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“Hey, Mom,” Leo answers, not looking up from his game.
“Hi, Ms. Peterson,” AJ adds.
“Leo, can I talk to you in the kitchen for a minute?” I ask.
He looks up, brow furrowed. It’s the expression that reminds me most of Nick. “Okay,” he says carefully, setting his hand of cards down and standing up.
“Can we finish the game before leaving?” Leo asks once we’re facing each other in the kitchen.
“Actually, June offered for you to stay the weekend,” I reply. “Is that okay with you?”
“Why? Where are you going?”
I hesitate before answering. “I have a work trip. They need me to go to a conference this weekend.”
I hate lying to him, but I can’t tell him the truth. If this trip ends poorly between me and Nick, I never want Leo to know about it.
Leo’s expression falls. It’s a bit of an ego boost until he says, “Does that mean I won’t get to talk to Dad tomorrow?”
“I’ll figure out a different day for you to talk with him, all right?”
“Yeah, okay,” he replies, visibly working to smother his disappointment.
I lean down and kiss the top of his head. “I love you, Leo.”
“I love you too.”
* * *
When I land in Moscow, it’s just past six p.m., local time.
I almost changed my mind about this trip a dozen times. Packing a bag and my passport back in the condo. On the drive to the airport. Paying an obscene amount for a last-minute seat at the ticket desk. Going through security. Sitting at the gate. During the two-hour layover in London.
But I’m here. Surrounded by commotion and a language that no longer sounds so foreign even if I still can’t understand more than a dozen words of it and can speak even less.
The British woman who sat next to me on the plane is in front of me in the customs line. She aims a worried look my way, probably because she watched me pick at my lunch and shred through two napkins. When she sees I noticed, it turns into more of a pitying smile.
Nerves ricochet inside me like pinballs in a machine.
I don’t regret coming here, but I’d be lying if I said I felt confident about this decision. I only packed what would fit in my carry-on. I didn’t call or text Nick.
This is the hastiest, most impulsive thing I’ve ever done in my life. The realization is freeing—and terrifying. Because I’m not some free spirit who goes with the flow and is content to float around. I wish I were, and I know exactly why the thought horrifies me.
Chasing a man across thousands of miles is something my mother would have done.
So is falling for a guy who doesn’t make an honest living.
But falling is an ongoing action. It’s difficult to stop and continues for an indeterminable length of time.
Since I only have a carry-on, I head straight for the exit after getting through customs, bypassing the crowd around baggage claim.
This is the moment when I should turn around, but I’ve come too far now. I’m sleep-deprived and starving, disbelieving I’m really and truly here. Now that I am, it seems very obvious this is a visit that should have been predated by a conversation. A simple phone call would have given me a little insight at least into what Nick is thinking.
I walk through the automatic doors and outside the airport. A row of cabs lines the sidewalk, waiting to ferry passengers. I scan the row of cars, deliberating. I don’t really want to waste precious hours here in a hotel, but I’m not sure what else to do. Every time I traveled to or from the Morozov estate, I was shuttled by Nick’s men. I never took public transit or memorized an address.
I have Alex’s number, and I could call him to ask. But that feels cowardly, and the point of the trip is facing fears.
Based on the way people are hurrying past, getting a cabbie could be a challenge. So, I decide to focus on that problem first, then decide where I’m going.
