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The walls are painted a dark blue, which just helps me settle in to winding down and relaxing. On the ceiling are twinkling stars that make me feel like I’m sitting under the night sky.
I’m so enthralled with my surroundings that I almost miss it when Gideon walks into the room. He looks over at me, where I’m sitting in the reclining theater chair, and I meet his stare, melting as his big, blue eyes lock with mine.
“Hey,” I say as he walks closer to me. Stalking like the predator he likes to play at.
“Watching anything good?” His voice is casual. At this moment, we are two normal people having a mundane conversation. We’re boring, and I love it.
Shrugging my shoulders, I turn back to the movie. I’m not really watching it. More like I’m trying to get my breathing to calm down. The moment he walked into the room, the oxygen was snuffed out, and I’m left practically gasping for air.
Gideon sits down in the chair beside me, and for a few seconds, we stay in silence. Then the air goes heavy around us. It reminds me of a rubber band being pulled taut; it’s only moments before it will snap. I can feel the tension between us growing with each passing second. It’s like there’s something he wants to say, or maybe it’s me who wants to say something.
“You played beautifully the other night. I don’t remember if I ever said anything,” he says softly, his eyes searching mine.
I turn my gaze back to the movie. “You did.”
“Next time, we might have to fill in those seats.” There is a teasing note in his voice now, but my eyes snap back to him.
“Um, no,” I retort, making him chuckle.
“I thought your dream was to play at Lincoln Center in front of a crowd?”
“It is, but—” I begin, but stop myself.
“But what?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
Gideon reaches across the space until his hand touches my cheek. “You know.” He doesn’t press, and for that, I’m grateful. But he continues with a new line of questioning. “Before Lincoln Center, you had other dreams. What were they?”
“Depends on who you ask. The nine-year-old Sasha. Or the fourteen-year-old. Or maybe the nineteen-year-old. All different dreams.”
He grabs my hand, giving it a squeeze. “Tell me all of them.”
“Nine-year-old Sasha had sweet dreams.” I take a deep breath and close my eyes. “She dreamed of learning to bake. Of traveling the world. Or going to college and playing cello.”
“What happened to that dream?”
“My parents died, and it was just Roman and me. Those dreams changed.”
“What changed?” His voice is rough, like he’s waiting on bated breath for me to speak and has a vested interest in what I’ll say.
“Things I thought were important no longer mattered compared to the hell my life became after they died.” I open my eyes and look at him. “Like I said before, I was hungry. So fourteen-year-old Sasha only dreamed of enough money for food.”
It was something that hit me hard the other day when he was sharing because it wasn’t unlike my story.
“When I met him, I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
“It was. Then it wasn’t. As you know, Roman started making money, and things got better. I didn’t understand what he was doing to provide. I was just thankful.”
From where he sits beside me, I can hear his sharp inhale. He knows he’s the reason for the change and, ultimately, the reason for the downfall too.
I don’t let him sit in that train of thought, moving on to answer more of his question.
“Then I was nineteen and dreamed of hiding from Roman. To make sure that he didn’t steal the money I had saved to satiate his drug addiction.”
He presses his fisted hands against his forehead. “I wish I knew.” When he lowers his arms, I can see the pained expression on his face. He doesn’t say more, but I know he means about the drugs, and I believe him.
“No more talking, okay?” I suggest, wanting to be done and get back to relaxing.
