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It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow as I quirk my lips. “Seventeen,” I respond simply.
Yes, definitely disappointment. I can see it flit across his face before he releases a soft chuckle and shakes his head. “My sister goes to Englewood as well,” he admits, his eyes shifting back toward his sleek sports car and making me wonder if she might not be waiting in its warm interior for him.
Either that or it’s his way of setting me at ease before he entices me into accepting a ride so he can kidnap me. He might be charming, but that doesn’t make him trustworthy.
“Lots of people go to Englewood. It’s a big school,” I point out dryly.
Amusement dances in Ilya’s dark eyes, and I can’t help but notice how they make his face more youthful and mischievous. “I suppose you’re right. Do you–” Ilya stops short as his phone rings, interrupting him. “Excuse me,” he says as he reaches into his pocket to withdraw the iPhone that looks incredibly small in his large hand. As his eyes take in the name flashing across the screen, his light expression shifts into a more serious one. His eyes glance up to mine, regret in their depths. “I have to take this.”
I gesture that he should do so. And as he presses the phone to his ear and turns away from me, it would be the perfect opportunity for me to make my escape. But I don’t. My feet remain rooted to the spot, my body seeming compelled to stay and learn more about this mysterious Russian stranger. The melodic tone of his fluid Russian, which flows effortlessly from his lips, makes my stomach clench. I don’t know why, but something about it is unquestionably sexy. My eyes follow his strong form as he takes several steps further, his brows pressing into a frown. The next string of words come out as a growl, indicating his distress or anger. He pauses again as he listens to someone on the other end of the phone.
“Derr`mo,” he mutters. Then says something in a commanding tone as he strides urgently toward his car, leaving me speechless as I watch him depart.
My lips part as my instincts urge me to ask if everything is okay. But he’s a perfect stranger. It’s not my place to check in on his well being, and clearly, he has something more pressing on his mind than the girl he stopped to flirt with in the street. Slipping into his car, Ilya closes the door, and the tires squeal across the blacktop a moment later as he disappears without a single parting word.
Struck dumb, I stand frozen in the street for several moments, the cold forgotten as I try to make sense of the entirely random and unusual exchange. I don’t know how to feel about Ilya speaking to me. By anyone’s standards, he’s a gorgeous guy, and though I would guess he must be considerably older than me, he showed me clear interest. I don’t know how I feel about having caught an older man’s eye. Fuck, I don’t even care to catch the eye of someone in my grade.
I don’t believe in love and don’t have time for any of the other nonsense that comes with physical attraction, but I felt something today that I haven’t ever felt before. Just the sound of his voice made my stomach quiver. His eyes left me on the verge of giddy, and even now, as I force myself into a walk once more, I feel weak at the knees. I don’t know what to think of it all. I refuse to give in to the butterflies threatening to explode in my chest as I remind myself that emotions like that will only cause me pain and trouble. I know what it looks like when you fall for someone and have them walk away. And someone like Ilya would probably find me interesting for about ten minutes before he left me in ruins–if I ever see him again, which I probably won’t.
Better to focus my attention on the real problem at hand–how to earn enough money to cover tuition for Rosehill and then earn a scholarship to keep me there.
1
WHITNEY
Eighteen Months Later
Despite having worked full-time at both my jobs for the past three weeks straight without a day off, I couldn’t sleep a wink last night knowing what today brings. Registration day, when my tuition is due for the impending semester at Rosehill College, and I don’t have enough. I didn’t manage to get the scholarship I had been banking on so hard this past year because sustaining a job and following Rosehill’s dance program has proved more challenging than I could ever have imagined. Therefore, I couldn’t practice dance as often as I needed to earn the scholarship, and I couldn’t give up my job if I had a hope of affording one more semester.
I’m only about five thousand short for this semester, but that won’t help me now. And as I’m stretched this thin for the first semester, I know without a doubt that I won’t be able to pay for next semester. But facing the fact that my dream is crumbling around me is more than I can bear. I dress with heavy limbs, pulling on my ragged, threadbare jean short-shorts and black crop-top shirt with a sense of doom.
I can see the pallor in my cheeks as I work product into my short hair, accentuating its wispy pixie look. I’m determined to carry on, to at least attempt to mask the devastation threatening to consume me when I sit down with Mom this morning to discuss my plan. Finishing my rebellious look with a thick ring of eyeliner that ends in a cat’s-eye point, I then coat my lashes with mascara to darken their already thick black color. It’s the same look I’ve had since high school, since my dad left us. Now, I can’t even remember myself with long hair and light eye makeup, pink shirts or delicate shoes. I leave that for occasional ballet costumes. This is who I am. It’s my defense, my armor, and I want people to know that I’m no one to mess with.
Tying my red-and-black flannel shirt around my waist, I head down the hall to face my mom. The smell of coffee greets me, and I breathe it in gratefully.
“Morning,” Mom says brightly from the kitchen as she leans into the fridge.
“Morning,” I say with less enthusiasm. I head to a cupboard to extract two coffee mugs, and before the pot’s done brewing, I pull it from its heat pad to pour us each a steaming mug.
Mom joins me with the cream, and I find a spoon to scoop sugar into her mug as she pours us each a splash of creamer to color the brew. It’s a ritual we started together when we moved to Chicago. Seeing as mornings were the only time I would see my mother on weekdays, she made a practice of getting up in the middle of her sleeping hours to sit and have a cup of coffee with me.
Neither of us bother with breakfast. I can’t eat this early, and Mom doesn’t like eating in the middle of her night. Instead, we slump into the kitchen chairs, cupping our mugs as we soak up their warmth.
“Hard shift?” I ask.
My poor mom looks exhausted, her prematurely graying blond hair tousled in its loose braid, puffy circles beneath her eyes. I get my dark hair from my dad–a reminder of him I’m often tempted to bleach just so I don’t have to think about him every day. I tried it once, but blonde does not look good on me.
“Chuck fired Tina about an hour in, so I was working the front alone for most of the night,” she confesses and sips her coffee gratefully.
“Yeesh.” I know how rough a serving shift can be when you’re short-handed.
My mom shrugs. “But the good news is that means Chuck needs me to work more to cover her shifts, at least until he hires someone to replace Tina, so that will put us ahead a little bit.”
I give my mom a sad smile. She’s been burning the candle at both ends just like me in the hopes that we can scrape together enough for this semester’s tuition, and a twinge of guilt tightens my stomach when I think about that. About how much of my mom’s hard-earned money is going toward my education rather than a savings for her retirement or, hell, even just a staycation.
My eyes drop as I think about how I’m going to tell her that we’re still short and that the bill’s due. Finally, I commit to my usual tactic of blunt honesty. I don’t know how to do it any other way. “Mom, I’m still five thousand short on tuition, and today’s registration,” I say flatly, fidgeting with the handle of my coffee mug.
My mom remains silent long enough that I look up to meet her sad, knowing eyes. Tears sting the back of mine in response, and I fight them furiously, determined not to cry over the crushing defeat of saying those words out loud.
