19. Natalya

Chapter 19

Natalya

I explore the apartment and get to know Alex’s habits better than I ever dreamed I would over the next few days.

The machine is an absolute machine.

In the worst way possible.

Five-thirty in the morning, his alarm goes off. He’s out of bed instantly, teeth brushed, face washed, and into his office which doubles as his home gym. I listen to him grunt away, stomping on the floor, throwing around heavy stuff for a while, until he’s in the shower by six-thirty. Then it’s fancy coffee, whole wheat toast, and egg whites for breakfast, before he’s back in his office doing whatever the hell he does in there for a few hours, before he finally leaves to take meetings or break kneecaps or shoot people in the face or whatever.

I try to get more sleep during his morning routine, but it’s impossible. The man couldn’t care less if he’s being too loud, even if I complain. Actually, I think he likes when I complain. All he says is, I’d sleep better in his bed.

I’m pretty sure he’s trying to blackmail me with his bad behavior.

I drift around the house once he’s gone. There’s a small market in a strip mall next to his apartment complex and I end up going there most days to grocery shop. I buy romance paperbacks and magazines at checkout and devour them beside his infinity pool. Sometimes I swim laps, just to give myself something to do.

He makes sure I eat, and he comments when it’s not healthy enough. Pre-natal vitamins appeared on the coffee table one morning, and I’m expected to take them religiously—and he’ll notice if I don’t.

None of this is necessarily bad. He’s trying to make sure I’m healthy and doing all the right things for the baby. I totally get that.

It’s just, he’s overbearing, and has absolutely no patience for mistakes.

“Are you hoarding water?” he asks one morning as he drinks his espresso and glares at me from the kitchen.

I’m lying in my couch nest, half awake and miserable. “What are you talking about?” I grunt at him.

He walks over and nudges a water glass. “This. And this. And this.” He flicks a few more, and it’s only then that I realize there are like eight of them scattered all over the living room, and none of them are empty.

“Would you just leave me alone?”

“Dump it when you’re done, put it in the dishwasher, and get a clean one.” He sits down at my feet, still sipping away at his coffee. I’m extremely tempted to kick it from his hand, but it’d ruin the couch and I’m the one that would have to sleep on the mess.

“It’s just water, okay? I’ll take care of it.”

“We don’t have maid, printsessa . I know you’re used to housekeeping back with your father, but I don’t pay for cleaners.”

“Are you saying you expect me to scrub the floors for you?” My eyebrows raise as I sit up on an elbow. “Are you kidding right now?”

He glares right back. “Is that what I said?”

“It’s the implication. You think because I’m stuck living with you, I’m just going to be your maid?”

“I think you should put away your little herd of water glasses.”

“Right, I get it, we’re married which means I should obey my husband, right?”

He smirks and leans closer, one hand on my ankle. “It would be a fucking miracle if you learned how to be obedient, printsessa .”

I kick out but he holds onto my leg tightly and catches it before I can do any real damage. “You’re right, the day I start following your order is the day I jump off the balcony out there.”

“I’m not asking much. Clean up after yourself. I don’t like clutter.”

“And I don’t like when you stomp around every morning. You know I’m trying to sleep, but you don’t care.”

“It’s the morning. You need to get up either way.”

“Not everyone’s on your schedule. Are you always like this?”

“Yes,” he says and lets go of my leg. He climbs to his feet and stares down at me. “Pick up after yourself. Don’t make this a thing.”

I flip him off as he walks away.

The thing is, he’s not wrong. The water glass situation got a little out of hand. And there was also the bathroom conundrum, when I left big globs of hair stuff in the sink and accidentally clogged it up. He fixed it, but also tried to ban me from using product, which isn’t going to happen. Then there’s the laundry situation: when the dryer is done, he takes out his clothes and he folds them right way. While I like to throw mine in a basket and leave it there for a while, until it eventually gets bad enough that I’m forced to put it all away again. Obviously, he’s not a fan.

We clash, to put it nicely.

He’s a stuck-up neat freak, and I’m much more loose and free with my living situation.

Things come to a head a couple days after the initial water glass skirmish. I’m minding my own business and putting his fancy espresso maker to good use when he comes storming down the steps. “ Printsessa ,” he says, practically fuming with frustration. “We need to talk.”

“Yes, husband?” I bat my eyelashes at him very sweetly.

His jaw works. “I looked in the guest room. And do you know what I found?”

“Blankets. Pillows. No, wait, hold on. A Tiffany lamp? A thousand dollars in unmarked bills? A clown. Two clowns!”

He is not amused.

“I found a pile of your clothes on the floor.”

I frown at him and sip my coffee. I swear, there are very few good things about living here with him, but that stupid espresso machine almost makes it worth it.

If I could inject that stuff directly into my brain, I absolutely would.

“And?” I ask, not really understanding.

“Clean clothes. Thrown in piles. On the floor . Not put away in drawers, not hung in the very large walk in closet, not even neatly laid out on the bed which would annoy me but I could live with it, but just thrown there. What is wrong with you, printsessa ? Why do we keep doing this?”

I finally hit my breaking point.

He’s been badgering me about all this crap since I moved in with him. He’s been up my ass about everything, from the water cups (admittedly those are annoying) to the Q-Tips I leave out around the sink to my dishwashing skills.

I understand that we have different ideas of what’s clean, but the man is a monster.

“Are you seriously giving me shit for this right now? If you don’t like it, close the door.

“That’s not the point. This is our space now, and you treat it like it’s your own.”

“Actually, you treat me like you expect me to do everything your way. But like you said, husband dearest, it’s our space.”

“I can’t tolerate a mess. You know that.”

“And I can’t tolerate an overbearing dick head glorified room mate who forces me to sleep on the couch and is up my ass about every little thing. You realize my life got turned upside down for this? My friends won’t talk to me? Lev won’t return my calls or texts? Everyone hates me, Alex, and you’re seriously going to give me crap for my mess?”

I’m breathing hard and livid. I throw back the rest of my espresso, which is probably not going to help calm me down, and shove past him.

“Where are you going?” he barks as I grab my spare key from the neatly organized ring he keeps beside the door.

“I’m going out.”

“You know it’s not safe for you right now,” he says, softening a little. “The Italians have been making noise.”

“Let them fucking yell for all I care. I need to get away from you for a while.”

“Natalya, hold on—“ He steps toward me as I wrench open the door.

“If you follow me, I swear to Christ, I’m going to rip open your closet and throw all your suits on the floor. I’ll stomp on them with my shoes. Don’t even test me.

The I slam the door in his face and get out of there.

I might have overreacted.

It occurs to me, as I walk through the nearby neighborhood, that I could have handled that better.

I could have explained to him that our levels of acceptable mess are obviously different and that I am genuinely actively trying to do better, but he’s going to have to meet me half way in the meantime.

I could have pointed out that by hiding my mess in the guest room, that should constitute an improvement.

I could also have gently brought his attention to the fact that this is all new and very difficult, and we should be giving each other grace.

Clearly, I did none of that. And it’s not like he did either.

There’s too much pent-up frustration inside of me. I don’t even hate Alex for wanting his personal space a certain way—it’s clear he’s never lived with someone and this is a transition for him as much as it is for me—I just wish he could be a little softer about everything.

Only that’s not him.

Hard ass, perfect Alexander doesn’t know how to be gentle.

I slow as I reach the corner of a street a few blocks from the apartment. I stare at the windows of the shop built into a rehabbed house there: guitars, cymbals, an old saxophone, and other instruments hang from displays.

I’m not sure why, but I step inside. A little bell rings as I look around a tiny music shop.

It smells like oil and brass. An old woman sits behind the counter wearing thick owlish glasses and squinting down at a flute. She’s repairing one of the valves very slowly and very carefully.

“Take a look around,” she says without glancing up. “I’ll be with you in a bit if you need help.”

“Uh, sure,” I say and walk inside.

It’s incredible. Dozens of ancient electric guitars hang on the walls. I recognize some of them. Everything’s slightly dusty and used, but I’m guessing that old Fender is worth more than my Parisian rent. There’s a tuba, a French horn, several nice-looking violins, and all the way in the back, an ancient piano.

I nearly start crying as I sit down and put my fingers on the keys.

It’s been over a week since I moved in with Alex, and I haven’t played in all that time. As I move through a scale, not really thinking, just listening, I close my eyes and feel the thick, crusty layers of my stress begin to crumble away.

I transition into the songs. The music I wrote in Paris. The sound of my deep, unyielding loneliness. I let myself go as I play, unwinding, loosening, softening, and forget all about the old woman up front until I finish a song and hear her clapping behind me.

I flinch and look back over my shoulder, flushed and embarrassed. “I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “How long was I playing for? Was I being too loud?”

“Not at all, dear,” she says, smiling broadly. Her big blue eyes look huge behind the glasses. Her hair’s white and poofy, and she’s wearing a matching blue-and-white track suit. I should’ve heard her coming with all the swishing noise it makes. “That was some of the most beautiful playing I’ve ever heard. Where did you train?”

“Uh, I took lessons when I was younger.”

“But you must have trained somewhere?” She tilts her head, frowning. “And did you write that music?”

“It’s nothing, really.” I get up from the bench. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

I hurry past her, not sure why I’m so mortified. I haven’t played for anyone in a while other than Alex and my family. I guess the guards at my father’s house heard my song too, but they’re paid not to judge.

This woman clearly knows something about music, and I’m just an enthusiastic amateur.

She follows me, her track suit pants swishing as she walks.

“Please, feel free to come back,” she says, sounding earnest. “I don’t mind one bit. You play beautifully.”

“Thank you,” I say at the door. “But it’s okay. I won’t bother you again.”

She leans against the counter. “My name’s Patricia. I’m open almost every day except Mondays, because that’s when I play pickleball.”

“Uh, okay.” I try to imagine this lady doing anything physical and have a hard time, but I guess that explains the track suit. “Thank you.”

“Honestly dear, come back and play any time. That piano’s due for a tuning one of these days. Maybe you’ll give me incentive to get on it.”

“Please, no, don’t do that for me, I just?—“

She laughs and waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Thanks for coming in.”

I smile awkwardly, turn away, and hurry back out onto the street. Once I’m headed to the apartment, I check my phone.

Two hours. I was gone for two hours. And I have about ten dozen missed calls from Alex.

I shoot him a text to let him know that I’m fine, and even though I feel like I was taking advantage of that woman back there, the weight on my chest is lighter than it’s been since my life blew up.