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I hesitantly take the bill and put it in my jacket pocket. It was hard learning to accept plane tickets and dinner dates from Markus, but it’s even harder accepting something—even this small thing—from Grigory. Maybe it’s his overbearing manner of forcing his money into my hand like I’m a child needing lunch money, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s loaded. I’m sure this expense compares to me buying a banana, and it makes me feel far out of my league.
I probably should thank him. After all, he just wants to make sure I eat enough, but I’m too frustrated to show any appreciation. So I grab my bag and unlock the door. But before I can open it, Grigory grabs my arm and spins me around. I’m about to protest and say I’m running late, even though I’m not, but when he gently encloses me in a warm embrace, the protest goesswoosh.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Uhm. Overwhelmed,” I confess.
“The lunch money?”
I nod against his chest.
He slides a hand down the back of my head in a soothing gesture. “This is me taking care of you,devochka.Let me do that.”
God, how can I deny him when he says it like that? I sink further into him, soaking up the feeling of his tight embrace. I could easily stay here all day. The tension slowly drains, and when he releases me and I leave the apartment, it’s without the feeling of inadequacy of a minute ago.
***
Shutting myself in with a grand piano when I have to read proves to be a bad idea. I’d thought it would be practical—saving me the time of relocating from the study hall to a practice room. But the moment I see the piano, my fingers itch with the need to touch the keys. I try to force myself to remain by the table and read, but it only takes half an hour with a soul-sucking text before my resolve wavers.
Ten minutes,I tell myself as I sink onto the bench. I just need to sate the worst of this urge, and then I’ll be able to focus.
But ten minutes become twenty; twenty become thirty. I lose track of time, and when I finally glance at the clock again, three hours have passed.
I dart up from the bench and shove my sheet music into my folder. The lecture starts in half an hour, and I don’t dare to disobey Grigory by skipping lunch.
Thirty stressful minutes of rushing to the cafeteria and back morph into three tedious hours of cultural music theory as I enter the lecture hall—or rather, room. It’s more like a regular classroom, only big enough to fit fifty people. The professor’s ramblings are no more engaging than the texts, and it takes all my energy to stay focused.
Despite being annoyed with Grigory’s way of forcing his money upon me, I’m grateful for the lunch he made sure I got. I ate half the food I brought from home while practicing, so I wouldn’t have been able to get through the lecture without the meal I got because of him.
When I get home, Grigory is sitting in the brown chair by the window, working on his tablet. The first thing he says is, “Did you buy lunch?” His brows curl in a serious expression, and I know the wrong answer would incur consequences.
“I did,” I say with a relieved breath, and finally, I manage the words I should have said before. “Thank you.”
Grigory seems pleased with this. He sets his tablet aside and pats his thighs, inviting me to come sit with him.
It takes me two seconds to cross the room and accept the invitation. I snuggle up against his chest, relishing the feeling of him. He’s warm and strong. Safe. Well, as long as I don’t disobey him.
“Making sure you eat is part of my responsibility,devochka,” he says as he strokes my back. “And it won’t be the last time I throw money at a problem, so you’d better get used to it.”
It’s overwhelming to think he might be overbearingly protective all the time, yet my stomach makes this heated little flip at the thought.
We sit in silence for some time before he asks, “How did the piano practice go? Did you practice the arpeggios like I taught you?”
I straighten on his lap and smile. “I played three hours straight—spent half an hour on the arpeggios.”
His eyes fill with warmth. “Very good,devochka.I look forward to seeing them a bit later. What else did you practice?”
I tell him about the pieces I’ve been working on today, how I practiced, what was easy, and what was hard.
Pride swells in me at Grigory’s approving nods. I can tell he’s pleased with my effort, and it makes me want to run straight to the piano and continue practicing.
But my beaming smile fades when he redirects the conversation. “How about reading?” he asks, and judging by the way his expression sobers, he already knows the answer.
“None,” I say, averting my gaze.
When he doesn’t say anything, I look back to find a grave expression etched into his features. But instead of castigating me for not reading, he says, “If you can’t focus on your texts today, I want you to spend at least two more hours at the piano. Are we clear?”
I give a big nod. I’ll take the piano over those texts any day, and I have a hunch that Grigory feels the same.
