Dangerous? Maybe. Stupid? Yes. But I kneel beside him and gently touch his shoulder.
“Christian,” I whisper. “Christian, hey.”
With a moan he twists away from me, and I reach for the lamp. Suddenly, he shoots up, gasping. I jump back, my pulse racing at the clear terror on his face. The confusion. I finish turning on the lamp and return to his side.
“Christian?”
He blinks, staring straight through me. Is he awake? I can’t even tell.
Shaking his head, he pulls in a deep breath and buries his hands in hair. “I…” He clenches his eyes shut, shaking violently. I know that look. Those erratic breaths that are too much and not enough at the same time.
“Hey, look at me,” I say gently. I touch his cheek and force his attention to me. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just take a deep breath and hold it in.” I breathe in, demonstrating. Once. Twice. By the fourth he’s coming back. “Good. You’re doing great.” I brush some hair from his eyes. His gaze collides with mine.
“Emma.” He pulls away.
“It’s okay.”
Shaking his head, he jumps up and rushes toward the kitchen. I watch him lean over the sink, clutching the edge of the counter. He doesn’t look at me, his strong shoulders lifting and sagging with ragged emotion that’s as raw as anything I’ve ever seen in another person. I know he doesn’t want me here, witnessing his pain, but there’s no way I can leave him now. Not when he held me hours ago in the same state.
I approach slowly. Careful not to startle him. His back is to me, his skin glistening with sweat. The edge of the tattoo that spreads over his shoulder shines in the pale light, illuminating a name I hadn’t noticed before. The abstract lettering makes it especially hard to read, but as I get closer, I start to make it out.
“Who’s Maddie?” I ask quietly.
I come around to the side and look up into his face. Eyes closed, jaw clenched, I see every blow of the battle he’s fighting in his head. His biceps bulge with the violence of his grip, and I run my fingers over the grooves of muscle in his skin.
“Christian?”
He shakes his head, refusing to look at me, still pulling in heavy breaths.
I peel his fist from the counter and force him to face me. Reaching up, I guide his head until his tortured eyes have to confront my compassion.
“Who’s Maddie?” I repeat.
After blinking again, a tear rolls down his cheek. “My sister. She dies in fire along with the others of my family.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing. Just a nightmare. Christian!”
I’m awake but too embarrassed to open my eyes. Why did I have to have one here? Now? Kozy knows. He’s seen my nightmares before, but Ciky’s sharing our tent too, and now, my shame.
My grandmother hates them, the dreams. It’s why she makes me sleep in the living room rather than the small spare room beside hers. She says I keep her awake with my screaming. That after seven years I should not be afraid anymore. Only babies cry. Maybe she’s right, and I’d do anything to obey her. I’m good at masking the pain during the day. I can be the strong young man she wants. If not, at least I can escape to hide it. But at night… At night the darkness returns me to that room, that bed with my sister in the smoke-filled air, the flames that tear my flat and my life apart. That darkness knows no weakness. That darkness rules and vanquishes any soul in its way, and now someone else knows my secret.
Ciky laughs. I knew he would and I try to pretend it doesn’t bother me when I finally admit to being awake.
“You scream like my sister,” he says, slapping his leg.
“Shut up, Ciky,” Kozy snaps. “You okay, Tian?”
I nod, rubbing my eyes to remove any more evidence.
“That same nightmare about the fire?”
I shrug. No big deal. Nothing to worry about it. At fourteen nothing should bother me. “I’m gonna go for a walk,” I say, pushing myself up. I climb out of the tent and jog several paces away. Should have grabbed my coat, but I can’t go back for it. Dropping to a bench I stare up at the sky, so clear and bright with its permanent tapestries. Stars don’t fade. Stars remind you that some things are eternal and no matter what you lose, you always have light. Kozy’s mom told me once that there’s a star for each of us and if I ever miss my family, all I have to do is find theirs. I search now. Dad, mom, Maddie, they’re up their somewhere, watching. Just like they always will be, no matter where I am.
All I have to do is look.
I gasp, staring at him in horror. “Christian…”
He shakes his head. “Please don’t say it.”
“What?”
“Anything.” He pulls away from my hold and marches back to the living room. Grabbing his jeans, he yanks them on and scoops up his shirt.
“Where are you going?”
“For a walk.”
“Wait, I’ll go with you.”
“No. I am fine. You sleep.”
I can be stubborn too. “I’m going. Let me get my shoes.” I run to my room to throw on some sweats, and hear the door creak open. I’m surprised to find him still standing in the threshold when I race back, staring up at the night sky. It’s not the first time I’ve seen that, his fascination with astronomy. He flinches when I slip my hand in his.
“What are you looking at?” I follow his gaze upwards.
“The stars.”
“They’re beautiful.”
He nods, not moving.
“Come on.” I close the door behind us and pull him down the steps. We’re not going far, just around the courtyard to the picnic tables. The light’s been out for months in that spot and will give him a better view of his beloved constellations.
We navigate carefully, the darkness growing with each step from the building, but I’m not scared. With Christian so close, his warmth spreading through my hand, the darkness feels okay for once. Especially when I look up.
Brushing some debris from the bench, I pull him down beside me and tuck my arms around his chest. He slides his arm around my shoulders, and I settle against him, allowing myself to enter his world.
“They really are beautiful,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he replies. “My sister is there and my parents. Your mother also.”
I bite back my reaction. The sweetness of his tone, the innocence of someone who’s lived so much pain. I have lists. He has stars.
“After my mother’s death I thought I’d die too,” I say quietly. “My father did more than kill his wife that day. Tragedy has a way of seeping through even the smallest cracks.” I say that to myself. He can’t possibly understand the metaphor, but one look at his face, and I know he understands the sting behind it.
“It gets worse. Not better,” he says.
Tears well in my eyes. I recognize the pain in his voice, too well, and pull him closer. I want to bury myself in him. Absorb his sickness and give him mine.
“Yes. Exactly.” I draw in a deep breath. “But then it does start to get better. Not because it goes away. Because you adapt. You learn to escape and hide in plain sight.”
“You write lists.”
I smile through my tears. “Yes. I write lists. I’m sure it’s something different for you.”
“I run. First it was to escape so no one would see crying. Then because I feel light.”
Light. I’m not sure if that’s the word he meant but I like it. Maybe it’s the perfect mistake.
“I feel light right now,” I say, a smile creeping over my lips.
His sigh makes me think he feels it too. “Are you cold?”
“No.”
His arm tightens around me anyway, and I squeeze him back.
“Are you?” I ask.
“Not now.”
And suddenly, I need more. Strange, I can’t recall wanting to know every single thing about a person before. “Tell me about your country.”
Some tension relaxes from his body at the subject change. “Like what
things?”
“Anything. Um, what’s your favorite food?”
“Mango.”
I chuckle. “Okay, fine. What’s your favorite traditional Slovak food?” I glance up and catch his smile. He knew what I meant.
“Well, maybe bryndzové halušky?”
“Interesting. What’s that?”
“It’s…”
I love watching his mind work. It makes me think I could sit with him for hours and never be bored.
“It is potato but not.” His brow furrows in frustration as he searches his brain.
I don’t speak another language. In fact I’ve never even been outside of the United States—too scary—so I can only imagine what it’s like trying to communicate in a foreign place to a foreign audience. Suddenly my lack of language skills feels like a flaw. Maybe Slovak will be my first second language? I smile at the thought. A week ago I barely knew it existed.
“And there is cheese and sometimes also pork.”
“Ohh I like potatoes. And cheese.”
“Well not potatoes. Um…” He shakes his head, and I’m sorry, but could he be any more adorable right now? “Oh! You know gnocchi?”
“The little Italian dough balls?”
His smile is everything. “Yes, like little Italian dough balls.”
“Hmm… with cheese and pork?”
“Small pork. Like bacon?”
“So little Italian dough balls with cheese and bacon? Yes, please. How do you say it again?”
“Bryndzové halušky.”
Yeah, I’m not going to attempt that right now. We’d be here the rest of the night. Maybe that’s not so bad…
“What about you?” he asks.
“My favorite food?”
He nods, and I’m caught up in the sincerity of his expression. It’s what draws me so hopelessly to him. There’s an innocence, a wonder, that trials and the pressure of life haven’t managed to corrupt. My favorite food matters to him. I matter, and I wish he understood how vividly I see him too.
“Tacos,” I say with the appropriate level of importance for such an important word.
“Tacos?”
My jaw drops at his confusion. “You’ve… never… had… a taco?” The words slip out in whispered sacrilege.
He shrinks a bit with a shy smile. “I think I haven’t.”
“Well, that’s just not right. We need to fix that asap. Tomorrow: you, me, tacos.”
His smile brightens to a grin. “I think that’s fine.”
“And then maybe we can find a restaurant that serves your dough ball cheese thing so I can try it.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “I think you won’t find it. Also, what is… ay-sap?”
“Asap? It stands for as soon as possible.”
“Ah. Okay.” He straightens, pulling me up with him. “Then maybe we go back to flat… ay-sap?”
Inside, our conversation continues. We sit on the couch for the rest of the night talking, laughing, and snacking on gems from an American pantry. Jelly beans, it turns out, don’t have universal appeal. I concede to taking an honest approach to them as well, and yeah, maybe they get way more nostalgic credit than they deserve. The sweet potato chips go over much better. Also, by the time he finishes describing 3BIT, his favorite candy, or “sweets” as he calls them, I’m ready to jump on a plane and head to Europe.
Food preferences are just the beginning. I also learn there’s a bridge over the Danube in Bratislava called SNP Bridge with a restaurant that looks like a UFO. Even cooler, he passes a real honest-to-goodness castle when he goes east to visit some childhood friends. He promises to send me pictures of Považský Castle when I get overly excited at the mere mention of the C-word. (Castles!)
But my favorite moment is listening to him describe the night view of Bratislava from his favorite overlook. I feel like I’m there, gazing out over the lights, the stars, and the city he clearly loves but is willing to leave to discover new possibilities. Brave. That’s the word that keeps flickering through my mind as he talks. Brave how the trauma of his past sent him on a quest of exploration. His stars free him to go anywhere, do anything. Always they follow and guide him back to safety when he needs it. My lists? I’m not ready to consider that.
It’s past six in the morning when the sun warns us it’s time to return to reality. I’ve grown accustomed to his voice, though, his smile, and the light in his eyes when he talks about the things he loves.
“I’ll make coffee,” I say. “Wait, do you drink coffee?”
“I try it but…” He makes a face, and I laugh.
“Fair enough. Tea?”
“Okay.”
He follows me to the kitchen and asks how he can help. I set him to work on cracking eggs while I heat water and get the frying pan. My gaze keeps creeping over, though, captivated by the sight of a man in my kitchen, looking comfortable, making me want things I shouldn’t. Subtle is not my specialty so naturally I drop the stick of butter when he catches me gawking.
“Do you need help?” he asks.
I can’t tell if he’s teasing me. His smile is gentle when he reaches for the butter and starts to unwrap it. I step back, surprised by the ease with which he navigates my kitchen.
By all means, I have no problem observing.
To him I say, “You’re good at that.”
He glances over, this smile falling somewhere between confident and shy. Another story flickers behind his eyes but he only shrugs and turns back to the stove. “I cook a lot.”
“I can see that. A man of many talents.”
Everything in me wants to move behind him and slip my arms around his waist in that intimate thing real couples do. At least, they do it in the movies. How would he react? A lustful glance back that ends in impromptu necking and burnt eggs? Or would he flinch? Awkwardly pull away with a stiff a smile and some excuse about needing more milk. It’s then that I realize I know so much about this man and almost nothing at all. So many what’s, even some how’s and when’s, but it’s the why’s he seems to guard with rigid conviction. A tantalizing glimpse here, a flash of pain there, yet never the whole truth. Never enough for me to know how he’d react if I reached for him when he wasn’t prepared.
I don’t really know Christian Lukáč, only that what I’ve learned isn’t nearly enough for me.
I lean against the island counter and cross my arms. “Well, if you can cook so well, maybe you can make me your cheese ball thing.”
“Cheese ball thing?” he says through a laugh.
“Yeah. Your favorite food.”
“Mango?”
“Shut up. You know what I mean.” By his smile, he does. He also doesn’t appear to have any intention of helping me out here.
“Sure. I’ll make it for you if you can say it.”
“Ha. Yeah right. I don’t even remember what it was.”
“Bryndzové halušky.”
Yeah that doesn’t help at all. His smug glint confirms I have zero chance.
“Fine. We can stick to eggs. What’s eggs in Slovak?”
“Vajcia.”
“Vy…”
“Cia.”
“Vy-cia.”
“Yes. Close, but smoother. Vajcia.”
I wrinkle my nose, thinking. “Say it again?”
“Vajcia.” He slows it down but it still sounds like what I said.
“Vy-cia.”
His smile. Oh god. I cover my face, and he grins.
“No, no. You do very well. Just…”
“I know, okay? Your language is so freaking hard!”
“It’s okay. You just need practice.”
“I want to say it. Wait.” I clear my throat and hold up my hand to quiet him. “Vy-cia. Vyyy-cia. Vicia. Vee-cia. Vy-jia.”
He’s laughing so hard, I’m worried for our breakfast, but dammit why can’t I say one stupid word? “Fine. Can we try something else?” I grunt.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Anything.” Just so we don�
��t have to say vy-whatever anymore. “Wait, how about good morning?” How hard can that be?
He looks like he’s biting back more laughter when he says, “Dobrý deň.”
Well, shit.
Mud flies up in a warning cloud around me as I run. Strangers glare at me, as if they know I’m late for work. That Alžbeta is going to skin me alive—if I’m lucky. The hard woman can handle a lot. God knows even the drunk regulars don’t dare to mess with her bar and take all shenanigans outside. I’ve seen her confront a would-be robber without so much as a flinch, but tardiness? That’s the enemy that will dismantle her steel façade every time. I can count on one finger the number of times I’ve been late. There’s a reason it never happened again, but yesterday was bad, today was worse, and I have every reason to believe tomorrow will be unbearable. As soon as I escaped I ran until I puked, only to realize I’d run too far to reach Alžbeta’s in time for my shift. I’ve never run a faster kilometer as this last one, but I’ll still be six minutes late. Might as well be an hour.
“You’re late!”
The shriek flies across the kitchen the second I duck in through the back.
“I know! I’m sorry…” is what I say but I’m panting too hard for anyone else to know that.
“I have a hundred customers dying of thirst and what could I tell them? What? Christian is too lazy to serve them? Christian had to make lovey eyes at his girlfriend?”
Her son Cenek is careful to avoid my gaze. I’ve never seen him so dedicated to stirring a pot. I also don’t miss the smile he’s holding back. Alžbeta may feel like her precious bar caters to a large, demanding crowd, but the rundown relic can’t seat more than thirty. On a Tuesday afternoon we’re lucky if there are ten casual patrons swallowing beer poured by her more-than-capable hands. They’ll be here all night and probably don’t even know what time it is.
“I know.” I’m already washing my hands and doing my best to clean any lingering mud droplets from my skin and clothing.
“You’re lucky you’re…” She stops. “What’s wrong with your eye?”
“My eye?” I blink, testing the growing ache. Running made the pain go away but now I’m still.
High Tide Page 6