“He’s been talking about those deadbolts for two weeks,” I said, glancing over at Alya. “Pretty sure he’s more excited about the locks than the dishwasher.”
Alya’s gaze shifted to Aleksey, who had suddenly become very interested in re-stacking a crate near the door. The back of his neck flushed above the collar of his shirt.
Alya clicked her tongue. “The day he signs the contract, he calls me up saying,‘Mama, you’re moving.’ No asking. Just telling.” She smoothed a crease in the tablecloth with her thumb, not looking at either of us, but I caught the small smile on her lips. “Like I am the child.”
I shook my head with a smirk. “Aleksey doesn’t know how to do anything halfway.” Pushing back from the table, I grabbed the tape dispenser off the floor. “So, where do you want the next stack?”
Aleksey already had a crate hoisted onto the counter, his back to us. Alya crooked a finger at me.
“Come here.”
I stepped around the table. She reached up, adjusted the collar of my polo shirt with two fingers, a quick tug that straightened the fabric, then dropped her hand.
“You are not what I expected.”
“Is that good or bad?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned toward Aleksey. “Lekha.”
He lowered the crate to the counter and turned. Alya gestured at me with a flick of her chin.
“I have not seen you smile like this since you were twelve years old.” She pressed her lips together, a verdict appearing to land behind her eyes. “So. I like this boy.”
Aleksey’s hand stayed frozen on the crate handle. For a long second, he just stood there, jaw working like he was chewing through a reply he couldn’t find.
“I guess you’re getting demoted,” I said.
Aleksey’s mouth twitched. “Mama hasn’t even made you wash dishes yet.”
“Tomorrow.” I held up the tape dispenser. “Then it’s official.”
Alya waved me toward the boxes. “Go. Before he drops that crate on purpose.”
The next few hours blurred into a rhythm of hauling crates and ripping tape. I pivoted whenever Aleksey carried a heavy box past me in the narrow hallway, no words, just instinct. We didn’t need to talk. We moved.
Midway through, we stopped for water and leaned against the kitchen counter, shoulders brushing. Alya stayed in her armchair with the television turned up a little louder, but her eyes tracked us over the rim of her mug with a genuine smile.
By the time the sun dropped below the rooflines, my lower back ached and my shirt stuck to my skin. Alya had laid out cold cuts and bread while we worked. We cleared the snack plates in five minutes and went back to the last row of boxes in the front room.
I taped the last one shut right around eight o’clock. Alya retreated to the living room for the night, leaving the television playing low in the background. Meanwhile, Aleksey wiped his hands on his jeans. He checked the window, then pushed open the fire escape door.
I stepped out onto the metal grating after him. The warm summer air hit my face, carrying the distant hum of street traffic. A few floors down, a radio played salsa music.
I stepped up beside him, our elbows brushing as I gripped the rusted railing, the iron biting rough into my palms.
Aleksey didn’t move; he simply kept his eyes on the street. His forearms stayed locked on the rail, his knuckles going white before he flexed his fingers once and let them go slack.
“I think your mom likes me more than she likes you, now,” I said.
A snort. “She called you familyonetime. Don’t get cocky.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely getting cocky.” I nudged his elbow with mine. “She’s already got me on dish duty tomorrow. That’s a promotion.”
“That’s a trap. She’s gonna put you on scrubbing duty and sit back with her coffee.”
“Still better than the college dining hall.”
He didn’t answer. The streetlights buzzed on one by one below, pooling orange across the cracked pavement, and the silence stretched easier this time. A dog barked somewhere down the block. A car door slammed. The press of his shoulder against mine was solid and warm, and whatever he was working up to, I wasn’t going to rush it.
