7
We end up in Vadim Arcadi’s studio apartment, the infamous bachelor’s pad I’ve heard so many rumors about.
It’s actually a small, well-appointed place with a sofa bed neatly folded away, a tidy desk, dishes drying next to the sink, and a huge collection of vintage DVDs sorted by year.
I crouch down to study them, my eyes bright with curiosity.
Vadim offers to make some tea to warm me up, teasing me about my English roots—probably his way of making me feel comfortable.
Unsure what to do with myself, I end up curling up at one end of the couch, tucking my freezing hands into the overly long sleeves of his leather jacket.
My eyes land on three photos arranged vertically on the wall: a striking couple with their arms wrapped around each other, the same couple with a little boy of two or three—whom I assume is Vadim—and a portrait of the same family with a new baby.
“You look a lot like your dad,” I call out toward the small kitchenette opening onto the main room.
“Yeah, apparently. I don’t remember them anymore. These are the only photos I have of them.”
“Are they…?”
“Dead? Yeah, years ago. Not long after the bottom photo was taken.” His voice is steady, but it hides a deep pain I can only imagine.
“And the baby?”
“My brother. I don’t know him.”
Vadim returns with two steaming mugs and sits on the floor, then leans his back against the couch.
Reluctantly, he continues to answer my questions.
I learn about the fragments of his past that he’s willing to reveal.
His father, Volodia, was a Russian emigrant to the United States who was scouted for his good looks and became an actor somewhat by chance.
He fell in love at first sight with a rising, young, American actress of the time, Jane Howard King.
She fell for his Slavic accent, and they married hastily when she fell pregnant.
Their meteoric careers and passionate romance were cut short three years later.
I have no idea how they died, and I don’t dare ask.
Then, Vadim talks about being separated from his brother—the usual fate for orphans like them—and the foster families who never kept him for very long because he was a difficult child, hard to love.
Meeting Felix, another lost cause nobody wanted to adopt.
Their social worker, Keith Johnson, who has checked up on them since they were teenagers—the only one who understood them, who knew how to keep them in line.
The only one they trust. And he’s saved their skin more than once.
His voice is filled with emotion, but it isn’t sadness.
Instead, there is contained rage, dull anger, and disillusionment, too.
I never would have thought Vadim Arcadi capable of being so open, so honest about himself.
I never would have imagined that someone could have lived so many lives in just twenty years.
I never would have thought that one day, beneath Vadim’s arrogant, indifferent, and provocative demeanor, I would discover childhood wounds that still haven’t healed.
“Oh, Vadim… I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your pity, Alma.”
I don’t know how it happens, but I find myself lying on my stomach, my fingers tangled in Vadim’s brown curls. Still sitting on the floor, he has tilted his head back against the edge of the couch. He occasionally looks up at me to tease me or repeat that he doesn’t want my pity.
I silence him by pressing my hand over his mouth, which he quickly bites.
Not to hurt me, but to unsettle me. And it works.
A strange sensation runs through me, like tiny butterfly wings fluttering in my stomach.
I’m not cold anymore, but the touch of Vadim’s mouth against my palm gives me goosebumps.
I let him play with my hand, kiss it, nibble it.
And I let myself slide gently into the cocoon of my awakening desire.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so good.
“Vadim?”
“Hmm?”
“No, forget it.”
“No, tell me.”
“This night is going to have to end, huh?”
“I think it’s already morning. Come on, let’s see,” he murmurs, standing up and keeping my hand in his.
We slowly approach the window overlooking the street, each of us drawing back a section of the closed curtains.
The day is only just breaking, and the streetlights are still on.
The yellow light makes us squint. In a single motion, we let the curtains fall back, plunging ourselves once again into comforting darkness.
“We could pretend it’s still night,” he whispers, tightening his fingers around my hand.
“We could pretend I’m not Alma Lancaster and you’re not Vadim Arcadi.”
“What would that change?”
“I wouldn’t be as shy, you wouldn’t have so much pride, and… I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Maybe one of us would make the first move.”
“I was the one who made it the first time, remember?”
“Abrams forced you to!” I smile and lower my eyes.
“I don’t want you to feel obligated, or to be anyone other than Alma.”
He breathes these words, and they hit me so hard that my stomach tightens into a knot. He gazes at me like no one else ever has. And I finally dare to express what I feel, deep inside.
“I don’t want anyone else but you, Vadim.”
Without wasting another second, I push myself up on my tiptoes, driven by some supernatural force, and press my lips to his.
My eyes close as Vadim brings his hand to my cheek and parts his lips to kiss me like no one else ever has before.
His tongue brushes against mine, intertwining with it, almost in slow motion.
I slide my fingers into his silky hair, while he presses his body against mine and cups my face with both hands.
Our mouths part, only to find each other again, as if magnetized, as though our lips were made for each another.
The ground starts spinning beneath my feet, and I realize I’m losing my mind.
Time seems to have finally stopped. The kiss lasts an eternity—the sweetest, the wildest, the deepest of kisses.
Please, let this night never end.
I would rather die than stop kissing him.