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He makes a noncommittal hum.
“You own it?”
“Yes.”
A beat of silence, where I fiddle with my napkin, wishing it were paper instead of cloth.
“Leo is okay?”
“Yes. He’s with June. She offered to watch him for the weekend.” I inhale. “I lied to him about where I was going. And told him you couldn’t call this weekend.”
Another hum that reveals nothing.
A uniformed waiter appears before either of us says another word. I exhale, trying to let out some anxiety with the carbon dioxide and breathe in some courage with the oxygen.
Watching the waiter doesn’t help. He’s more nervous than I am. His hand shakes as he fills the glasses with water, tremors that nearly soak the tablecloth. Under other circumstances, I’d find it amusing. Distract Nick so the poor guy can do his job without being scrutinized.
But I’m not ready for that piercing gaze to be aimed at me. I’m having enough trouble gathering my thoughts as it is. I know what I want to say to him, what I came all this way to say to him.
Getting there is proving to be difficult. I’m lost in a maze of my own thoughts, trying to find the right path to get to where I want to end up.
Another waiter appears, delivering a glass of amber-colored liquid and placing a charcuterie board in the center of the table, next to the candles burning.
I stand so suddenly that I knock the table with my knees, realizing the waiters are about to depart. I need a minute to myself before being alone with Nick.
“I’ll be right back. Restroom.”
I barely catch Nick’s nod before I flee down the hall and into the restroom. The long sink has multiple faucets, illuminated by flattering lighting. I wash my hands and use one of the fluffy towels, patting my face as well. The soap smells like lavender, a supposedly soothing scent. I’m not sure it’s doing a whole lot for me right now. My heart feels like it’s trying to run a marathon in my chest.
Heels clack against tile, announcing the arrival of another woman in the restroom. She’s willowy and imperious, wearing a silk dress and a haughty expression. She looks my outfit over and sniffs with disapproval before sweeping out of the restroom dramatically, as if my presence is offensive.
I decide to follow her since standing at the sink indefinitely isn’t much of an option.
There’s a gush of colder air that greets me when I step out of the hallway. I look to the left. A door is cracked open at the very end of the hall, letting in a sliver of chill through the opening.
I walk left instead of right, the way I came, inhaling deeply. The cold smells fresh and pure. Refreshing.
I wander outside without really thinking about it. In the bathroom, I could hear muffled chatter from the restaurant and clatter from the kitchen. The alley the door led to is empty aside from a few trash cans, dimly lit by the streetlamps and excess light emanating from surrounding buildings.
Traffic whizzes past in the distance, but it’s otherwise silent. Not the same as the surrounding landscape of Nick’s estate, although it is still more peaceful than I’d expect the center of a city to be.
I tilt my head back to stare up at the stars, relieved to see the silver pinpricks sparkling against the backdrop of black sky. Russia isn’t dark and gritty the way I pictured it to be before I’d ever been here. It’s fathomless and sprawling. Even the cold is something I’ve come to appreciate.
A creak announces the opening of the door. I glance over hurriedly, preparing to explain why I’m loitering out here to one of the kitchen staff.
But Nick is the one who steps out. The reaction is instantaneous. My stomach flips, and awareness spikes my system. Impossible to ignore, like a charge of electricity, commanding attention.
He doesn’t ask what I’m doing out here.
He doesn’t question my sanity for standing in a dark alley, shivering because I left my coat inside.
He strolls over to my side, head tilted back to take in the view of the sky. His silver lighter appears, the flicker of a flame setting the end of the cigarette ablaze. The butt glows orange, casting more shadows over his face.
Silently, he holds it out to me.
I take it, noticing he doesn’t pull away when our fingers brush. “You’re a bad influence,” I tell him.
I’m not just talking about the cigarette.
