Page 142 of Cruel Demands

She turns slowly. The irritation in her face is too immediate. Too defensive.

“Maybe I don’t want wine.”

“You always want wine.”

“That makes me sound like an alcoholic.”

Nikita folds the newspaper. “Mikhail,” she says.

I ignore her.

Taylor’s exhaustion may be nothing. It may also be the result of stress, poor sleep, or an illness she is attempting to conceal because she dislikes admitting weakness. She has no sense where her health is concerned. She would likely collapse in a hallway and describe it as inconvenient.

“You should see a doctor,” I say.

Taylor laughs once. “No.”

“That was not a request.”

The room goes still. My mother closes her eyes briefly.

Taylor sets the coffee cup down in the sink. “I’m sorry,” she says. “What was that?”

“I will have a doctor come to the house.”

“You will not.”

“You are sleeping constantly and barely eating.”

“I’m stressed.”

“Then a doctor can confirm you are stressed.”

“A doctor cannot confirm stress.”

“A competent one can.”

She stares at me. “You hear yourself, right?”

“Yes. And do you see yourself?”

“No, Mikhail, my eyes do not look that way.”

I grab her by the arms and drag her over to a mirror on the wall. “Look, Taylor, you are pale.”

She swats me away from her. “And you’re annoying. I guess we all have our plights.”

She walks out, and my mother lifts her cup of tea in sarcastic congratulations. “You are very skilled with women.”

I find Taylor twenty minutes later in the library. She’s curled in one of the armchairs near the window, asleep with her laptop balanced precariously across her knees. Sunlight falls across her face. Her breathing is slow and even, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.

For several seconds, I only look at her. She has made herself small inside the chair.

Taylor is rarely small. Even surrounded by men larger and more dangerous than she is, she occupies a room as if it belongs to her. She argues. She laughs too loudly. She insults my furniture. Now she looks fragile. I dislike it.

A blanket lies folded over the back of the sofa. I take the laptop before it can slide from her legs, then take the blanket and spread it over her. I set the laptop down on the table next to her. The screen wakes in front of me.

Flight schedules. Moscow to Wyoming.