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Don’t forget about me, son.
Pavel Stepanov
I throw the paper on the coffee table and stare at it. If I had read that sooner, so much would be different. But I don’t think I would have connected with Sloane the way I have. She wouldn’t have been able to push me the way she has if she worked for me.
Speaking of Sloane, she steps down the stairs with her long hair hanging freely around her face. She’s wearing one of my white button-down shirts like a dress. She twirls in a circle and steps outside, leaving the patio door wide-open.
She’s trying to kill me.
Standing from my seat, I walk out the door and follow her. Stepping down the cobbled stone stairs, I see her standing by the pool. It’s nearly midnight—what the hell is she doing?
I approach her with a gentle smile. Seeing her happy makes me want to smile like a little kid. It makes me want to show her how I feel—no matter how foreign it might feel.
Her arms cross and her head falls back as she looks at me.
“Shto ti delayesh malenkaya zvyozdochka?”I ask her.What are you doing, little star?
“Pochemu vi menya tak nazivayete?” Why do you call me that?
“Malenkaya zvyozdochka?” Little star?
“Da.” Yes.
I smile. I love when she speaks Russian. It feels like home.
Grabbing onto her arms, I turn her to face the sea. There’s an open view of the ocean since the house is built on a small hill.
“Sloane, what do you see?” I ask.
She leans her weight onto my chest and takes in a deep breath. She overthinks the question for a moment before she answers. “I see the ocean.”
“What does the ocean make you feel?” I ask.
Another pause. “At ease. But terrified at times,” she admits.
My chin rests on the top of her head, and I wrap my arms around the tops of her shoulders, holding her neck gently in my arms. “I see the stars,” I whisper so gently goose bumps take over her skin. “But the ocean holds the reflection of the sky. Like you and me,Moya Zvezda.”
She lifts off me and turns slowly. Lifting her chin with the tip of my finger, I direct her attention to the sky.
“Now, what stands out in the sky?”
She looks up to see thousands, if not millions, of stars, but only one stands out.
“The North Star,” she answers.
“Do you understand now?” I ask, but I don’t give her the chance to respond. “You are all that I see.”
“Mikhail ...” she starts.
“If something were to happen to you, you’d be leaving me, and the sky would become dull.”
I’m sure my words feel like a shock to her. She stands on her toes and wraps her arms around my neck, placing a gentle kiss on my lips. It’s unlike the kisses we’ve shared before: angry, passionate, full of lust. This one is full of admiration and trust.
She feels safe enough with me to trust me in her most vulnerable state of mind.
“When you think of me, what do you see?” I ask.
“I see you—all of you,” she responds.
