Vasily
Vasily
I’m nervous as Ana is led away. Not that I don’t trust Niko, of course. He’s Alex’s brother. I used to play video games and ride bikes with him. We went our separate ways in high school, but I was as proud of him taking the cloth as I would have been my own brother. And since he’s one of the younger clergymen, he won’t be so bothered by the fact that she’s not Orthodox. The rules are complicated. She probably shouldn’t be here, at least for confession and communion. But he’ll understand and walk her through it.
He won’t judge her for being here with me.
She looks uncomfortable at first with being taken down to a quiet, deserted end of a pew instead of one of the boxes the Catholics like so much. She looks around nervously. Sweat beads at her brow. She leans in, same as the other parishioners giving confessions do, but I think it’s more to muffle her voice than for any sort of support.
“She’ll be fine,” Artyom says, switching to Russian now that it’s just us.
“I should have taken her to a Catholic church.”
“It’s better if she gets used to this.”
“Why would she need that? She’ll never be here again. She goes back to Phoenix on Saturday.”
Artyom raises his brow like he’s trying to communicate something meaningful to me.
I’m not here to play dumb. “She is going back there. I’ve never been anything but honest about that. This isn’t some ploy to keep her.”
“Brother. I saw how you were with her yesterday. I see how you look at her now. Do you honestly expect me to believe that?”
I scowl at him, not wanting to explain myself again but needing to. “If you don’t believe me that I don’t understand that she’s not Brooke, believe me that I would not survive Brooke’s death again. I will lose Ana on my own terms, no one else’s.”
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Artyom says apologetically. “She just looks so much like Brooke that I assumed—”
Artyom thinks that he’s handicapped me by demanding I be sober today. It’s mostly made me irritable and needy, ornery about letting other men talk to Ana, let alone take her away from me regardless of how innocent the intentions are. She let me wash every inch of her from her toes all the way up to her mess of wild black curls this morning, and it’s probably the only reason I’ve kept calm today.
Sobriety has also made me fast . The three years’ difference between us means we’ve spent our lives scrapping, and I had to be tougher than I truly was because Artyom’s never pulled his punches. When we go at it, everyone knows better than to break it up, both because they’ll end up getting hurt in the melee and because we hold our own against each other.
But I have the element of surprise this morning, and Artyom’s pinned against an archway before he can stop running his mouth and bites his tongue.
“Was that deliberate?” I growl at him. “Did you think it’d be funny if I raped a girl who looks so much like the love of my life? The woman I was supposed to spend forever with? The woman I would have had a family with despite knowing what I’d be potentially be putting them through? Did you look at my little starlet and decide that I wasn’t fucked enough in the head, so I needed to make sure that not only could I not forget Brooke, I had to also never forgive myself for her death?”
The church has gone silent. I have to hold back the urge to find Ana and make sure I haven’t disturbed this time she needed with Niko. I may have decided when papa and Brooke died that this building was no place for me and I had no interest in appeasing my God anymore, but I want her to have this.
Artyom is holding his hands up, not surrendering to me but gesturing for others to stay back. His eyes water, and I see blood on his teeth when he says, “Never. I had no idea what she looked like, not until that video you made. And then it all clicked.”
I see the honesty and the concern, the love that we rarely act on but feel for each other, written on his face. With a deep breath, I drop my arm and allow him to embrace me. “She doesn’t look like Brooke,” I mutter as I stare at the wall and swallow against the dryness in my throat.
His words are like a curse, though. Immediately, I have to wonder if that’s why I’ve been how I am with Ana this whole time. She’s the same age Brooke was when she died. Brooke was slender, too, just beginning to blossom after her gangly teenage years. A late bloomer, her mom always said. Curly black hair that had been short in middle school but then she only ever trimmed in high school at my insistence. She would have grown it down to the ground for me if she could, but it stretched down to the small of her back, and there was so much of it I’d happily drown in it.
That’s where her similarities with Ana end, though. She had a longer face of more average proportions. Everything was symmetrical and positioned just right that she was never less than beautiful, but she wasn’t intriguing the way Ana is. We also fought constantly, and I would never say it was a bad thing — Brooke was passionate, and I adored that about her even when it had us butting heads — but she never soothed me the way Ana does, even when it’s me hurting her.
No, she’s not Brooke, and I’ve never thought they were similar in any way.
“Do you mean that?” Artyom asks as he heads out the front door and I follow. He leads me a few feet away, just far enough from the door to avoid offending anyone when he spits out a mouthful of blood and uses a pristine handkerchief to wipe his lips clean. “This thing you’re doing now has nothing to do with Brooke?”
The air is cold this early in the morning, but the sun is already warm on my face. I close my eyes and let its rays soak into my skin. “Not in any way that matters.”
“You have feelings for her, then.”
“Not in any way that matters,” I repeat.
“Vasya.”
“Artya.”
Artyom groans and tips his head back. “If you want to keep her, I will work something out with her brother.”
I bristle at the way he says that. Ana is not a possession. I cannot keep her, because I don’t own her, and if I did want to have her in my life beyond next Saturday, that conversation would not be between Artyom and Tony. It would be between Ana and myself and no one else.
It is pointless to argue the semantics, though, because I’m not changing my mind on the timeline. Our time works together because we know it must end.
“I told you already, I will not let another person suffer because of my curse. If you’re getting some idea in your head that I love her, that should be reassurance enough that I’ll be returning her to the people she’ll be safe with.”
Artyom wants to say more, but he abstains. The parking lot is filling up as people finally begin to file in for Liturgy. We need to go back in before it gets too crowded and we’re separated from our women.
“You call her your starlet,” he says as we join the line, shaking our heads to those who offer to let us skip ahead simply because of who we are. In this house, we are but humble servants of the Lord. “It seems cruel, like you’re poking fun at her, knowing she won’t understand it in Russian. But the men, they know of the video if they haven’t seen it themselves already. They hear that, and it’ll be worse than calling her a . . . sex worker.”
A whore , I’m sure he wants to say, but the couple in front of us is ancient and behind us is a family with young children.
“I call her that because she studies theatre. She says she doesn’t want to be a star, but I’m taking her to an audition tomorrow, and I may have to break a kneecap if she doesn’t get the role she wants.”
Artyom chuckles dryly and motions for me to enter the church, where his wife and my zvyozdochka await.
Ana’s happiness comes in shades I don’t know the names of but I treasure equally, like a pristine box of crayons on the first day of school. There was her aroused, intrigued excitement last night as I gave her that impromptu lesson on my cock, a lesson I think I’ll still be smiling about on my deathbed.
There was her post-orgasmic mindless bliss I drove her to so many times last night. There was her sated, pliable ease this morning.
Her time with Niko gives her a radiance that I could never take offense to, even if it was another man who gave her this joy.
I know that at her church, liturgy comes with calisthenics, a dance of sitting, kneeling, and standing, but we stand through this service, and never once does she seem bothered by it. She’s not bothered by the fact that neither the Bible nor the sermon are in English, either. She simply observes quietly, sometimes with closed eyes, like the voice of my native land alone is enough to take her where she needs to be.
When Artyom escorts her to the line for Communion, both Jana and I stay behind. “Kseniya adores her already,” Jana says with a smile. It took eight years for Jana and Artyom to tie the knot; it was years before Artyom made it clear that she was anything more than a casual hook-up, that he’d actually been monogamous with her from the beginning, but they’ve since lived together so long it was easy to forget they weren’t married until now. “It seems Kseniya isn’t the only one.”
“Artyom just met her yesterday,” I clarify. “They’ve barely spoken.”
“Not Artyom. You! It’s good to see you smile again.”
“I smile.”
“But not like that.”
So Artyom hasn’t told her the truth about why Ana is here today. Not surprising. And he makes it clear he doesn’t plan to when they return and Jana invites us to lunch. Before I can decline, Artyom says they need to go to the hardware store so they won’t be doing lunch, and that’s that.
Painfully domestic.
“It was nice there,” Ana says as I pull out of the parking lot. “Different but in a good way. Father Niko speaks very highly of you.”
I chuckle as I ease my Accord into traffic. I’m sure it’s not the glamorous car she’s used to, but it’s a good car and reasonably priced. I’ve never needed anything fancy, and Kostya’s usually driving it, anyway.
“Well, the Bratva’s pretty much the only reason we can have a Russian Orthodox Church in town,” I point out.
“Not because of that,” she giggles, resting her hand over mine on the shifter. “He’s your friend. Confession’s different here, you know? I couldn’t hide that what I was saying involved you, but he helped me through it and encouraged me to trust you when you tell me things are–are natural. He made me feel like a lot of things that bothered me were fine . . . because it was with you.”
I’m paying attention to the road since we’re going through a congested area of town, and honestly, it’s so rare I drive that it makes me nervous. Especially with Ana sitting next to me. Especially with Artyom pushing me into thinking about Brooke’s death. It was my father driving that day, doing me a solid and picking her up from work because I’d gotten stuck in a skirmish. The bomb took them both out.
I could see myself being such a bad driver that I kill us both in some dumb way. But right now, I can feel her eyes and her smile upon me every bit as bright as the sun.
“The older parishioners think Niko is too progressive. They tried to oust him last year for sanctifying a gay marriage.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“If you’ve found someone that you love and trust enough to spend the rest of your life with, that’s a big fucking deal and the world should celebrate it. Fuck, zvyozdochka , don’t take your seat belt off.”
I attempt to grab it, but she’s already thrown it aside so she can pop herself onto her knee and kiss me. Thankfully, we’re at a traffic light, but I’m grabbing that seat belt to lock it right back in even as I’m savoring her lips.
“I like how you drive,” she says when she sits back down.
“I’m nervous,” I admit.
“It’s the city. I think everyone’s nervous in the city, or they should be. We should go out on some open road.”
I tap my nails on my steering wheel as I mull over that. I’ve been in control this whole week, and there have been so many times Ana must have been scared but got herself through it.
It’s my turn to be a little scared.
“Would you like to go for a drive?”
We get lunch at a gas station in the middle of nowhere an hour north of Flagstaff. It’s not much of anything, but they have a small grill for sandwiches and they make us cheesesteaks that are equally terrible and satisfying. We sit on the hood in the middle of the sun-bleached parking lot, and I’m doing my best to follow the story that Ana is telling me. Despite my best efforts and the handful of aspirin I took, my head is pounding.
“Are you okay?” Ana asks when I don’t respond to her for too long.
I nod. My stomach lurches.
“Was it the sub? I can see if they’ve got any antacids in there.”
“It is me,” I tell her, only now feeling embarrassed about the situation I’ve put myself in over the years. “When we get home, I’ll feel better.”
“Oh, but— ohhh.” She frowns. “Do you have what you need on you?” she asks delicately.
I shake my head, not wanting to admit I was worried I’d end up getting high in the bathroom at the church and not being able to take her home.
“Well, here. Give me the keys, and I’ll drive us back.”
I want to be tough, especially when I’m so careful not to take too much of any one thing, so usually a day of detoxing isn’t so bad, but I accept defeat.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her as she adjusts the seat, the steering wheel, and all the mirrors. It’s not like I have an issue with a girl driving, but this was supposed to be me driving while she got to enjoy the scenery.
As she throws the car into gear and backs out of the spot, she says, “It’s okay,” so brightly I know she means it and is happy to do this. I swear she’s a whole new person today.
“I hear voices,” I whisper, the words so shameful I can’t put anything more than air behind them, but I need to explain myself.
Ana slams on the brakes, but we’re still rolling through the parking lot at all of three miles per hour, so it’s little more than a jolt. “Like, right now?”
Fuck. I shouldn’t have said that. I should have just let her think I’m a junkie. It would have been better that way, really. She has a kind heart. When she goes home, it’ll be better that she remembers me as a junkie who refuses to clean up than someone inherently broken who can’t be mended. I think she’s the type who would refuse to accept that.
“Never mind. It was a joke. Let’s just go home so I can get fucked up.”
“Vasily,” she says sternly, and it takes everything within me not to snap my attention to her, especially when she grabs my hand and settles it in her lap. “That wasn’t a joke. I know you. I may not know your life story or even your favorite food or—”
“Pierogies.”
She chuckles and brings my hand up to kiss my knuckles before settling it back down. “I suppose I’ll have to ask Igor if his wife has a good pierogi recipe, then. Now tell me what you meant by that. And please don’t lie to me again.”
“Okay. But I need you to drive, okay? Just . . . watch the road.”
She keeps her hand on mine as she hops back onto the sleepy country road. I want to tell her both hands on the wheel, but that touch is everything. “I lost my father and my girlfriend, my . . . the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with six years ago.”
“Brooke?”
“Yeah. I guess you’ve talked to enough people you’ve heard her name. People have been talking about her a lot lately.”
“Because of me?”
“I haven’t dated anyone since I lost her, and most people don’t know the circumstances between us, so they think I’ve moved on. And Artyom pointed out to me that there are some similarities between you. Not anything I was thinking about, but I could see where people might be . . . getting confused about who you are because . . .”
“Because the voices?”
“ Da. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I’d never done drugs before then. I always assumed papa was going to be around just short of forever and when he died, Artyom would take over, and he’d have his own family so I’d be taken out of succession.”
“Like Kostya?”
“Just like that, yeah. And I wanted out of Flagstaff. I was going to be the good second son. I was going to do my time in the Bratva. But I was going to business school, too. Just the local community college, but I hoped I’d do well enough the first two years that a good school — maybe even yours — could see past the mess I made of high school. I was working on ways to make our brigade stronger and wealthier so I’d have an excuse to move to a big city and have a corporate office and still contribute. But then papa and Brooke died, and my brain . . . just . . . stopped. I was weak.”
Ana makes a soft, heartfelt sound. I hear the clicking of a blinker and feel the car slow down.
“Fuck, don’t stop.”
But she does. She pulls over onto the side of the road with the hazard lights on, throws the car into park, and then throws her arms around me. When her lashes brush my cheek, they leave a damp trail.
“Fucking hell, don’t cry for me, either.”
“You’re not weak,” she insists. “That would be a nightmare for anyone. And you lost them both but also had to give up on your dreams? That’s horrible!”
When I laugh, it’s a raw, choked sound. I thicken my accent for no good reason other than to cover up the emotion clogging in my throat. “Is fine, zvyozdochka . Is life. Please, let’s get home.”
Her look, her lips turned down, her brow creased, her eyes threatening to spill again, tells me she’s not okay with this, but she gets back in her seat and on the road again.
I cross my arms over my chest and lean back, staring out the moon roof at the cloudless February sky. “I first heard the voice at my father’s funeral. They were lowering his casket into the ground, and this voice — that, just putting it out there, sounds exactly like my mother, who was murdered before we were forced to leave Russia — this voice told me to jump in with him.”
Ana mouths fuck . I doubt she’s ever moved her lips in that way, let alone uttered it. She reaches for me and, when she finds my hands tucked under my arms, smacks my arm to get me to relinquish it. She grabs my hand in a grip that feels like she’s challenging me to an arm wrestle. She pins our forearms right to the center console, and I wouldn’t dream of even loosening that grip.
“It scared me,” I admit. “But the first time, I thought it was just an errant thought, you know? Just some dumb terrible thing that popped into my head.
“But then it happened again at Brooke’s funeral. Her family decided on cremation, and I was standing next to her casket, and my mother told me to climb in, that no one would notice. I could go with her into the fire, and it would all be over. Please stop crying.”
Ana sniffles. “If I could, I would.”
“It was always the same after that. I’d be walking down the road and the voice would tell me to fall into traffic. My brother’s house — that’s where I was staying because he was worried and Dima wasn’t so reliable then — he had a pool, and she’d tell me to weigh myself down so I’d sink and never come up. Whenever I drove over a bridge, I’d have to lock my arms to keep myself from driving off of it at her insistence. That’s actually why I stopped driving whenever I could get out of it.”
“Oh, Vasya. I made you take me on a drive.”
I grin at her, and yeah, her eyes aren’t the only ones damp. It’s been a long time since I talked to anyone about that. “I like driving with you. Anyway, I kept it to myself. We had work to do. The death of a leader means all the roaches come out. We had to be stronger than ever or else the bikers would have overrun Flagstaff. But I wasn’t sleeping, I was super twitchy, finally Dima called me out. He told me he could cure me. With weed.”
“And it worked?”
“For a while. But then the voice kept coming back, so I kept trying new things, until that was my life, but at least she only ever says the one thing to me now.”
“What’s that?”
“That I’m going to die in Flagstaff.”