Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Anya
Nothing could make me want to erase that moment from my memory.
The words I overheard through a crack in my bedroom door last night don’t feel real. So much so that I’m almost convinced I dreamed them. Matteo professing that he would never regret dancing with me, even if he was tortured for it, just doesn’t add up logically.
It was a short dance, not even truly a dance, depending on who you ask.
We swayed closely together to slow music—that wasn’t easy to hear with all the conversation around us—while I barely touched his shoulders and he couldn’t even hold me in return.
So to claim that he’d never take it back, it seems unreasonable.
And if you think I’m wrong, then you clearly didn’t see the way Anya was smiling while we danced.
I stopped being able to process information and eavesdrop properly when he mentioned my smile.
And quickly after, I had to hurry away from the door and stand awkwardly down the hall to pretend I didn’t hear a thing.
If my father suspected that I was listening in, he didn’t make it known when he gave me back my phone.
I was almost surprised that he returned it and didn’t hold the device hostage after he hung up with Matteo. Though he handed it over, he also told me not to call my friend back, or talk to him for the rest of the day. It was such an odd order that I didn’t know what to say other than why?
Dad only replied that he needed to think about something. When I pressed for more of an explanation, he told me nothing and walked away. I didn’t dare follow, too confused by his actions to address them openly.
The men in my family have always been good at being stubborn—Dad especially. So I figured if he wasn’t going to expand on his declaration, it was probably useless to try and get him to change his mind. Though, I could have used my phone to text and appeal to Aunt Irina.
She probably wouldn’t have had any problem storming over here and pressing my father for a proper response, but I decided against it quickly.
I didn’t want to push, even though I was quite upset that he barged into my bedroom unannounced.
It actually unnerved me more than I expected, and it took me hours to process that.
For the rest of our night, Dad and I didn’t speak about it.
We ate dinner together and went to sleep at our respective times with no resolution.
Oddly enough, Matteo seemed to respect whatever temporary order my father must have thrust upon him when I wasn’t listening and only texted me once more to say goodnight.
Sighing as I reflect back on the tense evening, I finish the rest of my morning protein shake and set my glass aside.
Smooth, silky chocolate dances on my taste buds but it doesn’t feel as sweet as it should.
I almost wish it were Sunday. I don’t typically crave breakfast but after such an eventful night, pancakes sound pretty appealing.
The morning sun is still low and warm, almost pink in some spots along the skyline as footsteps sound against the patio floor. I don’t have to look up to know that my father is coming to join me.
Unsure how to greet him, or what his mood might be, I choose to continue to watch the sky instead. A few fluffy white clouds have formed in the distance, and the way they move is captivating enough to keep my attention.
“You’re upset with me.”
Not a question.
Not a greeting.
“Justifiably so,” I mutter in response.
“Anya…” His voice has gone soft.
Still, I don’t look at him.
“Dochen’ka.”
The nickname is pleading, and the sound of it would make me wince if I wasn’t compelling myself to remain stubborn and stiff.
“You forced your way into my bedroom,” I say, my voice coming out harder than expected.
I didn’t expect that I would confront him at all, actually.
“You took my phone and kicked me out of my space because you were eavesdropping and heard something you didn’t like.
You said I deserve privacy and then you trampled over it as if I don’t matter—”
“You matter more than anything.”
The way he cuts me off isn’t angry, it’s desperate.
Flattening my lips to keep them from trembling, I finally give him my eyes. Even as I do, I worry that they might be watery.
“Then why did you do it? Why did you refuse to talk to me afterwards, Papochka? What did I do wrong?”
“Nyet, you must not think like this—”
I sniff, cutting in. “What else am I supposed to think?”
“That your father is an imperfect man. That he overheard something by mistake, something that he misinterpreted and reacted to it poorly. You did nothing wrong, my dochen’ka.
” Sighing, he lowers himself into the seat across from me and drags a hand down his stubble.
“I meant what I said when I told you that you deserve privacy. But you’ve grown up before my eyes, and it’s not easy to let go of this instinct to protect you. ”
My heart softens at his sincerity and I look down at my lap. “I don’t think you need to protect me from Matteo, Papa. He’s nice.”
“He may be nice to you,” Dad concedes. “But he’s a made man, Anya. It’s going to take a lot before I trust him at all, let alone with you.”
When I frown, he mirrors it.
“And still, I can’t make my skepticism your problem. You’re free to communicate with him however you like, and I won’t step in again. Call, text, video-chat, whatever you want. As long as you know our deal stands. If you begin to regress because of him, I’ll have no choice but to step in.”
I blink, surprised by his abrupt change in tone. His reluctant but firm approval feels like it came out of nowhere.
“Is this what you needed to think about all night?” I ask, almost dumbfounded. “You’d already given your permission before.”
“Da, I did,” he agrees gruffly. “But that was before I heard him calling you beautiful like it was the most natural thing in the world.”
My face heats, and I shake my head. “He didn’t mean it the way you think he did. Matteo was only being friendly, Papa.”
“I don’t know whether you truly believe that or not.”
I don’t know either. I couldn’t hear all of their conversation, especially the beginning parts. My heart was beating so fast that it was swimming in my ears, muffling their voices. But I’m almost certain I heard Matteo telling my father he wasn’t looking to date.
Needing to stop considering the topic any further, I shake my head subtly to brush it off. “Can I ask something else of you, Papochka?”
He exhales slowly. “Will it give me gray hairs?”
A smile twitches on my face. “No more than you already have.”
Dad huffs through a laugh. “You can ask anything of me, Anya. I’ll always try my best to give you what you need.”
It’s not hard to believe him. He may have upset me less than twelve hours ago, but he always seems to do his best to make me happy.
“Can you not come into my room without knocking first?” I ask, swallowing before I lose my nerve. “Unless you think I’m in danger, of course. I just…I know why I can’t have a lock that you don’t have a key to. I know I lost your trust when I tried—” My voice breaks and I exhale to compose myself.
“But I get changed in my bathroom or my closet now just in case you come in. I’d like to be able to walk around in my space without fearing that you’ll see me half-dressed.”
That you’ll see my scars or my exposed skin and see flashes of how you found me three years ago, I add silently.
That you’ll see my scars and I’ll remember what it’s like to feel exposed by the horror of what my body looks like beneath my clothes.
That I’ll see it reflected in your eyes as you catch sight of the jagged and rough red patches of skin I always keep hidden.
Dad can’t get a reply in before I blurt out more.
“I’m not going to try and hurt myself again. I haven’t even thought about it in a long time. I know the doctors told you they aren’t concerned about that anymore. So, I just…Can you knock?”
He’s never barged in before, and before yesterday, I never considered that he might. I always just took precaution in case. But since it happened, I haven’t stopped thinking about what if I was just getting out of the shower or looking at myself in the mirror without a shirt like I do sometimes.
“I can knock,” Dad tells me, nodding slowly.
“I will knock. It’s hard to remember that you’re a grown woman now, but you are.
You should absolutely be able to do whatever you want in your bedroom without worrying that I’ll walk in.
You know you can lock your door, too, if you want.
I have the emergency key for a reason. Your lock is yours. ”
The relief that his response brings washes over me like a cool breeze.
“Thank you, Papochka,” I breathe out.
Standing up on uncertain feet, I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around his neck. My cheek lands on the top of his head, his short coarse hair softly scratching against my skin.
Voice trembling, I let out the words I haven’t said in years. “You can hug me back.”
I feel his breath catch, and he moves. My father’s strong arms lift and surround me, settling around the middle of my back, ever so slightly pulling me closer.
The hug is awful and amazing. My skin feels like it’s burning in protest, while my heart feels like it’s coming to life with emotional thumps.
“Ya tebya lyublyu, Papa.”
His arms twitch and I feel it as he sucks in a deep breath.
“Ya tebya lyublyu, Anya.”
I don’t know how long we stay intertwined, truly hugging for the first time in far too long. But it gets easier to feel touch with every moment that passes. The distantly familiar scent of his smoky pine shampoo reminds me who has their arms around me, and the safety in the smell can’t be ignored.
Suddenly, a loud sneeze startles me out of the moment, and I retract from my dad, head whirling around to find the source of the noise.