42. Natalia

42

NATALIA

Under the pretense of helping Aunt Annie with the dishes, I slip into the kitchen.

She's standing at the sink, letting the water run while she gazes through the window into the backyard. Andrey joined Remi and the boys back there a few minutes ago, and I know she's watching him.

I also know that she knows that I know she's watching him.

When I can't take it anymore, I finally blurt, "Well? What do you think?"

"He's charming, smart, polite." Her eyes flit to me. "Bit ugly, though. Couldn't you have found a better-looking man, Nat?"

I burst out laughing. No one in their right mind could ever accuse Andrey of being ugly.

When the room falls quiet again, I watch her rinse our lemonade glasses, and wait.

"Honestly," Aunt Annie says after a few minutes, "he reminds me a little of you."

I flick a towel at her butt. "Don't be rude."

She's not laughing, though. "Right after we lost your mom and dad, you held yourself the same way. Like you were trying to keep everyone—the whole damn world—at arm's length."

I peek through the window to find Andrey, only to realize he's already looking my way. So I glance away and try to pretend like I was admiring the cherry tree, though I don't think I'm fooling anyone.

"He seems like a man who's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders," Aunt Annie presses on.

I've sensed the same thing, but I assumed it had more to do with me than him. He's too big, too larger-than-life, to rely on the same kinds of defense mechanisms that I've always relied on. Run. Hide. Show no one what you're feeling.

"He's responsible for a lot of people," I explain softly.

Remi is nipping at Andrey's ankles now and he bends to scratch the pup behind the ears. It sends a little shiver of affection through me.

When I turn, my aunt is studying me carefully. She's always had the ability to see straight to the heart of me. One look from her, and I'm laid bare.

"Can I ask you something?"

I wince, even as I nod. "Shoot."

"Do you have feelings for him?"

I want to lie. It's poised on the tip of my tongue. But there's no point in it. Not only because Aunt Annie would see right through it, but also because she sacrificed her life to raise me after my parents died. I don't want to repay her with dishonesty.

"Lately, I've been feeling like… yes? Maybe. I think."

She nods solemnly. "I don't blame you. He's the kind of man who would be easy to fall for."

"I can't have him, though," I blurt. "I shouldn't. I can't."

Aunt Annie lifts her eyebrows with interest. "Why not?"

"I…" It's harder than I imagined to say it. "I don't think he feels the same way about me."

It's her turn to direct her gaze out the window, down to where Andrey leans against the trunk of a tree I've climbed I-don't-even-know how many times. He's cool and resolute in its shadow like he belongs there. Like he's always belonged there.

She watches him for a long time before she speaks again. "Have you given him the chance to know the real you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, have you been protecting your secrets? Hiding your past?"

"No more than he does," I say defensively.

Aunt Annie's smile, just like her gaze, is cryptic and all-knowing. "Well, no wonder the two of you move around each other like magnets with the same poles. Just like I thought," she says quietly, "you two are alike."

"We aren't," I insist. "It's not like that."

Aunt Annie cups my cheek fondly. "If you say so, Nic-Nat. Now, how about another piece of pie?"

On the way out, Andrey seems to know what he's in for. He doesn't offer Aunt Annie his hand, but instead leans in and gives her a one-armed hug.

I'm holding the door open for Remi to bound down the steps, but when I turn back around, I realize that they're still hugging. Andrey's neck is craned to the side as though Aunt Annie is whispering a secret to him.

A moment later, they split apart.

I glance at my aunt questioningly, but she simply smiles and plants a kiss on my forehead. "You take care of that baby now. And don't be a stranger, my girl."

Once Remi is secure in the back seat, I get into the car and roll down the window to wave some more. I don't stop waving until we've turned the corner and Aunt Annie disappears behind a sheath of maple leaves.

I wait, nervous, for Andrey to break the silence. He barely glances at me as we leave the neighborhood in our rearview mirror.

After twenty minutes of excruciating silence, I'm the first to crack. "So… that was my aunt."

One corner of Andrey's mouth curls up in a smile. "Give me credit for figuring out that much, lastochka ."

My heart flutters wildly. Get a grip, girl. We're just talking.

The thing is, Aunt Annie's remarks have burrowed their way into my consciousness now. And it's got me thinking?—

What if he's more like me than I realize?

What if he's holding onto his pain the same way I hold onto mine?

What if extending some trust is all it'll take to get him to trust me in return?

I twist back to pet Remi, but my eyes don't venture past Andrey's profile. Past the golden afternoon sunlight setting him in sharp, handsome relief. "Thanks for coming with me."

His hand tightens on the wheel. "You're welcome."

"She means a lot to me, my aunt," I continue.

"You two seem close."

My heart is hammering hard against my chest. Talking about this—any of it—feels like stripping naked in front of a crowd of strangers.

But , I remind myself, Andrey is not a stranger . Not unless you force him to be.

"I don't think I would have survived without her."

"You're tougher than you think."

"You didn't see me after my parents died." I swallow hard, my throat painfully dry. "I was… destroyed, honestly. I spent those first six months in a sort of daze. I wanted to die. I thought that was the only way to be with them again."

He looks over, those startling gray eyes boring into my face and making my skin tingle with heat.

I can't think when he's looking at me like that, so I turn to the windshield before I continue. "I couldn't function. I barely ate or slept. Couldn't go to school. It was the first time I experienced a catatonic episode. You saw what that was like."

His eyes are back on the road, but I can tell he's listening with rapt attention. Even Remi has stopped moving. It's as if he senses the tension in the air.

"Aunt Annie quit her job to homeschool me. Four times a week, I went to a child psychiatrist that the state recommended. Between those sessions and Aunt Annie's dedication, I started showing signs of life again." I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. "She still thinks it's the therapy that helped. But I know that she was the reason I got better. Her love, her care, her unfailing faith that I would come back." I exhale. "I hope to be the kind of mother she is."

"You will be." He says it so confidently. No doubts.

"How can you know that?"

"I've watched you with Misha," he says. "I've seen how patient you are with him, how protective. You're just as much of a force of nature as your aunt, Natalia. You just don't know it yet."

I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything.

We round one corner, then another. Eventually, we link up with the highway and settle into a droning, thrumming cruise.

"She reminds me a little of my own mother," Andrey finally says, cutting through the silence again. "Back when she was young."

My head swivels in his direction. Has Andrey Kuznetsov actually volunteered information about his personal life? Is there some kind of invisible torture taking place that I'm not aware of?

I sit very still, as though the slightest movement will send him retreating back behind his protective barricades.

"Arina had the same kind of maternal softness. It made you underestimate just how shrewd she really was."

"Arina," I repeat under my breath. "What happened to her?"

"She's been a patient at Drogheda Mental Institution for the past eleven years."

"Oh my." I draw in a breath. "I-I've… seen it a few times. On walks. It's a beautiful property."

"From the outside, maybe," Andrey says flatly. "But at the end of the day, no matter how beautiful, a mental institution is a mental institution. She's trapped there."

Something about the way he says that makes my heart ache. "I'm sorry."

"I'm the one who should be sorry."

He swallows like he didn't mean to say that and, honestly, I'm not so sure I was meant to hear it. Just to be safe, I pretend like I haven't.

But I can't stay silent, not when my curiosity is fit to burst. "Do you visit her often?"

"Not as often as I should." He swallows again, like this whole conversation is surprising him as much as it is me. "But I try to go as much as I can. I just don't know how much good it does her."

"Can she recognize you?"

"Some days, yes. Other days, she thinks I'm… someone else."

"Who?"

Those steely silver eyes flash to my face and then back to the road. "A man she fears and despises. The same man that's responsible for her lifetime sentence in Drogheda."

I don't know how, but I already know the answer to the question I'm about to ask. "Your father?"

Andrey nods. "My father."

He says it with so much venom that I find myself reaching towards him, fingers outstretched, longing to give him some kind of comfort. My hand lands on his thigh, close to his knee. He doesn't acknowledge my invasion of his space—but he doesn't throw me off, either.

Progress.

"Does she know you're going to be a father?"

Andrey's hands twitch on the wheel. "I did tell her," he rasps. "But I'm not sure she can process new information anymore. I'm not sure she'll remember."

"But you told her. That makes a difference."

"Does it?" He looks at me like he genuinely wants to know.

I nod firmly. "You haven't given up on her. Whenever she's lucid—whenever she's herself again—she'll know that. In her heart, even if not in her head."

He turns back to the road, and we finish the drive in silence.

But my hand remains on his leg the entire way home.