why someone like him would pick me of all people to try and befriend.
Furthermore, I had no idea why the concept intrigued me as much as it did. I knew I wanted to see more of my niece and nephew, yes. But it was more than that. I could ask my father for more pictures. He would get them without a question.
But Matteo’s offer of friendship wasn’t just a window into the twins’ life, it was a window into normalcy.
A step in the right direction of healing and branching out of the safety cocoon I’ve built myself in the past several months.
In the span of an hour, he made me feel something I never expected to experience ever again.
He made me feel like I was nothing more than a pretty girl at a party.
Someone who boys wanted to dance with, women wanted to talk to, and cameras wanted to snap pictures of.
A person who people would look at to compliment her dress or envy her hair—not to wince with pity while thinking about the awful thing that happened to her all those years ago.
I can’t even remember the last time I thought about being pretty before he said that I was. More than once.
Matteo
Besides, it’s a judgment-free zone here. That’s what friends are for, right?
I stare down at Matteo’s last text, feeling reassured but contemplative all the same. I don’t really know how to reply to him, and I have a feeling that might be a running theme for me. At least until I get used to this change.
I haven’t had a friend in a long time. I used to have plenty of them.
Girls at ballet, my cousins, other mafia daughters in our territory…
but nothing after I ended up admitted to the hospital for months.
My friends were never boys either. Having a Pakhan for a father and two protective older brothers meant boys were enemy number one and kept away from me at any event.
Ironic that boys were never the real threat. Men were.
Deciding that I’ve taken too long to stare at his message, I start typing and hit send. If I overthink every single reply, the anxiety will eat at me, and Dad will notice. He’ll erase Matteo’s contact before I can blink if he thinks that our communication is doing more harm than good.
Anya
I’ll have to take your word for it. But no judgment on my end either, I think.
Looking up from my phone, I lift my face to soak up the morning sun.
The warm rays and slightly cool air are a familiar feeling.
Sitting outside on the patio in the morning has been a part of my routine for months now.
Waking up early isn’t required, but I prefer the sun when it isn’t so high and bright.
I’ve come to enjoy the way the morning is soft and serene outside.
Vitamin D is a natural medicine, according to all my doctors.
Getting sunlight in can help with a lot of things—especially where mental health is concerned.
So far, I’d say it’s been beneficial. I do feel less on edge during the days that I take an hour to eat my breakfast and settle in outdoors.
Though, it could be the medicine working, too.
OCD likes routine, too. And sometimes routine can be laced with compulsions, but I wouldn’t consider any of mine to be worrisome.
I make sure to wear sunscreen and shoes, and I always make sure wherever I’m sitting is free of debris or bugs before sitting down.
Shoes are the most important, I think. The idea of my bare feet touching the dirty ground, even pavement that is washed regularly, makes my skin crawl.
My therapist says that my obsessions lean more toward the direction of contamination OCD.
I’m convinced that I’ll get sick or worse, die a painful death if I come in contact with germs and don’t immediately wash them away with hot water and soap.
Sometimes I wash my hands so many times that they go dry and I have to apply lotion just to feel comfortable touching anything again.
She hasn’t said it, but I know Dr. Tiffany thinks that these fears are a result of feeling dirty because I was almost killed before.
PTSD rewired my brain, and now dirty equals death.
I’ve made strides with her help, but I’ll never be healed from these afflictions. Not completely.
Matteo
Ooooh, judgment-free zone? Is this where I tell you all my darkest secrets?
My heart gives a funny thump, reading the message. My fingers move over my keyboard before I can stop them.
Anya
Well, you already know mine.
I can’t believe I just sent that.
I can’t believe I just sent that and I’m not throwing up.
I don’t feel sick to my stomach at all, actually. I feel like I’ve just lifted a weight. Addressed the elephant in the room. Threw all of the cards on the table.
Matteo
I wish I didn’t. I wish no one ever knew without you telling them yourself.
I inhale sharply, almost feeling his sincerity from the screen.
Matteo
We never have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about. But if you do want to talk about it, I’ll be here to listen.
Relief washes over me at his response. It’s so kind that my eyes sting with unshed tears.
Anya
I don’t want to talk about it. I just didn’t want to be a thing, I guess. Like where you felt like you were walking on eggshells around me?
Anya
Sorry to dampen the mood.
He texts back lightning fast.
Matteo
You didn’t! I’m glad you felt like you could say anything at all.
Matteo
That’s a good sign, you know? I have a feeling we’re going to be great friends, Anya Morozov.
Something like excitement rushes over me, a little chill running up my arms. I’m proud of myself for saying something. It’s an extremely unfamiliar feeling. But a good one.
Anya
That would be nice, Matteo Moretti.
The sound of the back door swinging shut pulls my attention from my phone, and I look up to find my father walking toward me.
He’s clutching a steaming mug of coffee, the salt-and-pepper stubble on his jaw yet to be shaven this morning.
His short dark hair hasn’t been combed yet, and his casual clothes are wrinkled.
He looks tired but relaxed, a familiar sight for me in the early mornings.
No one ever sees my father like this. No one but me, and occasionally my uncles.
Taking the seat next to me on the patio, he looks at my phone in my lap and back up at my face.
“Feeling okay this morning?” he asks. Dad always checks in with me when he first sees me—asking some version of the same question without fail.
“I’m okay,” I confirm, meaning it. “You?”
“Good,” he confirms before taking a sip of his coffee.
Birds chirp, filling the small gap in conversation as he drinks.
“You talking to him?” The rough edge to his voice sounds more like it’s from sleep than from any sort of emotion. “The Moretti boy?”
“Yes.” I lift one of my legs up to prop my head on my knee. My silky pajama pants offer a soft comfort. “I messaged him for the first time this morning, and he’s been replying.”
He hums, the deep sound more like a grunt. “Do you feel like your routine is being disrupted?”
“I thought I might, but no,” I admit honestly. “I don’t feel like I have to respond. I want to, but if I’m in the middle of something, I don’t think I’ll feel the compulsion to drop my routine to text back. He seems patient.”
Dad watches my face, nodding at the sincerity he finds. “Let me know if that changes.”
“I will.”
And I don’t think I’m lying.
I understand his concern. I’ve put him through hell for these past few years. I wanted to die more days than I wanted to be alive, and I tried to make that happen more than once. He’s done everything in his power to help me, and to get me to want that help.
It’s because of his determination and his love for me that I’m alive at all. That I have my diagnoses, medication, therapy, and a routine that helps me feel stable. I know he blames himself for what happened, but I could never.
Even when I hated myself and hated breathing, I could never bring myself to hate my father.
I resented him for saving me over and over again.
For not letting me end my suffering permanently, but I never hated him.
I always understood, even in my deepest, darkest state of mind.
I’ve always loved my father, and I always will.
“What are you two talking about?” He looks hesitant to ask, like he isn’t sure if he should.
Lifting my phone, I extend it to him in an offer. “Do you want to look?”
His face is a mask of contemplation as he eyes it. “You deserve privacy, dochen’ka. Even if it terrifies me.”
“It terrifies you?” I ask, swallowing as I let my phone fall back into my lap. “I didn’t think anything scared you, Papochka. You’re the Pakhan.”
He shakes his head, a vein in his thick neck almost popping as he does. “I may be Pakhan, Anya, but I also have a daughter. I’m always scared.”
“Because of what happened—”
He doesn’t let me get the rest of the question out.
“I was scared the moment you were born. Nothing will ever change how much I worry about you. I want you to be safe and happy more than I want anything. I will never forgive myself for the pain you’ve felt and the memories that I can’t erase for you. ”
My bottom lip trembles, and I sniff back my welling emotions. “We never talk like this.”
“You’ve only recently started talking to me again at all, dochen’ka.” His response is so quiet, so soft, that I almost don’t recognize the sound of his voice.
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t,” he interrupts, setting down his coffee to give me his undivided attention. “You weren’t speaking to anyone, Anya. I didn’t take it personally. It was difficult just to get you to speak with the doctors.”
I look away from his gaze, down to my lavender painted toes. “Things are easier now. I’m getting better.”
“You’ve been getting better for months,” Dad corrects gently.
“It’s been a slow process, but you’ve been putting in the work.
I know it hasn’t been easy for you, but I want to thank you, now that I feel like you’re ready to hear it.
Thank you for trying. Hearing your voice, seeing you heal, it’s the only thing that’s kept me going. ”
Tears burn the back of my eyes and I swallow hard. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything at all, dochen’ka. You’re doing enough. When you hugged me on the plane…I—you’re doing enough. More than enough.”
“Okay,” I whisper, fighting back the instinct to ball my eyes out.
I could hug him again, I think. Maybe soon, but not now. I might just break down sobbing if I hugged him after such an emotional talk.
My phone buzzes and the sound grabs his attention immediately, pulling us out of the moment. A surprising amount of humor bubbles up in me at his alert response. I smother a laugh, offering up the device again.
“Are you sure you don’t want to look?”
“I never said I didn’t want to look,” Dad grumbles, grabbing his mug again to take a short gulp. “I only said that you deserve privacy.”
Opening my messages, I begin to read Matteo’s newest message. “He says, ‘if we’re going to be good friends, I’m going to need to know your top three songs right now. Choose carefully, I will be silently judging you.’ In parentheses, he says, ‘(judgment-free zones have a music exemption).’”
Dad lifts a brow. “Judgment-free zone?”
“Something he said earlier,” I explain. “Apparently, friendships are meant to be wholly nonjudgmental.”
“Hmm.”
“Do you have friends, Papochka?”
Surprised by my question, he answers quickly, “Your uncles.”
I thought as much. “No one else?”
“Bosses don’t have many friends, Anya. There are very few people I trust.”
“What about Mr. Moretti?” I ask, having just thought of it. “Couldn’t you be friends with him?”
He blinks at me. “We’re acquaintances. Allies.”
“You share grandchildren now,” I point out innocently. “You could be friends, I think.”
He gives me a doubtful look, but I’m too busy pondering the idea. It’s not like they could betray one another’s trust without hurting their children or grandchildren in some way. Mutually assured destruction may be the recipe for men like my father to open up.
I wonder silently if Matteo would help me make our fathers become friends. I bet he would.
He seems like he would take the task seriously, if I asked.
Taking a short moment to think about Matteo’s question, I send a response and a question of my own.
Anya
I’ve been listening to a lot of Nickelback lately. I know a lot of people like to make fun of them, but I don’t understand why. They’ve sold over 50 million albums for a reason.
I used to mainly listen to classical music, songs that I could choreograph to. I don’t find the pretty tunes soothing anymore, though. They seem hollow now that I don’t dance.
Deciding to pre-defend my choice some more, I type out another text.
Anya
It’s easy music, and not too sad or too happy. I don’t know if I could pick my top three songs, though. What about you?
Anya
Also, does your dad have many friends?