Day 3
Day 3
Vasily
Coffee’s been made, a cup for each of us. The kitchen is spotless. Out on the balcony, the lone cigarette butt has already been emptied from the ashtray. Now that it’s daylight, I can see the way the furniture has been rearranged, and I like it.
Dima will be pissed that we’re gonna have to share the sofa to watch TV together.
Ana sits in my recliner with her coffee cup between her hands. She’s in one of Brooke’s sweaters and has at least two blankets on her lap as though it’s twelve degrees in here instead of a reasonable sixty-five. Those big brown eyes of hers track me through the kitchen and out to the balcony for my morning cigarette, staring me down as I send a text to Artyom that yes, I can take care of the truck again today. I’ve got a throbbing headache I’m positive is from yesterday’s biker coffee, and now I’m gonna end up taking another if offered because the only thing that fixes a meth headache is more meth.
Or opiates, which is what I’d planned for today.
Both, probably, because if I’m tweaking on meth again, I’m going to need to stabilize myself. I know that the moment I go back inside and instead of thanking Ana for cleaning, I say, “This they teach in church? Rearrange man’s home?”
Her nostrils flare. Fire sparks in her eyes. There’s a heartbeat where I think she’s going to rein in her anger. She’s good at that. But she’s a feisty little thing at her core. She takes a sip of her coffee and rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, glaring at the light fixture as she says, “No, I hate redecorating. And before you crack any more jokes, I hate cleaning. I had to read the labels on everything to even figure it out. I just don’t have anything better to do.”
“Read book.”
She hops up and stomps her tiny feet right over to the book shelf, taking book after book down and slamming them onto the table as she says, “They’re all in Russian, Vasily! How am I supposed to read anything?”
She’s a lucky girl. I’ve seen women get smacked so hard across the face they fall after pitching such a fit, and those are wives and girlfriends, not hostages.
I’m not that kind of guy. I like seeing this from her. It’s real. And it’s not fear. I don’t want her to fear me. She can stand up to me all day.
I can see that my grin irritates her even more as I casually approach, slide open a drawer on the coffee table, and produce an e-reader. “English. Tam . Has subscription. You read what you like, see?” I show her the selection I’ve already got on there, the historical works I favor.
Her brows pull together as she scrutinizes it. “The Splendor Before the Dark?”
“Is Nero, Tsar of Rome? A story of him. About him.”
She stares at me like I’m speaking . . . Russian, I guess . . . but hugs the e-reader to herself. I notice again her nails need to be cared for. They’re a natural color with white tips, the style that would look real if not for how even the coloring is or how thick and perfectly rounded they are, but several of them are damaged. I’m sure she would never ask for me to take her to a salon, but she should have at least asked for a file.
“I have school,” she says. “I need my textbooks to do my homework.”
“Oh? What is major?”
She flinches at that like she’s embarrassed by it or doesn’t like to be asked. Strange, since it’s what she chose to study. Or did she? Was she forced to study something she doesn’t like because it would make her more valuable? Clearly it wasn’t homemaking, or she wouldn’t have had to get the instructions for cleaning off the labels. Also, I’m fairly sure she used glass cleaner on the windows but surface cleaner on the bathroom mirror.
“I’m majoring in theatre,” she says softly, already launching into a further explanation of, “but I’m not trying to be an actress or anything. And I really do mean theatre, not—”
I shut her down with, “Then you know Tolstoy then? And Chekhov and Pushkin?”
That has her lighting up, the first true joy I think I’ve seen from her. “Yes, of course. And I studied Gogol last semester!”
“Ah, Igroki? Gamblers?”
“Yes! I liked it. But I really need my school supplies or I’ll fall behind. And my clothes. I don’t know whose clothes these are or if she’ll want them back or. . . or. . .” Doe eyes. Huge, soulful doe eyes bore right into me.
She’s not going to ask. Perhaps in a few days when she begins to warm up to me— if she does— but for now, she’s still not sure of if or when I’ll pivot on her. She no doubt thinks I’m baiting a trap.
“I will get your books. Clothes. What else?”
She shifts uncomfortably as she gnaws on the inside of her lip. At my raised eyebrow, she finally says, “I really need my laptop. It has my school work on it. Most of my textbooks are there, too. I can’t do my work without them. I promise I won’t—”
“No internet. Will log in and out for you.”
“You weren’t even here yesterday! Is that going to be all week? I saw you all of ten minutes before you left, and then when you got home, you—” Her cheeks go bright red at that, at even the barest hint of last night.
I grin and tuck one of her bouncy raven curls behind her ear just to touch her for a moment, just to see if that red will intensify. It does. “Will find time. Not today. But da , will get laptop, textbooks, and clothing. Kseniya visit you today, but read for now.”
She gives me that peevish glare. “Fine, but I’m filling this with all the dirtiest, filthiest, smuttiest smut there is.”
I flash her a big, toothy grin. “ That you read?”
“No! I mean—” She pouts. “You’re very annoying, you know that?”
I nod gravely. “Kseniya will much agree. Read your porn, zvyozdochka , and enjoy it.” Before she can inquire about the new nickname or get upset that I still think she’s going to read smut, I add, “You highlight stuff you want to try. That way, God won’t hear you ask me for it. Our secret.”
She’s still flushed to bright red when I leave a few minutes later.