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“Ah.” Kent looks amused again. “Yulia said to tell you that tampons and other girl necessities are in the cabinet under the sink.”
“Oh, it’s not about that,” I say quickly, though that was indeed what I was hinting at. “It’s something else.”
His eyebrows lift. “Oh? What is it?”
Crap. I was counting on him being like most men and acting embarrassed when confronted with the reality of women’s biological functions. Thinking quickly, I say, “It’s just a cream for something. It’s okay, though; I’m sure it’ll go away on its own.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Just tell me what cream it is, and I’ll see if we can get it.”
“Monistat,” I say, looking straight at him as I name a popular treatment for yeast infections. “The generic name is miconazole. It’s for—”
“Yeast. I know.” He doesn’t look embarrassed in the least. “We’ll get it for you.”
I grit my teeth. “Okay, thanks.”
He is determined to keep me from Yulia, and that makes me want to talk to her even more.
The following day passes in a similar manner, with me locked in my room all day. The only difference is that, at dinner time, Kent voluntarily updates me about Peter.
“They’re planning to do it the day after tomorrow, in the morning,” he says, placing my food tray on the dresser. “I will let you know if anything changes.”
I eye the arms dealer morosely. “Okay, thanks.”
It feels like an axe—a very slow-moving axe—is hanging over my head. I dread both the failure of this operation in Turkey and its success. If something goes wrong, I will lose Peter and regain my old life, and if he returns unscathed, I will be tied to him forever, bound by a child he intends to force on me.
The only way out is to escape before Peter returns, and I don’t see how that’s possible when I’m even more of a prisoner here than I was in Japan.
Kent leaves, and I eat dinner on autopilot, barely tasting the richly flavored food. On the tray, along with covered dishes, is a tube of the cream I requested—something I have absolutely no use for other than as a way to explain my need to talk to Yulia. Now that it’s been two days, I’m even more convinced that the beautiful blonde might be sympathetic to my situation—if only I could explain it to her fully.
Finishing my meal, I study the cream, noting dispassionately that it’s packaged a little differently from the way I’m used to seeing in the United States. It’s not surprising, of course. This is Europe. The Japanese morning-after pill also looked nothing like what I was used to.
The morning-after pill…
Sucking in a breath, I jump up, unable to contain my sudden excitement. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before, but if Kent was willing to get this cream for me, there’s a chance he’d agree to get something else—such as the pill I so badly need.
My first instinct is to rush to the door and hammer on it until my jailer comes, so I can implement my plan right away. However, that wouldn’t be wise. Acting overeager could make Kent suspicious, maybe even cause him to consult with Peter on the issue.
Taking a calming breath, I force myself to sit and wait for Kent to return for the tray. For this to have the best chance of success, I have to be smart.
I have to pretend this is yet another ploy to talk to Yulia.
The waiting seems interminable, though the clock tells me it’s only been an hour. Finally, Kent opens the door, and I implement my plan.
“So,” I say casually as he walks in, “is Yulia still busy? I would really like to talk to her.”
The arms dealer gives me a cool look. “Why? Is it about another female item?”
I try to look embarrassed. “Yes, actually. I’m sorry I forgot to mention it yesterday, but it’s something I really need.”
“And that is?”
“Plan B.” I give him my most innocent face. “Do you know what that is? There are other brands too, like Next Choice, My Way—“
“Got it. You will have it soon.”
And swiftly collecting the tray, he heads out the door.
44
Sara
That night, I toss and turn, tortured by worry about Peter’s upcoming operation and the realization that, despite my little victory this evening, the pill will at most delay the inevitable. Every time I sink into light sleep, I wake up with my heart racing, as if from a panic attack. It reminds me of the first couple of months after Peter’s assault in my kitchen, when nightmares about waterboarding and ruthless gray-eyed men were my nightly reality.
Finally, I give up on sleep and get up to use the bathroom. It makes no sense whatsoever, but what I want most right now is Peter. I want his warmth in the darkness and his strong arms around me, holding me tight. I want his deep voice calling me “ptichka” and telling me how much he loves me.
