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The door falls shut, and then there are footsteps moving through the apartment, closing in. The sound is vivid—too vivid for a dream. And I feel the approaching presence of a man too clearly.
My heart beats frantically as adrenaline spikes in my blood. Still, my limbs refuse to move. The door to the garden is three feet away. All I have to do is jump out of bed to get away from the intruder.
The urgency to act pounds against the inner walls of my head, but the message is stuck. I’m stuck. Trapped by my unresponsive body.
I can’t do anything but lie here.
Terror claws at my chest, wrapping around my lungs in a fist, squeezing out the air.
The mattress dips, and a hand touches my shoulder. The shock jerks my body awake, and I scramble farther in on the bed, panting and whimpering. But it’s too late. I just know.
Strong hands grab me, and I let out a wail, flailing my hands as I try to focus my blurry eyes.
I’m dragged into a lap, trapped against a wide chest. Trapped, trapped, trapped. First by my body, now by this man. I’m helpless to the bone. It’s become a familiar feeling lately, and God, it hurts.
“Shh, it’s just me,” someone says, but the words won’t penetrate the blinding panic.
I try to break free from the arms banding around me, but they’re impossibly strong. So I start pulling into myself—away from the devastating helplessness. But the loneliness hurts even more.
“Devochka, it’s me. Grigory.” The voice takes on an urgent note that finally pushes through the fog. It stirs something familiar beyond the helplessness, and when it speaks again, recognition finally strikes. “I’ve got you, little girl.”
Grigory?Why is he here?
I blink up and see dark eyes, hard features, and messy brown hair.
It doesn’t matter why. He’s here. Not some stranger. That’s all that counts.
Burying my head in the familiar white shirt, I clutch the fabric, needing to hold on—needing something to steady me.
Suddenly, I’m shaking. And not just a little quivering. My entire body trembles like it’s trying to expel all the emotional turmoil and uncertainty of the summer, all in one go.
“What happened?” Grigory asks, holding me tight, and when I don’t answer, he adds, “Nightmare?”
Unable to get any words out, I give a slow nod. These nightmarish limbos, hovering on the cusp between sleep and consciousness, aren’t new to me. They’re rare, thank God, but they’ll appear from time to time, more terrifying than any normal nightmare. I once had one that lingered for hours, keeping me in a constant state of alarm long after I’d woken up.
“Markus says you have bad dreams when you’re stressed or worried?” Grigory’swords areprobing, requiring an explanation, but I can’t come up with one. “Will you tell me what’s going on,devochka?”
“I don’t know,” I manage in a trembling voice.
“I know these past few weeks have been hard on you, and I know I haven’t been there for you. But I’m here now, and I’d like to know what’s going on with you.”
God, I almost can’t believe I’m hearing right. It was only yesterday that I was sure it was over between Grigory and me. Now he’s here, attentive and caring. Part of me wants to protect myself—shut off in case he pulls away again—but the soothing feeling of his arms, the gentle rocking of his chest, is too good to reject.
“I’m not even sure. Everything, I guess.” I take a moment to consider. “Saying goodbye to Markus. You being here. Starting school tomorrow.”
I sigh as I say the latter. I had blissfully forgotten all about school, but now it’s here, right around the corner, and I don’t have the energy.
“What part about me being here makes you uncomfortable?”
I lean back to look at him—his rough features, bushy brows, and the furrow that makes him look perpetually stern. It’s surreal being here with him. Like I still haven’t woken from the dream. “I’m afraid you’ll suddenly disappear.” I roam my eyes over his features, committing them to memory in case it actually happens. “Like you did all summer.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he assures.
I close my eyes at the painful memory of all the times he shut me out when I needed him the most. What if he’ll keep doing that? What if I’ll be stuck in the same back and forth for two weeks? And then he’ll leave and decide he doesn’t want this after all.
“Devochka,” he says in a strict tone that jerks me out of my spiraling fear. I open my eyes and stare straight into his demanding ones. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His words are brief but powerful, and as I keep staring into the willful depths of his eyes, I remember I know this man. I know he can waver and be as tender as he can be cold, but I also know he doesn’t spew false words and empty reassurances.
