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“Yellow coat. Long brown hair?” a kid of about nine asks.
“Yes.” I nod.
“I think I saw her running there.” He points toward the alley behind the grocery store. “She seemed scared.”
I swivel around and run across the street, nearly getting clipped by a taxi, and dart into the narrow alley. It looks deserted at first glance, but I keep going deeper, passing the dumpster by the grocer’s back door. The smell of rotten fruit emanating off the trash cans accosts me, reminding me of a time when the stink of spoiled food was all I could smell. I fist my hands and round the corner, moving between the buildings.
It’s my fault. I should have taken Asya outside more often, a bit more every day so she could have gotten used to being around other people again. I should have insisted on her going to the shrink or tried harder to convince her to call her brother. She needs to get back to her life, to her family. I didn’t do any of that. Instead, I let her hide in my place. With me.
I like waking up with her curled into my side—her small body pressed to mine as if even in sleep, she subconsciously sought my presence. Or how she climbs onto my lap when we sit down to watch TV in the evenings and rests her head on my shoulder. She usually falls asleep after ten minutes, but I stay on the couch for hours, and only when it’s well into the night do I carry her to bed. It feeds whatever longing that’s awoken inside me, the inner need to keep her engulfed in my arms all the time, to know she’s safe where no one can ever hurt her again. She’s been staying with me for more than four weeks now, but she still keeps following me around the apartment, holding either my hand or the hem of my shirt. It feels good to be needed. So, I stopped trying to convince her to call her family. The selfish son of a bitch I’ve transformed into wants to keep her.
The alley curves to the right and ends in a big concrete wall. A pickup truck is parked beside it. There’s no one around. I almost turn to head back when I spot something yellow under the truck. I rush over and stop in my tracks. There, between the truck and the wall, Asya is laying on her side, her face toward the wall and her arms wrapped tightly around her middle.
“Jesus.” I kneel and gather her into my arms. She’s shaking. The moment I have her in my embrace, her arms envelop my neck, and her legs wrap around my waist. I place my palm on the back of her head, tucking her face into the crook of my neck.
“It’s okay, mishka,” I whisper. “I have you.”
Pathetic.
Weak.
That’s how I feel as Pasha carries me back to his apartment. I can’t gather the courage to even lift my head and look up because I’m afraid I’ll freak out again. Instead, I keep my face buried in his neck.
I don’t understand why he keeps troubling himself with me. All I did was barge into his life and make a mess out of it. I’ve been dreading the moment when he’ll sit me down and tell me it’s time for me to leave. It’s bound to happen, and probably soon. I’m nothing to him. I can’t keep disrupting his life. But just the idea of leaving his side makes me shudder from the terror it unleashes inside of me.
“Let’s get you showered,” Pasha says as he carries me inside the apartment.
In the bathroom, he stops next to the shower stall, waiting for me to let him go. Instead, I cling to him harder.
“Asya, baby. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I lift my head from his neck and look into his eyes. I don’t think I ever met someone with eyes like Pasha’s—the color is a striking metallic gray.
“You need to wash your hair,” he says in his deep voice, and it seems I can feel it all the way to my bones. “You have engine oil everywhere.”
“Can you do it?” I blurt out and regret it the moment the words leave my mouth. As if he’s not burdened enough with me already.
Pasha watches me for a few moments, raises his hand as if intending to place it on my face but changes his mind and just takes my glasses off.
“Okay.” He sets the glasses next to the sink and slowly lowers me down.
I take off my coat and sweater, then remove my shoes and jeans. Pasha waits patiently in front of me, his eyes fixed on mine. Even when I shed my bra and panties, his gaze never wanders lower.
It should bother me, being naked in front of him. It doesn’t. Just the thought of a man looking at my nude body usually makes the bile bubble up my throat. Any man except him. I wish he would look lower. Touch me. Kiss me.
I step into the stall and turn on the shower. Water hits me from above, the stream falling straight down onto my head, making the rivulets run down my body. I stand unmoving under the spray and watch as Pasha takes off his jacket, removes his shoes and socks, and steps into the shower fully clothed. He takes the shampoo bottle off the shelf, pours an amount three times larger than necessary into his palm, and looks down at me.
“Turn around,” he says, his voice huskier than usual.
I face away from him and reach out to shut off the shower. Once the sound of water ceases, the only thing I can hear is Pasha’s deep breathing. His touch starts at the top of my head as his hands massage my scalp. The beating of my heart picks up pace. He took his shampoo, not mine, by mistake. But I didn’t stop him. I close my eyes and inhale, letting the scent of sage and citrus fill my nostrils. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to connect those two scents with anything other than falling asleep next to Pasha.
His hands disappear from my hair. I turn on the shower again and slowly turn around.
The water is cascading down my face, blurring my vision, but not enough to obscure the sight of his wide chest in front of me. His white T-shirt is completely wet and plastered to his body, revealing the images inked on his skin. He rarely removes his shirt in front of me. I think he believes his tattoos scare me. They don’t. Nothing about Pasha scares me, just the opposite. The only time I feel absolutely safe is when he is with me.
I tilt my head up and find those gray eyes of his staring at me. God, I want to kiss him so much. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks, but can’t decide if I should or not. Now, however, looking at him—all wet from head to toe because I asked him to wash my hair for me—I don’t have to decide. There’s no question if I want or not, only the need to feel his lips on mine. I raise my hands to cup his face with my palms and pull his head down.
“Asya.” He bends slowly, looking into my eyes.
