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“Sure, but Russian is more popular.”
“Are they different?”
“Yeah, like Spanish and Portuguese. My mom speaks both. I only know some words in Belarusian and Ukrainian, but I’m fluent in Russian because my grandma barely spoke English.”
“How do you say”—I pause because I’m fishing for the obvious and no, not the curse words—“love?”
“??????2,” she replies slowly.
“Liu-bóv’,” I repeat several times.
“How do you say ‘head over heels’?” I ask. If I learn another language, it’s gonna be something I can use later. Hopefully, with her.
Lu’s gaze latches on to me. “?? ???3.”
“Páw-ou-shi,” I repeat. “Sounds Chinese.”
She bursts out laughing then makes sure I pronounce it right as I repeat it several times, holding her gaze.
“Though in Russian,” she explains as her smile grows, “it meansup to one’s ears.”
This time, I laugh loudly, catching her surprised gaze at me. “Are you messing with me?”
“Nope.” She grins.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You serious.” I stare at her in distrust. “You literally say in Russian, ‘he fell up to his ears in love’?”
“Yep.”
“Crazy language.”
“Not any crazier than head over heels. Like what does that even mean?”
“Means he’s so in love he loses his mind and falls over and tumbles.”
“So doesn’t make sense.”
“So does.”
I keep sayinghe, and we keep making love jokes, and my heart by this point is bigger than my chest.
I finish steaming the floors and move Pushkin like roadkill to Lu’s feet. “Here, your dog might need cleaning, too.”
She puts her hands on her hips, so adorable in her white tank and sweatpants, and cocks her head at me. “You meanourdog, Jace.” She gives me a playful glare. “I think he followedyouthat night we met, so he’sours. And since he loves you so, why don’tyouclean him?”
Ourdog.
My heart sings.
I’m falling for her. No, italreadyhappened. Days ago, weeks. When I heard her sing in the shower for the first time? When she made me grits? When I saw those paint smudges on her face? When she picked up our crippled Pushkin from the street and made the first pirate patch for him? Or the very night I shot her?
Don’t know. But I fell over and tumbled up to the eleventh floor of Goldsling Towers that night, and now I’m up to my ears in love, and my brain doesn’t even count, because around her, I don’t think, I feel.
Attraction is like a bonfire. The more you feed it, the brighter it burns.
