about my clothes.
I would like to say I'm one of those women who wears cute little nighties or sleeps naked, but truth be told, I'm definitely into cheesy flannel pajamas with cartoon characters on them. There was no way that the guy could see those. But I couldn't just walk out fully dressed, or it would be obvious that I was making a huge effort.
I heard the coffee maker click on in the kitchen. Time was running out.
Well, there was a pair of sweatpants with Waterton Community College in fat block letters. I grabbed that and threw on a plain white t-shirt. Even if I didn't look great, at least I would look cool.
Pretending that I had just woken up, I snuck out. Raya's apartment was huge by New York City standards, and I still had no idea how she afforded it.
I was about to call out something to Bay when I noticed the couch.
There were multiple gashes in one of the cushions. Like, actual spots where it seemed like he might have taken a knife to the thing. This had also happened with the blanket. The extra pillow was now leaking feathers.
Raya. Had he killed Raya? Was there a struggle? Maybe all of this "damsel in distress rescuer" shit was just a trap, a way to get young women to trust him and his talk about "dangerous" New York City.
My sister and I have never been close, but I was terrified for her. I pulled open her bedroom door and saw her.
She was lying in her bed, in the adorable little silk nightie she loves. Yep, Raya is one of those women. She's slim and beautiful, with smooth olive skin. I try every salad on the planet, she wolfs down venison jerky and hush puppies like there's no tomorrow, but she just looks better every year. It's ridiculous. And after I moved in with her, I realized that she barely ever slept in her apartment.
At least one of us was getting to live a New York life of wild abandon and nonstop sex. I was happy for her, at those times when I forced myself not to be jealous. But it was a rare day when I didn't curse my sister for always having been such a damn goddess.
Even so, I was glad that she hadn't been murdered in her sleep by the crazy man I'd brought into her apartment. But I did consider darting into her room, barricading the door, and calling 911 right away.
At that moment, Bay walked out, carrying two cups of coffee.
All my thoughts evaporated. He looked much more chipper than anyone should ever be in the morning. Plus, he looked hot. He was wearing his jeans, but just an undershirt, giving me the opportunity to view some tattoos.
They were in Chinese, so I had no idea what they said. My first impression of Bay was that he was a very American guy who happened to be ethnically Chinese, so maybe he couldn't read them either. I couldn't have said.
"Did you sleep ok?" he asked, setting down my cup of coffee.
"Yeah," I said, grabbing the sugar bowl and dumping a hefty amount. "Actually, I slept really soundly.
He nodded. "Sometimes stress will do that to you. Maybe a little breakfast will help."
A plate of eggs, bacon, and home-fried potatoes was placed in front of me. While these ingredients are usually present in our fridge, it was the first proper breakfast I'd had in weeks.
In fact, I usually drank SkinnyRite shakes for breakfast. That's what my diet plan required (not that the stupid plan was working). But a gorgeous man was in my house, serving me breakfast.
I wasn't going to refuse.
For a few moments, I tried surreptitiously to pinch myself. I’d never so much as gotten to second base before, and now there was a man who could quite possibly be a model sitting at my breakfast table. Once more, he was serving my food.
It almost made me too nervous to eat. But I’d tried to do the “New Yorker Super Slimmer” the day before, which had involved eating a bunch of apple slices and not much else. So eventually, as much as I wanted to ruminate on the hunky dude, my hunger won out.
Trying to take ladylike bites was useless. I plowed through the food, and Bay ate even faster.
"Thank you so much for cooking."
"My pleasure. I didn't want to just leave. I'm thankful that you hosted me, Lena."
My mind raced. For a moment it had felt like I had a boyfriend, a dyed-in-the-wool man's man who preferred a little meat on his women. But of course, a guy like Bay probably could get girls as hot as Lena, and why wouldn't he? I tried to look away.
His eyes followed mine over to the couch.
"Shit. I'm sorry, that was an accident."
How so? What kind of accident causes huge slashes in a sofa?
"Um, it'll be fine." Actually, that wasn’t strictly true, as Raya was probably going to kill me.
He shook his head. "I'll take care of it. Let me get my sewing kit out."
"You have a sewing kit?"
"Yes."
This man was definitely gay. I'd been mistaken.
But actually, a gay man wouldn't carry a sewing kit around in the pocket of his jeans either. Who would? A fashion designer? A tailor who pays house calls?
Bay was making quick work of the sofa slashes. He seemed very sure with the needle.
Just when I thought I might be able to hide the damage from my dearest older sister, she appeared in the doorway.
She had put on her stupid silk robe. God. In a moment, my vision was shattered. Once again, I was a dumpy and clueless teenage girl, at the beck and call of her half-sister.
And who was I kidding anyway? Bay wasn't my boyfriend. We didn't know anything about each other. Judging by his looks, he probably had a girlfriend (or three). The slip of fate that had allowed us to spend the past twelve hours under the same roof was about to end.
Fortunately, though, Bay didn't seem like he was putting the moves on Raya.
“I want you to tell me what you’re doing here and I want it to be good.” For some reason, as soon as she saw him her claws came out. That was a little odd. Was she being overprotective?
"I met Lena in Central Park earlier. We walked back here, and she offered me a place to stay for a while."
"Well, you should have gone home."
"It was late."
Something happened between them. My sister Raya, life of the party, queen of the night, silently admitted that Bay had a point. She didn’t verbally disagree with him. But she continued to glare at him as he finished up on the sofa.
"Thank you both," said Bay, "I think I should be going now."
And he walked right out before I could chase him.
Under normal circumstances, collapsing on the couch in a lovesick swoon would have been a great option. But Raya was breathing fire. She's normally not really a morning person, but now she seemed particularly peeved.
And as soon as the door clicked and Bay was gone, she turned on me.
"What the hell was that?"
"Raya, you heard him. He saved my life."
"I forgot how dramatic teenagers can be."
"I'm serious! There were these guys in Central Park who were really going to mess me up."
"What time was this?"
"Not that late."
"Lena." She sat down at the table. "Stay away from Central Park late at night. And definitely stay away from Bay."
"How do you two know each other?"
"Not important."
"Fine. I'd like his number."
"I just told you to stay away from him."
I swallowed. "Raya, I can't. I want his number."
"You may be clueless, little sister, but you're going to have to trust me on this one. Avoid the man."
"Give me the number."
"No."
I stuck out my tongue, and she softened a little bit.
"Lena. I may not like Bay, but we both have the same aim. We want to keep you safe."
"He wanted to keep me safe from a couple of punk kids! And you want to keep me safe, from what? Finally making a friend?"
"Go make friends, I won't stop you. But I know what Bay is, and he shouldn't be your friend."
"What is he, then?"
"He's a, well, an unsuitable guy."
"Why?"
"Sorry, Lena. Topic closed. Now, let's talk about when you're going to clean up these breakfast dishes."
IV.
Every Sunday I went to church.
It was something I’d kept up since my mother’s death. She had always taken me there. Later, after Aunt Betty adopted me, the two of us went together. Bless Aunt Betty, she was raised Baptist and the Old Slavonic services at the Eastern Orthodox church didn’t do much for her. But she believed in church on Sunday, so she’d go to the Baptists first, then come to wake me and drive me across town to the only Eastern Orthodox church in our part of Minnesota.
Raya was already at college by that time, and she’d never gone to those services anyway. Her father wasn’t Russian, though I never managed to learn much about him except that he liked the name Raya. She must have looked just like the guy, because she didn’t look a thing like me or our mother.
I knew that my father was Russian, and that he died when I was a baby. One reason that mother went to Minnesota was to find a community with a similar heritage. She was from Karelia, which is part of Finland and Russia.
But she found only suburbs and loneliness until we joined the church.
In New York, it was very different. I went into a community where I knew essentially nobody. The rituals were pleasant and familiar, but it still wasn’t my church.
So after my Central Park ritual, I decided to skip. Going back to the scene of the crime occurred to me, but I thought it would be more healing to pick up a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and go watch TV in my room. Maybe then I could get the damn image of those two guys out of my head. It was like my brain was stuck on repeat. Every time I opened my eyes, every time I closed them, I saw them coming towards me.
Raya was obviously used to the way that I disappeared for hours on Sundays to go
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