44. Something Old
SOMETHING OLD
Three Years Earlier
“When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow.” Lev is spinning his lighter around one finger in steady circles. The timing of each spin is precise. Up. Down. Around. Repeat.
He hasn’t lit a cigarette—yet. I expect he will, before I fall asleep. Despite my repeated suggestions he quit smoking, I highly doubt he has.
“My brother is getting married on Saturday.”
I stiffen so I don’t react any other way. In the past, Lev has made it clear family is not a topic he wants to discuss, and I can relate. But that doesn’t mean I’m not insanely curious about his life outside his trips to Chicago.
I cough. Fiddle my fingers so it’s less noticeable that I froze. “You have more than one?”
“Yes.” Still with the perfectly repeated flips.
Even if this were our first conversation, I’d be able to tell exciting or fun isn’t the reply Lev wants based on his expression alone. Since this is the second time he’s mentioned his family in nine years, my response feels especially important.
“How did they meet?” I ask casually.
“My father arranged the match.”
“How … progressive.”
His lips twitch.
“Do you like her? Your soon-to-be sister-in-law?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I didn’t ask if it mattered.”
Another twitch before he drops the lighter and reaches for the box of cigarettes. “She’s fine. Aleksandr agreed to the match. He can find fault with anything or anyone, so …”
“So, she’s perfect.”
“Practically.”
I suck on the inside of my cheek, debating what else to ask. “Do you think they’ll be happy together?”
“No.” Lev taps an unlit cigarette against his abs. “No, I don’t think they’ll be happy.”
Despite the bleak prediction, I smile. “I hope you’re not giving a speech at the reception.”
“No speech.”
I curl my fingers, allowing my nails to dig into the soft flesh of my palm. The prick of pain is startling. Grounding. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Will your father pick who you marry?”
The lighter’s flame flickers to life.
I roll to the right so I’m facing him. He hasn’t lit the cigarette; he’s just studying the flickering flame.
I blow it out, and his eyes cut to mine.
“Will he?” I press.
“I don’t plan to ever get married.”
There’s a warning in his voice, a reminder that we’re coming too close to topics we don’t discuss. But all I feel is relief. It makes no sense, or maybe it’s entirely logical—if I can’t have him, I don’t want anyone else to.
“Most guys want someone to cook for them and fold their laundry.”
“You mean an Isabella?”
He’s teasing me now because I’ve admitted my “aunt” still does both those tasks sometimes. I can cook and fold; she’s just better at both. And it’s nice to feel taken care of.
I scoff, then flop onto my back with my limbs splayed out like a starfish. This bed is huge. Larger than a king, it seems like.
“Do you want to get married?”
The question is even more unexpected than Lev mentioning his brother was. These evenings are normally treated like a stasis from the rest of society, a separation from the surrounding world.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “Parts of it sound nice. Others … don’t.”
It’s an immense amount of trust to place in someone else—tying the rest of your life to theirs.
Their dreams become your dreams. Their problems become your problems. Their enemies …
become your enemies. I don’t know if I could marry someone who didn’t know the truth about my background, and I don’t think that anyone normal would be okay with joining a family of criminals.
I’m never sure of my own safety, let alone ensuring someone else’s.
How selfish, to drag someone else into that.
And of course, there’s the man next to me, who effortlessly overshadows everyone else I’ve ever met.
If he were an option, my answer would be different.