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Mrs. Marshmallow sputters, her face contorting into shock at his open defiance. But then she gives up, huffs, and returns to the lesson with a scowl on her face.
No one dares to speak against Aleksandr Kurochkin, not even the teachers.
When she turns back to the whiteboard, I peer over my shoulder to catch his eye. But he keeps his gaze forward, not sparing a single glance in my direction.
When Mrs. Marshmallow dismisses us for break, Alek is the first one out the door. I scramble to my feet, running past the other students to reach the hallway first.
I see the door to the men’s bathroom swing shut, and I race down the corridor to follow him inside.
Alek is standing at the sinks, his shirt raised up on his side. He spots me in the mirror and yanks it back down, but not before I see the massive bruise on his ribcage.
I gasp. “Did your dad do that to you?”
He closes his eyes and puts his hands on the counter, leaning over it. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“Why haven’t you responded to my texts?”
“You need to leave, Willow,” he says, his voice bitter.
Alek uses my name instead of malishka, and my heart clenches.
“So, that’s it?” I ask. “Just like that, we’re over?”
“Yes, now go.”
A fresh wave of tears wells up in my eyes, and I bring my hand to my mouth to stifle a sob. “Is there no way around this? What about our plan to go abroad? We could get out from under your father’s thumb, and he won’t be able to hurt you anymore. And I could ask my dad to request a new post so he won’t lose his job—”
Hands wrap around my throat, and my back slams against the cold, tile wall. Alek is leaning over me, but he winces at the swift motion.
“You don’t get it! My father, he…” He clenches his jaw and hangs his head.
“What?” I choke out. “What about your father?”
Alek releases his grip and steps back, but he continues to stare at the floor. “You need to stay away from me, Willow. Loving you has only brought me pain.” He lifts his shirt again to give me a better look at the dark purple bruise on his ribs.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” I whisper between sobs.
He keeps his head bowed. “Don’t try to text me again. From now on, pretend like you’ve never met me.”
He steps past and moves toward the exit.
“I love you,” I say.
He pauses with his hand on the door. “Goodbye, Willow.”
And then he yanks the door open, disappearing through it.
When the depression gets bad, I only eat enough to sustain me. A bowl of broth once a day is all I need, though I have to force myself to finish it. It doesn’t taste like anything.
So, when lunchtime arrives, I skip the dining hall altogether. Being in the classroom with Alek all morning has been torture, and I need a break from seeing his face. It hurts too much.
Each time I glance over, I’m reminded of what his father did to him because of me. Of the cold way Alek addressed me in the bathroom. How he didn’t tell me he loved me back.
I find the first-floor closet Prisha showed me my first week here, and I slump on a box of toilet paper with my head against the wall.
Every movement I make is on autopilot, going through the motions of the day without purpose.
Alek was my reason to keep going on this earth. That day on the cliff, I had a moment of regret. Now that my heart has suffered another trauma, would the same regret hit me if I tried again?
