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Natalya
Ilay Simon down for a nap. He’s had a very big day, taking his first steps and all. It’s just as well because I haven’t been feeling too well all morning. I’m pretty sure it’s just a stomach bug. Maybe it was something I ate for breakfast. Now that I think about it, I’m fairly certain the milk in the fridge was a little off.
Dahlia rounds the corner with a big basket of laundry in her hands. It’s piled high, the clothes fresh out of the dryer.
“Let me help you with that,” I offer.
She smiles. “Thank you, my dear. Would you mind helping me fold, too?”
I reflect her smile. “I don’t mind at all.”
We dump all the clothes onto the coffee table in the living room, working together to fold shirts, pants, burping clothes, and onesies. Dahlia turns the TV on, some old cop show that was popular in Moscow almost thirty years ago. We’re not really paying attention to what’s on screen, though, just listening to the noise as we chat.
“You’re really good with him,” she comments as she searches the laundry pile for the other sock she’s missing.
“Well, Simon’s such a sweet boy. He makes my job easy.”
“No, not Simon. I was talking about Dimitri.”
I glance at her and blush, my cheeks suddenly warming. “Oh, I… I mean, he’s nice.”
Dahlia clicks her tongue and giggles. “You’re not fooling me, dear. I see the way you look at each other when you think no one’s looking. How long have you two been a thing?”
I laugh nervously. “Oh, um… We’re really not.”
The dear old housekeeper rolls her eyes. “You want to be shy about it? Fine. But just know nothing gets past me, my dear. I don’t think I’ve seen Dimitri this happy in years.”
“Really? But he’salwayshappy.”
“No, there’s a difference. I can tell.” Dahlia grins mischievously at me. “I’ve seen more pep in that man’s step in the last few weeks than I have in five years. He’s clearly head over heels for you.”
I bashfully cast my eyes down at the pile of laundry, doing my best to keep my giddiness in check. Dimitri? Head over heels forme? Surely that can’t be the case.
The more I think about it, the more I feel myself melting. This whole ordeal has my conscience tied up in knots. I should hate this man, but I don’t. Quite the opposite in fact. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more patient, caring, and charming family man. It’s almost ridiculous how easily he lights up the room, how he makes breathing that much easier.
Am I losing my mind or am I actuallyfallingfor him?
The sound of gunshots ring out over the TV’s speakers. It seems our zany cop duo has landed themselves in a spot of trouble. The humor is very slapstick and doesn’t take itself too seriously. The whole show is predictable and formulaic, but there’s admittedly something nice about the familiar narrative structure.
Another gunshot.
I frown. It didn’t sound like it was from the TV.
Another sharp pop, this one louder than the first.
“Did you hear that?” I ask Dahlia as we finish folding the laundry.
“Hear what, my dear?”
“It sounded like—”
Bang!
This time, one of the windows in the living room shatters, glass spilling onto the floor in jagged pieces. A sudden shot of adrenaline courses through me. I was right! Those sounds weren’t coming from the TV.
We’re under attack.
“Get down!” I scream at Dahlia.
