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“He’s pushing you out?”
“He acts like he’s not, but he wedges between Neve and me. Always whispering in her ear. We agree on one thing, then she comes back the next day after talking to him.Simon thinks maybe we should …”Ilsa imitates her sister savagely, giving Neve a soft and prissy voice quite unlike her real tone. “The Severovs are fuckingnothing.They can’t wait to get their hands on what my father built.”
“You think he doesn’t care about her?”
“Sure hecaresabout her,” Ilsa rolls her eyes. “Neve’s gorgeous, he knows he’s got a catch. And she’s dick-drunk—all giggly and twitterpated. I swear to god, he’s brainwashing her.”
“With sex?” I laugh.
“Yes!” Ilsa cries. “And she’s falling for it! I can’t believe I used to respect her. She was my Zena. Now I find out she’s just another Ariel.”
The disgust in her voice makes me snicker. Also the fact that Ilsa has apparently watched bothZena the Warrior PrincessandThe Little Mermaid.
Her antipathy to all things love and romance is maybe the only thing that could cheer me up in this moment.
“So … what are you going to do?”
“I’m not fucking working for him, I can tell you that,” Ilsa says, darkly. “I was supposed to be Neve’s lieutenant. Simon doesn’t want me and I wouldn’t do it for him anyway.”
“You living with her still?”
“I’ve got my own place, thank god. It’s up there,” she points, mostly for the cabbie’s benefit—he’s struggling to see the numbers on the dimly-lit street.
“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him, doling out a little more of my limited cash.
Ilsa steps out of the car, forgetting that she’s drunk, almost eating shit on the curb.
“Who put that there?” she mumbles.
“Stalin.”
She laughs her loud, barking laugh. “I did miss you.”
“Yeah?” I say, feeling the first touch of warmth in my chest not attributable to too many shots of liquor. “I missed you too.”
We climb the metal stairs to her fourth-floor apartment. She’s not exactly living large in this old cinderblock building. When she unlocks the door, I’m hit with the familiar scent of her favorite soap and the faintest hint of gunpowder.
Her apartment is clean and perfectly organized. The walls are bare brick, the floor tile with only a couple of rugs under the couch and table. She doesn’t have a TV. A gray cat sits in the windowsill, next to several flourishing plants. Her view is the equally depressing building across the street.
“Jeez, times are tough,” I tease her.
“You know I don’t give a shit about decorating.”
“Do you like heat and light? ‘Cause I’m not sure you have those, either …”
Ilsa flicks the switch. A lamp illuminates, casting a golden glow over half the room.
“Happy?” she says.
“I will be once you pour me a drink.”
“I think you’ve had enough.”
That’s what she says, but she’s already heading into the kitchen, taking the vodka out of the freezer.
My favorite thing about Ilsa is how easy it is to tempt her. She’s the most disciplined person I know … until I convince her to be otherwise.
She brings back the bottle, no glasses.
