NINETEEN DOES HE THINK I’M A GRANDMA?
NINETEEN
DOES HE THINK I’M A GRANDMA?
I stare at the dress and wrinkle my nose.
“What is it?” Shay glances up from his textbook. “Box that size has to be a dress.”
“Does he think I’m in my forties or something?”
Shay pops his head over my shoulder. “Mom’s in her forties. She wouldn’t wear that.”
“Rightfully so.”
“Huh, what’s that?” Wynter asks as she strolls into the living room, a bowl of chips in her hands.
“A dress. A bad one.”
“It’s not that bad,” Shay excuses, but he backs away like a smart man when I glare at him.
“This must be a joke. The first time I’ll be on his arm in ever and he wants me to dress like Sister Mary Clarence?! At a gala?! That will be covered by the press?!”
Wynter and Shay share a look, but she sets her bowl of chips onto the coffee table and pulls the folds of fabric out so we can get a better look.
But “better” is relative.
I gape at it in horror. “Sister Mary Clarence showed more skin in her habit!”
“Not when she was a singer though,” Wynter teases. “It’s not that bad. Just very conservative.”
“I won’t wear it.” I snag my phone and hit his number. When he doesn’t immediately answer, I take a picture of the dress and send it to him.
Me: WHAT IS THIS?
As I storm from one side of the room to the other, Wynter asks Shay, “Is she about to have a meltdown over a dress?”
“Their relationship’s weird.” His attention’s already back on his dumb essay, for a dumb class, for a dumb major, for this dumb college. “He’s the only person I’ve ever known to rile her up, and until ten or so days ago, she hadn’t seen him in years.”
“Huh.”
“I can hear you, you know?” I growl.
Neither gets the chance to answer because the little ticks turn blue. I half-expect Maxim to have the audacity to text me, but the text box doesn’t pop up. No little waving dots as he writes a message.
No call either.
Then, when I’m about to explode, his number comes through.
“Katyo—”
“You can’t be serious about this dress!”
He pauses. “Say hello, Victoria.”
I refuse to shiver. But oh, boy. That rumble. If I weren’t mad at him, I may have even melted.
“Hello, Victoria,” I snipe.
He chortles in my ear, and I hear a faint squeak, as if he took a seat. “What’s wrong with the dress? I bought it with you in mind.”
“Firstly, I should hope you bought it with me in mind. Who else would you be thinking of? Secondly, there’s nothing wrong with the dress for a widow! Am I a widow? In fact, I’m not a wife so—”
“Set the date.”
“Bah! You want me to dive into the New York gala scene wearing this?!”
“Did you read the card?”
“Huh?”
He says something in Russian, but I can tell he’s tilted the phone aside. He laughs then declares, “He wants to die, doesn’t he? Unluckily for him, I’m not the angel of death.”
“Maxim, concentrate.”
“Apologies, kotik. Now, where were we? Your deplorable reading comprehension skills?”
“There is no card in the box—” I waft a hand at both Shay and Wynter as he yells:
“DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MYSELF AROUND HERE?”
As he tears somebody a new asshole, I put him on mute. “Look for a card! Is there a note?! Someone’s about to get stabbed if—”
“Fucking psycho,” Shay comments while Wynter eeps but rummages through the bottom of the box and the folds of fabric. “Here.” He shows me a card tucked between the bow and ribbons.
Oops.
Quickly turning it off mute, I clear my throat. “I found the card.”
Into the furious tirade of Russian, I half-expect him not to hear me. Then, he rants, “What?!”
“It was hidden behind some ribbons.” I fidget. “You don’t have to shoot the messenger.”
“It’s not his first mistake today and it wouldn’t be unlike him to sabotage this. Have you read the card now?”
“Oh. Um. No.” I snatch the envelope from Shay’s hand. “You want me to wear this for the next rite?!”
“Yes. I have it on good authority that it will help the cause.”
“The man you’re storing?” I hedge.
“Hmm.”
“The gala’s tomorrow, Maxim. I still have no date for the rite. When’s the dress I need coming?”
“Should be there in the morning. Jewels too. The guards will bring it.”
“Um, sorry about that. I kind of overreacted.” Stepping out of the living room and into the kitchen, I admit, “I know what those events are like. Sharks everywhere. All I could imagine is me stepping in, wearing that dress, and all the sharks scenting immediate blood.”
“You think I’d set you up for a fall?”
“No, but I think you’d cover me up if you could. Especially when there are cameras.”
His wry laughter tells me I know him better than he realizes. “In this instance, kotik, you’re doing me a favor, nyet?”
“I’m pretty sure you were doing me the favor and I was repaying that favor.”
“Whatever, I want the sharks to fuck off. Your presence, on my arm, will hopefully achieve that.”
“True.” I grit my teeth then ask a question that’s been plaguing me since he left me in bed a few mornings ago. “Is there anyone who might try to get between us?”
“No one is our friend. Unless they’re family.”
“That’s no answer! I’m talking specifics. Women you’ve fucked and discarded. Women who think being cruel might get me to leave—”
“Ah. I will point them out to you if I see them there. But I won’t leave your side.”
“You can’t go into the bathroom with me.”
“If you had a piss kink, then I probably could, da.”
“Not funny, Maxim.”
“I thought it was hilarious,” he deadpans. “I can stand guard outside the cubicle if you wish.”
“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
His laughter, so free and amused, isn’t even worth it. “I will not allow you to be humiliated, korovka,” he assures me. “You are a feminist, nyet?”
Warily, I pause. But he doesn’t fill the silence. “Yes.”
“It’s only equal rights if I’m willing to cut out a woman’s tongue for hurting you too.”
“Maxim!”
More of his laughter echoes in my ears. “I’m glad you called, Victoria. You should talk to me through the day. It’s very funny.”
“I think they call it comic relief,” I mock.
“Da, da.” As I wonder if he knows how Russian he sounds when he’s been working, a lot less polished, his refined English sinking to the background as he wears the mask of “crime boss,” he hints, “Now, is there anything else, zaya?”
“Yes, you can stop calling me a hare.”
“But you’d be a cute one. Always jumping to the wrong conclusions.”
“Grr.”
I end the call.
Then, feeling bad, I text:
Me: I’m sorry if I got someone into trouble
Maxim: They deserve to be in trouble
Maxim: You will see Misha at the event. He’s going to be there as a guard. He doesn’t like you
Me: How can he like/dislike me?! He barely knows me
Maxim: You are dangerous, Victoria. Haven’t you realized that yet?
No, I haven’t. WTF?
Maxim: I have to go. Tell me when the real dress arrives.
Me: Will do
I pout once the conversation’s finished, unsure if it reassured me or attained the opposite.
When I pop into the living room, my brows lift when I see how cozy Wynter and Shay are as they discuss constitutional law.
Her blush pricks my curiosity when she notices my presence. “Shay says you’re going to NYC tomorrow?”
“Yup.”
“Would you mind dropping me off in the city?”
“Sure, but doesn’t your family live in Jersey? What’s it called… East Orange?”
“West. But that’s fine. I can catch a train and then a cab.”
I tsk. “I’ll drop you off. You can keep me company on the ride over.”
Shay nudges her. “See? Told you she wouldn’t mind.”
Though I arch a brow at the pair of them, I snag Wynter’s chips, grab the textbook I was in the middle of reading before a certain delivery driver showed up and stressed me out, then dive back into the text on alternative dispute resolution.
Or at least, I try.
Wynter’s presence on the drive down will be a welcome distraction from being introduced to Manhattan’s elite…
Is New York City ready to know me?
Somehow, I doubt it.