Abby
Shit.
I guess there are more than a few of those in my life at this point.
But still, I don’t think Conor is currently pissed enough to murder me.
I’m not important enough to him to be used as blackmail, so hopefully all his enemies know that he truly couldn’t care less what happens to me.
I suppose someone related to the Santoris could have discovered my deception and come for me.
It wouldn’t surprise me at all to see Gabri silently climb a twenty-story building with ease.
Thwack.
Okay, that’s it. That was for sure not my imagination, and it was right outside my door. Maybe whoever it is killed the doorman, and overrode the elevator code to come kill me. I have knives in the kitchen, but that’s as prepared as I am for a home invasion.
This is ridiculous. Whether someone’s there or not, I’ll never be able to sleep tonight. Maybe I should call the cops…although I really don’t need anyone sniffing around me or the records for this condo. I can just slowly approach the door and see if anyone’s there through the peephole…
Bzzz.
Another ominous noise from the hallway outside my door pushes me into action, and I scramble back into the living room. Before I can think, my phone is in my hand. My most recent text thread is with Conor, mostly him bitching me out about my progress, but right below him…
Me: Hi. This is weird, but I think someone’s trying to break into my house
His reply is instant, and I’m sure he already had his phone open…but a tiny part of me revels in the idea that he was about to text me. Or was waiting for me to text him.
Misha: Address?
It’s a no-brainer to give it to him even though Conor swore that I shouldn’t let anybody come over. Too much of a chance to blow my cover, he said. Misha’s safe, though. I know it.
Misha: I’m on my way. Why do you think that someone is trying to break in?
Oh. I really didn’t expect him to just drop everything and come over.
Me: No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you come here, especially if you were busy or something
Misha: Already in the neighborhood
Misha: Are you ok? I’ll be there soon
Why would he be in the neighborhood? Was he on a date? There’s a cute little shopping street a few blocks away with a few restaurants.
Me: I’m okay
Me: Sorry if I interrupted your dinner or anything
God, I sound pathetic. But my heart is racing, and I’m not thinking clearly.
Misha: No dinner. Starving actually. Hope you have snacks.
Snacks?
Not even fifteen minutes after I first messaged him, closer to ten if I really think about it, Misha knocked on my door after warning me he was here so he wouldn’t scare me.
After I explained the noises I heard, he went on a long walk up and down the hallways and stairwells of my building but didn’t find anything suspicious.
Now, he’s sitting on my couch like it’s the most natural thing in the world and rummaging through a stack of takeout menus I’ve accumulated since I moved in.
“So not much of a cook, I take it?”
His question floats in one of my ears and out the other.
I’m too focused on how relaxed he is. As if I didn’t just interrupt his evening, although he’s dressed casually in dark jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt.
His beard is scruffier than I’ve seen it, as if he was planning to trim it tomorrow morning.
“Abby? You okay?”
“Huh?”
“I said, you must not enjoy cooking. Or maybe you’re on a mission to rank every take-out place in Thunder Bay.”
He laughs as I take a glossy menu from his hand and smack him on the side of the head with it, then sit on the opposite end of the couch facing him.
“For your information, I do in fact hate cooking. I don’t mind baking, but neither is necessarily my favorite pastime. I have a meal prep service I use during the week, but on weekends, I actually am on a quest to find the best comfort food in Thunder Bay.”
His eyes light up at that, and he flips through the menus with renewed vigor before triumphantly handing me one. Mimi’s.
“Have you tried it yet? Are you an alien who hates Italian food? Do you have any allergies?”
He’s already dialing the restaurant as he peppers me with questions.
“No, no, and no.”
Before I can snatch the menu from his hand or tell him what I usually order from Italian restaurants, he answers the phone in fluent Italian, and I melt into a puddle on the floor and die.
“Buonasera, Fredo. Come sta tua nonna? Bene, bene. Senti, ho qui una persona che non ha mai assaggiato la cucina di Mimi...Lo so, lo so. Puoi mandarmi il menu completo?”
Holy shit. It never crossed my mind that Misha would speak Italian once he told me he was Russian.
I guess it makes sense, since he’s close to the Santoris, but…
I wish I could go back to before I heard him because now it’s going to be even harder not to be awkwardly stare-y at every practice.
Menu completo sounds like he just ordered the entire restaurant, but surely, he wouldn’t.
After he gives the address of the building but not my condo and hangs up, he straightens out the stack of menus and heads to the kitchen.
Mimi’s menu goes in pride of place on my fridge, and he gestures with the stack.
Pointing at the drawer where I keep them, along with all my other junk, he tucks them away, then returns to assess my refrigerator magnets.
“These are sad, Abby.”
“My magnets? Why?”
It’s a generic pack of twenty I ordered on a whim when I moved in. They’re beach-themed, partly because I thought it was funny to lean into the Florida vibe when I moved in and partly because I liked the pink flamingos that were included.
“Where are all your travels? Your friends and family? Or at least things that represent what you love. A fridge should be eclectic and full of memories.”
I haven’t traveled for pleasure in years.
Any hint of a vacation was always a ruse to allow Conor to pass me around to more men and take part in debauchery across the world.
Or to try to drum up support for his campaigns.
Whenever I’d try to suggest we get away, just the two of us, he’d laugh and ask what the point of that would be.
It took me less than a year to learn never to ask.
As far as things that I enjoy…pieces of my personality that have been buried under the facade of Mrs. Fitzpatrick for years…
I’m not sure where they all are. Decorating this space has been harder than I expected.
Years of Conor deciding on every inch of gaudy decor in our home obliterated any chance I had to develop my own style, and my hobbies have lain dormant too.
I suppose some album covers, skates, and a few bookish magnets would Abby-fi the fridge.
“Abby? Hey.”
Misha’s much closer now, and the soft concern in his eyes tells me I’ve been quiet for far too long.
“I was just teasing you. I like these magnets just fine. Especially the flamingos.”
Huffing a laugh, I head for the safety of my blanket nest on the couch and plop back down.
Even this stupid couch is an example of how shitty and all over the place my style is these days.
A fluffy pink blanket clashes with the group of throw pillows I bought one night after drinking an entire bottle of wine.
A neon orange Ace of Cups tarot card, a green caterpillar body pillow, and an embroidered skull on black corduroy seemed like they would be whimsical in theory, but in practice, they look like they belong to an unstable lady who’s trying too hard.
A.k.a. me.
“It’s fine,” I sigh, picking at a loose thread on my caterpillar. “You’re not wrong. I need some more personal touches. It’s a bit sterile. I’m still trying to figure out my style.”
“I like it. Especially the ‘Fuck the Patriarchy’ canvas in the entryway. I couldn’t agree more. Things tend to go better when women are in charge.”
That canvas was another part of my drunken haul, and the only thing gracing the barren white walls of the condo for now.
“Thanks.” I’m not sure what else to say. I’m still a little shocked that he’s here. Judging my fridge magnets and complimenting my one decor choice.
The call for the food delivery interrupts our silence, not quite companionable but not awkward.
Just thick, as if neither of us knows what to say.
Food, the great equalizer, gives us something else to talk about other than my obviously sad and solitary existence.
Whoever Mimi is, she obviously knows her shit.
“Oh my God.” My moan around my first bite of garlic bread is indecent, but I don’t even care. This is the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth, and Misha isn’t even finished opening all of the take-out containers yet.
“Wait until you have the fiocchi. Do you like pears? I’m sorry I didn’t ask for your preferences, but I wanted you to have as many of Mimi’s classics as your heart desired.”
“I love pears. Although I’ve never had it paired with cheese in a savory dish before. Unlike you, based on how much you ordered. Is that your favorite?”
His boisterous laugh as he dishes pasta onto my plate with a wink relaxes me a bit, and after explaining a few more dishes and adding generous portions, he presents it to me with a fork and a flourish.
“Everything from Mimi’s is my favorite, but you’re right. This fiocchi is the premier pasta dish in the city, by far. So eat up.”
I don’t know what I would have considered my favorite food before, but now I know for certain it’s this pasta. Misha eats with perfect manners but a ravenous appetite befitting a man his size, and I’m getting full while he loads up a second plate.
“You must have quite the workout regimen to eat so much and stay in shape. On top of my skate practices, which I know must wear you out.” I’m mostly joking—although he still hates the BOSU ball and complains every chance he gets.