18. Natalia

18

NATALIA

With every passing second that I don't pick up the gun, the tick, tick, tick in my head gets louder. I feel like a bomb is about to detonate. It doesn't help that Shura hasn't taken his eyes off of me since I approached the table.

"Stop staring at me!" I snap when I can't take it anymore.

He tosses up his hands. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just… I don't know. Turn around or something."

With a weary sigh, he does as I ask, pivoting to stare towards the pool house. I turn back to the table—and the gun—but I still can't make my hand move.

What was Evangeline thinking?

Evangeline, also known as Dr. Smirnov, also known as my new therapist. I was dumb enough to think she could help me.

Exposure therapy is medieval. What about holding a gun is going to do anything to help the gnawing panic I feel in my gut every time I even look at one?

She told me I could start on a low dose of some medication for my anxiety, but I'm gonna need a tranq dart before I can get within a foot of this gun.

"Come on, Nat," I grit to myself. "It's not even loaded."

Or is it? the anxious voice in the back of my head ponders. Loaded or not, the ugly, metal gun looks far from innocent. I almost think it's taunting me.

Pick me up, Natalia. You know how I work, don't you? You've used me before.

Shuddering, I take a step back. Then I whirl around to Shura. "I'm calling it. This is useless!"

"Don't say that. You're just starting."

"No, it's been half an hour, and I'm further from the gun than when we started." I sag. "I thought I'd at least shoot it before I freaked out."

He turns from the pool house for the first time since I banished him from looking at me. "Stop seeing the gun as a weapon?—"

"It is a weapon."

"It's a tool," he argues. "What makes all the difference is who's holding it."

All at once, I see my own hands rising in front of me, a gun folded between them… aimed at Andrey's chest.

"Exactly! Look at me—I'm a freaking wreck." I take another step back. "I shouldn't be allowed anywhere near a gun."

Shura looks like he wants to agree. But instead, he walks over and picks up the gun. Without any hesitation, he raises it and aims at a tree in the distance. He mimes pulling the trigger. "You just need to be confident."

"Which automatically disqualifies me."

He lowers the gun, pointing the muzzle at the ground and flicking on the safety before he turns to me. "Confidence can be learned. But if you don't want to do this, Natalia, you don't have to."

I consider going back to my glossy-haired, poreless therapist and telling her I failed my first homework assignment, and my stomach curdles with shame. "No, I want to do this. I'm just… scared."

"Okay. Tell me what you're afraid of."

I glance at the gun in his hand like it's a venomous snake that might strike at any moment. "Everything."

"Care to be more specific?"

"I'm afraid of looking at it, touching it—basically, all of the five senses are off limits," I ramble. "Also, of dying."

Shura looks like he's not sure what to do with me, and I relate to the feeling. I don't know what to do with me, either.

I cover my face with my hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know this isn't helping. But every time I see a gun, I see my parents being killed."

Shura puts the gun down and walks closer. "You're thinking about yourself on the wrong end of the gun. Try to imagine holding it. If you were threatened and the only way to save yourself is to pick up this gun and shoot, would you do it?"

Again, I see myself aiming the gun at Andrey, my mind blank as I pulled the trigger.

I shake my head, my chin wobbling. "I don't—I can't?—"

"Misha," he says suddenly. "Think about Misha. Would you pick up this gun to save Misha?"

The scene unfurls before my eyes—Misha and I trapped in a room with Nikolai or Slavik. If one of them went to hurt Misha, murder in their eyes, would I be able to pick up a gun with the intention of using it on another human being?

"I would shoot." The words roll off my tongue without a hitch.

Shura nods. "Precisely. Now, pick it up."

I take a few tentative steps forward, my hand reaching for the revolver. Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe.

Then my hand clamps, sweaty and slippery, around the handle, and breathing is no longer part of the equation. My lungs are sealed shut, and I rip my hand away so violently that the gun clatters off the table.

Shura catches it before it can hit the ground.

"You touched it," he offers generously. "That's a start."

I'm shaking all over. "Do I have to try again?"

The gun disappears into the holster at his hip. "I think that's enough for today. We'll try again tomorrow. If you're up for it."

That sounds good to me. I'm much more interested in the second homework assignment Evangeline gave me, anyway.

But when I arrive outside Misha's door to get started on "feeding my soul" with things I love, like family time and playing piano, the deep timbre of Andrey's voice is unmistakable. I can't help but lean in and eavesdrop.

"… some real progress here. You should be proud."

"I got five answers wrong," Misha argues.

"And last time, that number was eight. You're improving."

"Barely," Misha mutters.

"Progress is progress, no matter how slow."

I take that little piece of advice and stow it away in my heart. I touched a gun for half a second and almost had a heart attack, but that's still progress.

"I hate math."

"You only hate it because it's hard for you to grasp. And now that we know why, we have ways of counteracting it."

I had no idea Andrey was helping Misha with his homework. Be still, my heart.

"There's no way to counteract dyslexia," Misha complains. "I just have to deal with being stupid."

I also had no idea Misha had dyslexia. Since when?

I have half a mind to bust through the door and reveal myself as a snoop just so I can tell Misha he is absolutely not stupid. But Andrey beats me to the punch.

"You're not stupid, Misha," he insists calmly. "You just learn differently. And between Mr. Akayev and I, we can help you. I'll bet Natalia could help you, too, if?—"

"No!" Misha interrupts, making me flinch. "No, I don't want Natalia to know."

"You don't have a damn thing to be ashamed of, Misha."

In the space of a single, stolen conversation, I've gone from wanting to avoid Andrey to wanting to jump his bones. Maybe it's a simple case of being on the same page for once.

"I'm not ashamed. I just don't want her to know, okay?"

Andrey sighs. "If you insist."

I hear the scraping of chairs before Misha speaks up again. "Is she talking to you yet?"

I'm expecting a generic, evasive answer. The kind of answer you give your kids so they don't worry. Everything's fine. We're doing good. There's nothing to worry about.

"She's unhappy with me, and I can't exactly blame her. But… I don't know how to reach her."

"But you want to?"

Is that hope I hear in Misha's voice?

"I do. She's important to me."

My heart leaps the way it did when I saw the gun earlier. Like, somehow, these words are just as dangerous. Don't fall for it. You'll only end up hurt.

"Because of the babies?" Misha asks.

"Because…" There's a pause while Andrey thinks, and I'd give everything I own to see the look on his face right now. "Because out of everyone in this world, she matters the most to me."

Bang. The words hit me like a gunshot. I clap a hand over my mouth as tears blur my vision.

Forcing myself away from the door, I stumble to my room. Andrey's never said that to me before, and now, I realize why.

Because it doesn't really change anything.

We each have our issues to sort through, and until we do, we'll just be two people, eavesdropping on each other from opposite sides of a wooden door.