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He looks–sad. It’s the only word I can think of for the expression on his face, as if my going on a date upset him. But he doesn’t say anything until I start to leave.
“I’m glad you went,” he says suddenly, and I turn back, my eyebrows raised.
“You are?” I can’t help the incredulity in my voice, and I see a flicker of emotion in his eyes, his lips tightening.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “This is good for you, Sasha. Even if the guy was a dick, it’s good that you’re–getting out there.”
I know I should walk away and accept it. But it hurts. After what happened between us, the idea that he’sgladI’m out with someone else makes me feel like lashing out. “Really?” I snap, my voice low so that no one else hears. “After what we did the other day? So I guess that was it? A year of friendship, you finally get your dick sucked, and now you’re happy I’m moving on?”
Max’s expression turns visibly pained. “Sasha, no. You know that’s not what I mean, that I didn’t mean for us to–”
“Well, we did. And you haven’t spoken to me since.”
“I was trying to give you space–”
“I don’twantspace!” I hiss, trying not to cry. “I want you. That’s all I want. I don’t want to go out on another date with Nick. I don’t want to go out on any more dates at all. This one just showed me exactly how lucky I am to know you, how good of a guy you are–and made me see that much more what I’m missing out on by this–not working. Whateverthisis.” I gesture to the space between us. “So don’t tell me you’reglad, because I’m not.”
“Sasha, please–” Max reaches for my hand, but I jerk it away. “I’m trying not to hurt you. I’m trying not to hurt either of us.”
“Well, you’re failing,” I snap, feeling emotion rise up and clog my throat. “I have to go.”
If he says something as I leave, I don’t hear it. I turn away, feeling my heart ache as if it might crack open, and I brush away the tears starting to well up.
I don’t want to cry over him again.
—
I do end up going out shopping the next day with Caterina and Sofia, and I decide to treat myself a little. As nice as it was to get the presents from Caterina for my birthday, I’ve never bought myself anything expensive, and I know I can afford it. A lifetime of poverty before I came here has turned me into someone who saves money almost pathologically, but a quick check of my bank account and my almost zero credit card balance tells me that I can definitely afford to give myself a reason to look forward to the date–since the reason definitelywon’tbe actually seeing Nick again.
“He was impressed you knew me?” Sofia laughs as we walk down the street towards the Versace store, shaking her head. “That’s a weird thing to be impressed by.”
“I got the impression that he just liked being seen with someone who hadanyconnections,” I tell her dryly as we walk in, stopping at a display of clutch purses.
“You should have told him your employer was thepakhanof the Bratva,” Sofia snickers. “And that my husband is the don for the New York mafia. Men like that are always more impressed by the titles of other men.”
“I think he would have pissed himself, frankly,” I tell her with a laugh, picking up a black quilted clutch with an elegant, filigreedVon the front.
“Well, that would have given you an excuse not to go on the second date,” Caterina deadpans, and we all laugh.
With everyone aware that I don’t really want to be going on this date, the day turns into an event to make sure I have as much fun picking out my outfit for it as possible. I’m talked into buying the clutch, despite my horror at spending over a thousand dollars just on a purse–but I have to admit that it barely makes a dent in my balance. All of my room, board, and medical bills are taken care of on top of a generous salary. Once I get over the heart-palpitating action of buying myself something so expensive for the first time, I find that itdoesfeel good to spoil myself a little.
Even if I have no intention of making a habit out of it.
We pick out my dress before we stop for lunch–an off-shoulder black bodycon dress that reaches mid-calf and splits up to just above my knee. After lunch at Sofia’s favorite Italian bistro, we go shopping for jewelry–they convince me to buy a pair of emerald drop earrings–and shoes.
“I want something that makes me seem a little dangerous,” I tell them with a laugh. “Just so he’s a little caught off-guard.”
That ends up translating into a pair of black Louboutin heels with spikes scattered all over them, something I wouldn’t normally have bought, but when I try them on with the dress, the effect is just what I was hoping for.
It’s also what I was hoping for when I meet Nick outside of the orchestra, and his eyes skate down my body approvingly–all the way to my shoes. I see his eyes widen with startlement.
“Those are–” He clears his throat. “Different.”
“Do you like them?” I beam at him, slipping my arm through his elbow, and he does his best to recover quickly.
“They’re those expensive red-bottomed shoes, right?”
I smile sweetly. “Louboutins? They sure are.”
