Chapter 16 Noemi
NOEMI
Sasha pushes his potatoes around his plate with his fork, making little trails through the gravy while I watch him from across the table.
The hotel room service wasn't cheap, but Fyodor left cash on the dresser before he disappeared without telling us where he was going or when he'd be back, and I figured the boy deserved a hot meal after the day we had.
"The swords were my favorite," Sasha says, still not looking up from his plate. "Did you see the one with the jewels in the handle? It was probably worth a billion rubles."
"Probably more than that." I chuckle, remembering the fine craftsmanship of that specific sword. It was why I rushed us off to find Fyodor. I thought he'd like to see, and then I found him meeting with that unsavory man.
"I wish I could've touched it. I bet it was heavier than it looked, and the metal was probably cold." He finally takes a bite of potato and chews slowly. "The carriages were cool too. Mamochka would've loved riding in one of those."
He's been bringing her up all day, and after more than a week of knowing she's passed on without talking about her, I can guess she's on his mind a lot. I take a sip of water and give him space to keep talking if he wants to, but he goes quiet and focuses on his food.
"What did you think of the eggs?" I ask after a minute.
"They were okay. Pretty, I guess." He shrugs. "I liked the weapons better. Seeing stuff like that is way more interesting than reading about it in books or doing math problems."
"You still have to do your math problems," I say with a smile.
"I know." He makes a face, sticking out his tongue, but then his face falls again. "Going to a museum felt more like going to school."
"That's a good point. Maybe we can find more museums to visit while we're traveling."
He perks up at that, his eyes brightening a little, and I love seeing him happier. I hate that he's so sad. "Really? Fyodor would let us?"
The mention of his father brings up some conflicting emotion, and I set my fork down and lean back in my chair.
"What do you think of Fyodor?" I ask, keeping my voice casual. "You've been with him for a few weeks now. How are you feeling about everything?"
Sasha's face shifts. Some of that brightness dims as he thinks about the question. He pokes at a piece of chicken and doesn't answer right away, and I can see him working through his thoughts the way he does when I give him a hard problem to solve.
"He's scary sometimes," he finally says. "The way he talks and the way he looks at people. Like at the museum when he yelled at me about the rope. I thought he was really mad."
"He wasn't mad at you. He was worried you'd get hurt, solnyshko."
"It didn't feel like worry." Sasha's voice gets quieter. "It felt like when my mom's boyfriends used to yell at me for stuff."
I picture a scared little boy dealing with a grown man who has no self-control, and I have to take a breath before I respond. "Fyodor isn't like those men, Sasha. He's still learning how to be a father. He didn't grow up with good examples of how to do it right, but he's trying. Okay?"
"I know." He looks up at me with big eyes, and he looks exactly like his father. It catches me off guard a little. "I always wanted a dad… But Mamochka said he wouldn't want me anyway."
"And now you know he does."
"Yeah." Sasha's head bobs, but he stares down at his plate as he responds.
"It's weird, though. The real thing is different than what I imagined.
It's scary and confusing…" He trails off, searching for the right word, his fork making slow circles in the gravy.
"Also kind of good? Like before the museum when he was talking to me about the horses and the zoo. That was nice."
I nod and reach across the table to squeeze his hand briefly before pulling back. "He's trying, Sasha. I know it doesn't always feel like it, but he's trying really hard."
"Do you think he likes me?"
His bottom lip quivers a little as he asks me that question, and it brings tears to my eyes. How sad is it that a child his age even has to ask whether his own father likes him?
"Of course. I think he likes you very much. He's just not good at showing it yet."
Sasha seems to consider my words for a long moment. Then his face crumples slightly and he looks down at his plate again. "Mamochka used to make me chicken like this," he says quietly.
"She sounds like she loved you very much."
"She did." His voice cracks, and I watch his eyes fill with tears that he blinks back. "Can I be done eating? I want to go read in my room."
"Of course. Go ahead."
He pushes back from the table and walks with his head down toward his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
I sit there for a long moment staring at his half-finished plate, my own appetite gone, thinking about how unfair it all is, how much pain this child has already carried in his short life.
I would do anything to make that pain go away for him.
I clear the dishes and stack them on the room service tray outside the door, then check on Sasha.
He's curled up on his bed with a book with a dry face now but his shoulders are still hunched over.
There's no way he could be reading, and it looks like he's just staring at one page, probably thinking about Murial.
I leave him alone and wander back into the main room feeling restless and unsettled and not sure what to do with myself.
It's been a long day and the bed looks very inviting right now.
I grab my journal from the nightstand and climb onto the mattress, pulling a pillow behind my back and tucking my legs under me.
My nightly ritual feels different out on the road and not in the comfort of my own home but it grounds me in my routine and helps me remember that I'm here for Sasha, not just because of Fyodor's hasty choices.
When I'm able to refocus mentally and think about the positive reasons to continue on, the ink flows from my pen easily and I'm able to pour my heart out.
Sasha asked me tonight if I think Fyodor likes him. The question broke my heart a little because no child should have to wonder if their parent cares about them. But Sasha isn't a normal child and Fyodor isn't a normal parent and none of this is how family is supposed to work.
I want Fyodor to be the father Sasha needs. I want him to learn how to speak softly and touch gently and show affection. I want him to understand that yelling at a ten-year-old isn't discipline, it's just instilling fear, and trust isn't built on fear.
But wanting these things means I care. And caring means I've let myself get tangled up in this family that isn't mine, this mess of a situation that I was dragged into against my will and never asked for. But I find myself wanting to stay and help.
When did that happen? When did I stop being a prisoner and start being something else entirely?
I write until my hand cramps and my eyes grow heavy, filling page after page with thoughts I can't organize and feelings I can't name.
At some point I set the journal down on my chest and close my eyes for a moment.
The pillow still smells of Fyodor's cologne, and I let myself sink into it and drift off without meaning to.
I don't know how long I sleep before the sound of the door wakes me.
The room is dark, like someone shut off the lights because I know they were on when I dozed off.
And my journal isn't on my chest anymore either, which explains the heavy footsteps stalking around the end of the bed. He thinks he’s noble for tucking me in after I've fallen asleep but he's drunk.
I can tell by the uneven gait he uses and how his body sways in the limited light left streaming under the bathroom door.
I keep my eyes mostly closed and watch through my lashes as he moves through the room, shedding his coat and draping it over a chair.
I can tell he's trying to be quiet so he doesn't wake me.
But he's clumsy, bumping into the dresser and catching himself on the bedpost. He's not just a little drunk he's totally wasted.
And then the smell hits me. It's an acrid mixture of cigar smoke and sweat, but there are light floral hints too, like a woman's perfume.
My stomach drops and a hot rush of jealousy floods through me so fast it makes my head spin. I shouldn't care—I have no right to care. He's not mine and I'm not his and whatever happened this morning in the bathroom was a moment of weakness that didn't mean anything.
But jealousy doesn't listen to logic. It burns through my chest and settles in my throat, sharp as bile, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from saying something as he passes the bed on his way to the bathroom.
I can smell the alcohol on him now too, vodka or whiskey or whatever he's been drowning himself in for the past six hours.
He pauses for a second, looking down at me, and I keep my breathing slow and even like I'm still asleep. The bathroom door clicks shut and a moment later I hear the shower turn on.
I stare at the ceiling in the dark and try to make sense of what I'm feeling, but nothing makes sense anymore. I'm livid. Not just angry, enraged.
He went out tonight and got drunk and came back smelling like another woman. Maybe he slept with her. Maybe he just sat too close to her at a bar somewhere. Maybe it means nothing at all and I'm making something out of nothing because I'm tired and confused and my emotions are all over the place.
But the jealousy won't go away. It sits in my gut like a boulder, and I hate it, hate myself for feeling it, hate him for making me feel it.
One minute I can't stand him. He's loud and demanding and bossy, and he thinks he can order everyone around and get what he wants. It's arrogant and abusive and he acts like an entitled child.
And the next minute I want him so badly I can barely breathe.
I think about his hands on my hips in the bathroom, his mouth on my neck, the way he said my name like it meant something to him.
Then I think about the softness in his voice when he talks to Sasha, the way he's trying so hard to be better even when he keeps getting it wrong.
How did I let this happen? How did I let this man get under my skin so deeply that the thought of him touching someone else makes me want to scream?
My eyes burn with tears and my entire body shakes with the rage I can't let out right now.
It's like he has no consideration for anyone other than himself, and I'm left to deal with the emotional toll on my own.
The shower shuts off and I hear him moving around in the bathroom, and I make a decision before I can talk myself out of it.
I'm going to sit here and wait for him to walk out of that room and if he's been with another woman I'm going to slap him silly and teach him what a real man would do.