Page 11 of Cruel Demands

The title will matter on a résumé. The experience will matter when I go home. It will prove that this year has been more than an expensive detour while my parents keep their restaurant open through sheer force of denial.

If I get the position, I can tell them I am building something. That I didn’t come all this way just to take classes I could have taken somewhere closer. That their pride in me is not misplaced.

My throat tightens.

Anya reads my face and goes still. “Hey.”

“I really need this,” I say before I can stop myself.

Her expression softens. “Zachem?” she asks gently. Why?

I look down at the email.

Because my father stands in the restaurant kitchen every morning and pretends determination can compensate for declining sales. Because my mother tells me to enjoy myself in a voice that makes enjoyment feel like another obligation. Because they smiled at the airport like sending me across the world was a victory and not a sacrifice.

“Because I need this year to matter,” I say.

Anya’s hand moves from my shoulder to the back of my neck, squeezing once. “It already matters.”

“You have to say that. You’re my roommate.”

“I do not have to say anything. I am Russian.”

I laugh, though the nervous pressure behind my ribs does not ease.

I look down at the email again. “I should answer.”

“Tomorrow.”

“What if they think I’m not interested?”

“They will think you are sleeping.”

“I’m awake.”

“You are drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“You nearly lost fight with wall.”

“The boot was stuck.”

Anya’s face settles into the stern expression I have become accustomed to seeing on her sharp features. “Nyet, Taylor. Tomorrow.”

I push my hair out of my eyes and press my fingers to my face, feeling the heat lingering there. She has a point.

“I’m going to be responsible tomorrow,” I say.

Anya nods solemnly. “Konechno.” Of course.

“I’m going to wake up early and shower.”

“Heroic.”

“Answer the email with perfect professionalism.”

“I expect nothing less.”