Preston
We eat dinner at the kitchen island. My news about Dad has totally killed the vibe.
It's all I can think about, and Vadim, to his credit, isn't trying to fill the silence with small talk or fake compliments about the meal.
He's giving me space while being close. It's like he's a freaking mind reader because that's exactly what I'm needing right now.
I wasn't exaggerating when I said compartmentalizing is my superpower.
Guess it started after what happened in college, and now, whenever something bad happens in my life, I default to it.
I'm doing it with Dad's condition. My diagnosis.
My future. Acting as if everything is normal until some arbitrary date in the future at which point I'll give myself 'permission' to finally deal with the thing, or things, I've been avoiding.
I glance over at Vadim.
Am I doing it with him, too? Am I ignoring the evidence right in front of me, evidence Ellie has pointed out time and time again, that this man is dangerous just so I can pretend everything is fine?
"How's the stew?" I ask.
Vadim smiles, lifting his brows. "Great."
It's a fake smile and a fake answer. I can tell. I've been watching his face long enough now to know the difference. He rarely smiles, but when he does, it's real and genuine, lifting his cheeks and reaching his eyes.
"Do you not like my cooking?"
"No, not at all. Why do you ask?"
"Because you never comment on it. And since you seem like a blunt, get-to-the-point guy, I can only assume you not saying anything is to…spare my feelings?"
"It's not that."
"Then what is it?"
He rests his spoon against the bowl. "I'm sure your food is great, but…" He exhales through his nose. "I can't taste it."
"Huh?"
"I lost my sense of smell. Taste, more or less, too."
There's not even the slightest hint of this being one of his terrible attempts at humor. He's dead serious.
"How? What happened?"
"Are you sure you want to hear about it? It's not exactly the happiest story in the world, and you're already upset about your dad. I don't want to add—"
"I'm fine. I want to know."
I genuinely do.
And I don't want my sadness to be the reason he holds back. Whatever he's about to tell me, I can handle it. It'll also give me, if I'm being honest, something to think about other than Dad for five minutes.
"Okay." Vadim swivels on the stool to face me.
"When I was sixteen, my friends and I decided to ditch the last few periods at school one day and go see a movie.
We were outside the theater, in broad daylight, when I got jumped.
None of us saw it coming. It was just some random dude who didn't like the look of me or something.
Who knows what his problem was? Before I knew what was happening, I was on the ground.
The back of my head hit the pavement hard.
The concussion was so bad I had to stay in the hospital for a few days. "
"That's terrible, Vadim."
He gives a small, resigned nod. "When I came around, something was off.
I couldn't smell anything. At first, the doctors said it would come back, that it was only temporary and probably due to the swelling.
Months went by. It wasn't temporary. Turns out the impact had damaged the olfactory nerve, the one responsible for smell.
It never healed. And because taste is about eighty percent smell, that went too.
Food has texture. Temperature. Sometimes I catch a hint of something sweet or bitter or salty, but that's about it. The rest is just gone."
"Oh, Vadim."
I'm already emotional because of Dad, so of course, I burst out crying again. He gets up and once again wraps his arms around me.
"I'm so sorry that happened to you," I say through the tears.
"It's not the end of the world," he reassures me.
I sniff. "Did they find who did it?"
"No. I suspect he skipped town. They had CCTV footage and witnesses, so they tried to find him but came up empty. Since I wasn't seriously injured, the cops closed the case after a few months."
"That really sucks."
"Tell me about it."
I glance over at our meals. "So you haven't been able to really taste anything I've cooked?"
A muscle pulls at the corner of his mouth. "No. Sorry."
"Hey, don't apologize." Before I know what's happening, my hand is on his face, stroking his jaw. "It's not your fault. I feel bad for thinking you didn't like it."
"That's a perfectly normal response."
I let out a chuckle.
His dark-gray eyes drink me in. "What is it?"
"Well, the words perfectly normal sound kinda funny when it comes to anything to do with you and me."
"You saying we're not normal?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
A slow smile grows on his lips, eventually reaching his eyes, causing the skin around them to crinkle. This is what a real Vadim smile is like.
"Guess that's a fair assessment. Considering…"
"Considering what?"
"Considering we met by you accosting me."
"I didn't accost you."
A brow rises.
"Okay, maybe I accosted you a little. But it's only because I randomly ran into you outside the bathroom and knew you were there alone."
His brow drops, eyes narrow. "How did you know I was alone?"
Shit.
"Uh… So I may have noticed you sitting at the bar earlier, having a drink by yourself."
He smirks. "So you were spying on me?"
"Hardly. More like I was wondering what an overdressed guy like you was doing in a place like that."
"I'd just taken care of some business."
"Uh-huh." I slide my hand down his neck. "Did you mean for that to sound so mysterious?"
"No." He runs his tongue along his teeth. "Did it?"
"A bit."
"Does that bother you?"
"Does what bother me?"
"That I'm…mysterious?"
"Depends. What are you being mysterious about?"
He cracks a grin. "If I told you, it'd lose the mystique, wouldn't it?"
"True." My hand smooths down his front, and, Jesus, he is a wall of muscle under that black shirt. "Then again, if you don't tell me anything, you risk creating a vacuum. And I happen to have a bestie who is more than willing to fill it with all sorts of possible ideas and theories."
Vadim's jaw clenches. "Good thing then that you're an adult and can make your own mind up about things. Correct?"
I lift my head, his face so temptingly close to mine, and slide my finger delicately down the ridge of his nose, over the slight bump. "Correct."
I want to know more about Vadim, so much more, and in time, maybe I will.
I've got no reason to doubt his honesty.
He hasn't been cagey or avoidant with me.
In fact, he's already shared things I wouldn't expect from someone like him—the painful stuff about his mom, getting attacked at sixteen, losing his ability to smell and taste, the fact that he's killed.
Something tells me none of this is information he shares freely with people.
We finish the meal, and as usual, I ignore his insistence to help with the cleaning up.
"You can't cook and clean," he argues. "That goes against my culture."
"Is that another one of your attempts at humor?"
"No. I've given that up. I'm actually being serious. In Polish and Ukrainian culture, it's customary for the host to attend to the guest, not the other way around."
I fling a dish towel at him in concession. "Good thing we're happy being abnormal Americans then."
He smiles as he shakes the towel out, joining me at the sink. "Exactly."
There are only our bowls and a few utensils to wash, so it doesn't take us long to finish up in the kitchen.
Last night I was so exhausted I excused myself and went straight to the bedroom without a second thought.
Tonight, I should probably do the same thing. Not because I'm tired, but because I should look at my schedule and start making some plans for spending some quality time with Dad over the coming few months.
Last night, I said a quick goodbye to Vadim and ducked down the hallway.
Tonight?
I'm lingering.
He's not exactly in a hurry to go anywhere or do anything either.
"What are you going to do now?" I ask.
He tips his head toward the giant TV on the wall. "There's a match I want to watch."
"What sport?"
"Soccer."
"Oh."
"You don't like it?"
"Can't say I've ever really watched it."
"There's a first time for everything."
He says it slowly, his voice low, bordering on raspy. The air between us simmers.
"True. And, hey, if it's boring and I fall asleep, guess it's better than taking a sleeping pill."
He shakes his head, trying hard not to smile. "And I'm the one who gets dissed for making terrible jokes."
He takes my hand in his and leads me to the couch. My end looks like a bomb went off so we settle on his side, which works better anyway since it's directly in front of the TV screen. I get up and grab a blanket from my end then pull it over myself as Vadim brings the game up.
"The rules are pretty simple." He eyes me lounging but doesn't join me, choosing to remain seated. "Eleven players a side, two halves of forty-five minutes. Get the ball into the opposition's net without using your hands. Whoever scores more wins."
"What if there's a tie?"
"In the regular season, a draw is a draw. Both teams get a point, and that's it. But in a knockout tournament, you keep playing until someone wins. There's extra time then a penalty shootout if there's still a tie."
"What are we watching?"
He presses play. "A regular league game."
"Okay. This isn't live?"
"Nope. It's a replay from earlier today. With the time zone difference, the match took place around midday our time. I'm happy to catch the replay. I save watching live games for the finals with my brothers and Dad."
"Soccer fans, too?"
Vadim bobs his head. "Fanatics."
I get myself comfortable as the match begins. "Who's playing?"
"Wis?a Kraków vs. Atlético Madrid."
"Make it understandable for me."
Vadim grins and tugs a corner of the blanket over his legs. "This okay?"
"Of course."
He continues grinning at me, and something about the way the TV light falls on his face makes him boyishly cute.
"Kraków is Poland. Madrid is—"
"Italy?"
"Spain," he corrects.
"Close?"
Another grin. "Sure."
I crane forward to get a better look at the screen. I know my eyesight is getting worse, but all I see is two teams in red and white. "Why are both teams in the same colors?"
"Yeah, it's a little confusing. Wis?a have red and white stripes, vertical. Atlético are in red and white, too, but see how it's split down the middle, red on one side, white on the other?"
"Got it."
Amusement flickers in his eyes. "Anything else?"
"Nope. That's it. Actually…" I shuffle across the couch toward him, dragging the blanket with me, and tuck myself into his side where the edge of it already covers his lap. "This okay?"
A low sound emanates from the back of his throat, and for a second, I think I may have overstepped.
But then his hand lands on my upper back, and he says, "Perfect."