11
I log off without waiting for a reply and sit there facing my computer, practically breathless with excitement. It took a lot of guts to challenge him like that.
I imagine him in his apartment, either laughing or brooding, his fingers lost in his curls.
Just the thought of seeing him run his hands through his hair again brings a smile to my lips.
The thought that he might not come makes me dizzy.
And I suddenly feel completely crazy for setting up such a date.
My mother and father, face to face with Vadim—defiant, disrespectful, and impossible to control.
His messy hair. His old jacket, his worn-out Adidas that are never laced up.
His beat-up pickup truck. The way he speaks, always provoking you, always playing devil’s advocate.
The way he looks at you as if he’s judging you, despite not knowing you—or worse, as if he’s already figured you out.
My parents will probably hate that. And the comparison with Timothy will be brutal.
Vadim will resent them and will never want to come back here again.
Alma Lancaster, world champion at digging her own grave.
***
Saturday was the longest day of my life, even though I did everything I could to keep busy and stop myself from thinking.
I spent hours telling Clémentine everything—well, almost everything.
I asked my parents for permission to have my project partner over, and they quickly accepted, pleased to see that I was listening to their advice and doing things by the book.
I hid the few stuffed animals lying around my room and took some cringey movie posters down from my wall.
I tried on several outfits, including a little dress that would likely raise some eyebrows and comfy jeans and a T-shirt that said Sunday casual.
But this Sunday morning, nothing feels right. I’m drifting around in my oversized sweatshirt. My room is far too tidy, and my bed too perfectly made. It all seems to scream: “Stay away from me!”
Lily is buzzing with excitement about this impromptu visit and follows me around, giggling.
Basile is grumbling and already warning me that we’d better not make any noise, since he needs to study.
Worst of all, I don’t even know if my guest is going to do me the honor of showing up.
I haven’t heard from him since last night, and he hasn’t deigned to reply to my two texts from this morning.
Arcadi clearly likes to play hard to get.
Or he’s about to stand me up.
At 3:05 p.m., the doorbell makes me jump. I walk slowly out of my room, fighting to stop myself from running down the stairs. My little sister catches me up and runs on ahead, already making me want to kill her.
Georgia opens the door for Vadim. He speaks to her politely and even shakes her hand, something I’ve never seen anyone do before. It seems to please her as much as it touches me.
He looks a little awkward but absolutely irresistible in dark jeans and a black T-shirt. He’s carrying his leather jacket in his hand. He’s made an effort—I’m sure of it—but not too much. Just enough so it doesn’t look like he did. I melt before we’ve even exchanged a single word.
And when he turns toward me, I have a hard time meeting his gaze. Once I’m near him, I completely fall apart and can’t even stammer hello. I put a hand on his shoulder, and this awkward gesture betrays my nervousness. Vadim lets out a low guttural laugh that flusters me.
Seriously, shoot me now.
“Alma, do you think you’re going to be okay?”
My little sister’s mocking voice snaps me back into focus.
I pull Vadim inside the house and introduce him to Lily, who has been so looking forward to this that she immediately jumps in and bombards him with her best jokes.
Then, I lead him to the living room, where my parents are sitting, silently absorbed in their own activities.
I start speaking in French, then switch to English so my guest can understand.
“This is Vadim Arcadi. We’re working together on a short film project due at the end of the semester. For Mr. Abrams’s class.”
“Hello,” Vadim says, without moving any closer.
“Hello, young man,” my father replies, standing up to come shake his hand. “Vadim? What’s the origin of your name?”
“It’s Slavic. Short for Vladimir. My father’s side of the family is Russian.”
“Pleased to meet you,” my mother adds, getting up to greet him and dispel the awkwardness. “So, you have a bicultural background too? We’ve had France and England living under the same roof for thirty years, and it certainly isn’t easy!”
“I can imagine how hard it must be,” Vadim replies with barely concealed irony, taking in the bougie living room.
He can’t help himself. Typical Arcadi.
My father frowns, but deliberately changes the subject. “So, what’s your film going to be about?”
I step in, forcing myself to smile—and to breathe. “That’s what we’re going to decide today. We have to present our theme to Mr. Abrams this week.”
“Alma raves about that professor all the time! He must be brilliant to teach at a film school like yours.”
“I think he’d prefer to be a director if he had the choice… or the talent.” Vadim replies sardonically.
Tension mounts between the two men as they stand in our living room, with its immaculate white walls.
“Well, you’ve already grasped one thing: talent isn’t always enough to build a great career. That’s why you have to work hard—”
“Speaking of which, we’re going to get started now!” I interrupt, putting an end to the discussion.
“It’s also possible to do wonderful things without necessarily working towards a great career at all costs. Or a great house, or great wealth,” Vadim blurts out.
My father isn’t used to having his grand statements challenged, nor being talked back to. His eyebrows are now drawn tightly together above the bridge of his nose.
“My boy, believe me, you have to dream big if you want to achieve even a small part of what you set out to do. You’re young and idealistic, but I assure you there is nothing unpleasant about making a good living.”
“And I assure you that not everyone sees life that way. But that’s your choice.” Vadim locks eyes with my father—who looks taken aback—and shrugs.
His nonchalance terrifies me as much as it fascinates me.
Even while I’m drowning in an ocean of panic, Vadim is never fazed. Ever. So, before he goes too far, I tug him by the arm and guide him toward the staircase.
“We have work to do, so you can continue your discussion another time!”
Lily plants herself in our path and silently mouths “I love him!”
This doesn’t go unnoticed.
We climb the stairs in silence, pass by Basile’s wide-open door—he doesn’t even lift his head from his books to say hello—then go lock ourselves in my room. Finally alone. I slide down against the closed door, slump on the hardwood floor, and let out a groan of frustration.
“Now that didn’t go so badly, did it?” Leaning against the nearby wall, Vadim looks at me smugly.
“Did you really have to shove their house, their money, and their privilege in their faces?”
“I can’t stand people who complain when they have everything. And who think they know everything just because they own more than others.”
“Yeah, it’s true my father is rich, and we all benefit from it. But he worked for it! Why should he be ashamed of it?”
“This was a bad idea, Alma. I should go.”
“You just got here!”
“Yes, and I already want to leave. I don’t feel like I belong here.”
“You pretty much insulted them, and you expect them to welcome you with open arms and shower you with kisses?”
“No, but I’d like it if you kissed me.”
My heart skips a beat.
“Is that too much to ask?” he whispers, sliding down next to me against the door.
My heart races.
I tilt my head to bring my lips closer, but deliberately stop an inch from his mouth. “Bad boy.”
“Little Miss Perfect.”
I feel his hot breath, his intoxicating scent, the soft skin of his bare arm brushing against mine.
My heart is going to explode. We stare into each other’s eyes, both resolved not to crack.
Vadim wets his lips and manages to make me glance down at the tip of his tongue, which vanishes immediately.
I stare at his little scar. Our breathing quickens.
He breaks the silence with a husky whisper. “If I let myself go, you don’t know what I’m capable of, what I might do to you.”
“Whatever you want.”
Vadim throws himself on me, pins me to the parquet floor, and kisses me… like the bad boy he is. We roll on the floor, our mouths once again drawn together like magnets, our tongues entwined, our bodies feverish. The kiss shuts everything else out.
Vadim’s hands slip under my clothes and meet my skin. The most intimate parts of it. My teenage bedroom becomes the stage for a scene it thought it would never witness. Frenzied and forbidden. Burning and silent.
Vadim touches me, caresses me with his fingers, and silences me with his mouth. I’m losing myself. My brother is just on the other side of the wall, and my sister and my parents one floor down, under the same roof, but I wouldn’t give this up for anything in the world.
“Alma, open up!”
Basile pounds on my bedroom door.
My heart lurches.
Vadim leaps to his feet, pulls me up and pushes me toward the door, which is still being hammered by my brother’s blows.
For a few seconds, I catch my breath. I can’t help stopping to admiring Vadim’s composure, his self-assurance, his perfect mastery of the situation. But then I start to wonder if it isn’t the first time he’s been caught in the act.
He sits down at my desk as if he’d been there all along. I smooth my hair with my fingers and finally open the door. Basile is standing there, his face scarlet and contorted with rage.
“Damn it, what took you so long? Alma, come see this! And you, over there, stay where you are!”
My brother yanks me by the arm.
“Hey, take it easy. You’re going to hurt her!” Vadim thunders behind us.
He jumps up and follows us into my brother’s bedroom.
Ten seconds later, all three of us are standing in front of Basile’s computer screen, looking at an email containing a photo that’s dark and a little blurry.
Still, I can instantly see that it’s us.
Him pressed against me as we stand, half-naked, in Vadim’s apartment.
My first time.
Under the photo, there’s a bold caption:
Keep an eye on your sister. Shame on the Lancaster family.
Turning around, I only have time catch a fleeting glimpse of Vadim’s pale face before Basile’s fist smashes into it. And yet, I’m the one who’s stunned.