Page 75 of Cruel Demands

“We’ll pay you back.”

“I know.”

“We will.”

“I know, Mom.”

She sniffles once. That almost does it. I press the heel of my hand to my eye and breathe through my nose.

“Are you doing okay?” she asks.

The question is so absurd I nearly laugh.

I think about my boss. My actual boss. The one who touched me until I came in his bed and then told me being close to a politician could help me, which sounded enough like a threat to make me cold. I think about Nikolai not calling. About Mikhail smirking over my lunch. About wanting a man I should be afraid of and being afraid of how much I want him.

“I’m okay,” I say.

Liar.

“Classes are good?”

“Yeah.”

“And the internship?”

I look down at my wrinkled work clothes. “It’s intense.”

“Intense good or intense bad?”

“Yes.”

She laughs a little. “That sounds like you.”

I want to tell her everything. Not details. God, not details. But enough. I want to say I made a mistake. I met someone dangerous. I feel stupid and powerful and ashamed and awake. I want to say I think I’m in trouble, but not the kind you taught me how to avoid.

Instead, I say, “I’ll send the money tonight.”

She protests twice more. I ignore both. By the time we hang up, I’ve promised to call Sunday, promised to eat enough, promised to be careful, and promised not to worry.

I break the last promise immediately. The transfer takes less than three minutes. Two hundred dollars. It’s not enough to save a restaurant. It’s not enough to fix an air unit. It’s barely enough to matter.

But it leaves my account, and I stare at the new balance until the number blurs.

Spoiled brat, I think. The words land softer this time. Not because they hurt less. I’m just too tired to flinch. When I come out of my room, I go straight for the bottle of vodka Anya keeps on top of the refrigerator and the shot glasses she keeps in the freezer. Anya watches from the couch as I shoot it.

It burns all the way down. “Jesus,” I gasp.

“Solving your problems with vodka. You are becoming Russian,” she says, pointing toward the freezer. “Do not be stingy. Pour me one too.”

I sputter out something between a cough and a laugh. It comes dangerously close to turning into crying. Her face softens, but she doesn’t ask. That’s why I stay at the table. That’s why I let her pour another shot. Because she’s learned, for tonight at least, not to put her hand directly on the bruise.

We drink. I don’t get drunk quickly. I get warm first. Then loose. Then heavy at the edges. The apartment blurs into something kinder. Anya tells me about Petyr being sulky at the bar, and I tell her about Nikolai not calling because that seems like a safe thing to tell her about. Which is almost nothing.

Not about my mother. Not about the money. Not about Mikhail grabbing my elbow and letting go. Especially not about the fact that the letting go hurt worse than the grabbing.

By two in the morning, Anya yawns and says she’s going to bed. “You okay?” she asks from the hallway.

I lift the bottle, which is mostly still full. “Almost Russian.”