Her stomach dropped out. He was so scatterbrained lately, so inattentive, and it had taken him this long that she had lulled herself into a false sense of security. On the way home, she’d even attempted to convince herself she’d left it here in the first place, knowing her eventual search would demonstrate otherwise. “Daddy—”
His pursed lips wobbled. “You can’t even be trusted to take care of something like that, all because of this boy.”
“I know it’s there; he’ll look for it, I promise—”
“Your promises mean nothing, Anya.” His exhausted expression rearranged itself into one of festering rage. “Nothing you say has any meaning whatsoever.”
For his sake, she had tried for too long to repress her resentment; instead, it had turned on her, eating her alive. “I’m surprised you even fucking noticed!” Tears burst out of her along with the shrieked words she prayed would penetrate his thick skull.
Dad flinched, and shuddered. He parted his lips to speak but sagged in on himself and trudged away, leaving the door half-open.
Anya changed into her Wonder Woman pajamas—from the ladies’ department, not juniors, thank you very much. She lay down and groped under her pillow for the latex cap, to which a few golden brown hairs clung inside. Her naked ring finger taunted her, and she hurled the cap across the room, where it struck a Gladiators poster and slid down the wall like some skinned, eviscerated animal.
***
Alex
A saturnine Anya spent much of Christmas Day staring at her phone in anticipation of a text or call that didn’t come. It was in Stephanie’s honor they still celebrated December 25th at all; Alex would have been content to shift the festivities to Orthodox Christmas, the way his parents raised him. Anya refused any part of the traditional forty-day fast leading up to Christmas Eve—she had practice and games, after all, and needed meat protein. Nor did she want to be the only “weirdo,” in her words, who didn’t observe Western Christmas.
Alex compromised and prepared the customary goose with sour cream sauce, picturing his mother in her kitchen and missing her all of a sudden. That his mother was still alive for him to miss when Anya’s was not plagued him with guilt, and he set out the deer-shaped kozulya cookies from the Russian deli which he’d intended to serve for dessert, as though cookies would rectify this injustice. Christmas break was already driving her crazy, no help from him required. No hockey game for another four days. No Lucas.
All made worse when Hannah called. In the flurry of pre-Christmas activity, which Alex vowed would be the inverse of last year’s funereal proceedings, he had forgotten to reschedule their abortive coffee date.
“Privét.” He’d hoped to keep his caller’s identity concealed, but who else would call on Christmas? Matt had done so that morning, and so had Alex’s parents, which gave Anya an excellent opportunity to practice her Russian. Not that he’d expected Hannah to either.
“Merry Christmas, Sasha. Oh wait—you’re probably Orthodox, aren’t you?”
“Da. I mean, I was raised Orthodox. But my wife…”
“Right.”
Awkward silence ensued. Alex cleared his throat. He was reminded of his pre-teen years, calling a girl he liked and then not saying a word once he got her on the line. Funny, how it had all changed in a handful of years.
He’d found Stephanie’s older journals after a more thorough inspection of the walk-in earlier that week, one with an entry dated August 9th of their junior year of high school.
School started today and of course, I was excited to meet my peer language partner. But I never imagined what would happen when I did.
He is the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. His name is Alex—Aleksandr Volynsky—and he’s from Russia. You should see his eyes. I’ve never seen eyes so green. Did you know only two percent of the entire human population has green eyes? I knew he was special as soon as I looked into them. And as soon as he smiled at me. He has the most amazing smile.
This sounds stupid—I’m sixteen, and everyone knows there’s no such thing as love at first sight. I don’t even know him, so maybe it’s just because he’s so cute. But…I can’t explain it. I feel like I do know him somehow. Like I’ve always known him. The funny—and amazing and terrifying—thing is I think he feels the same way. Something happened when we shook hands. Like we’d been searching for each other forever. Like we never wanted to let go.
The Surrealist André Breton wrote, “All my life my heart has yearned for a thing I cannot name.” But now I can. His name is Alex. And I’m in love with him.
She had become brand new to him all over again through those journals, bestowing him with this final gift, a journey of discovery. For that, he dedicated time each night—forty-five minutes, an hour—to reading and memorizing each word. He carried them in his heart as a reminder he had nearly found his way out of the darkness, but he hadn’t been able to take the final step on his own. And so he had written to her on the last page of her final journal more of Breton’s words, excruciating in their relevance:
“There is
By my leaning over the precipice
Of your presence and your absence in hopeless fusion
My finding the secret
Of loving you
Always for the first time”
While he chased Stephanie’s shadow through nostalgia’s winding backstreets, Hannah had started speaking again. “…was going to wait for you to call, but there’s a New Year’s Eve party at the practice facility next week. In the bar? You’re an alumnus, and I could use a plus-one.”
“Oh. I…” He vaguely remembered an email about the party, which he’d dismissed. One of those stray details that had escaped him. A loose thread on a hem. Now the whole damned thing was unraveling, leaving him exposed. Having attended all but one or two of the parties with Stephanie and skipping last year’s for obvious reasons, he envisioned the whispers, the consolatory gazes. The rank pity that illuminated his bereavement for all his colleagues to see.
Anya regarded him with a flaccid expression, her slanted eyebrows the one part of her not sagging in defeat. She should be the one fielding date requests for New Year’s Eve, though she’d have undoubtedly rejected all but one.
Think of an excuse. Anything. He was not the ideal candidate for an event like that. Instead, his mouth betrayed him. “All right. Should I pick you up or…”
“No pressure. We can meet at the facility.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you then.” What the hell am I doing? His ears caught fire.
“Looking forward to it.”
Anya hunched over the counter, a beaten piñata, her head propped in her hand. “Let me guess.”
Alex grasped her free hand. After her multiple apologies about the ring, he had mustered the essential goodwill to forgive her. This was his daughter, after all. A ring was replaceable. She was not. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”
“No, Dad. You should.” She groaned and glared at her phone.
“You know it’s for the best, milaya. One of your friends must be having a party or something.”
“At this point, I think I just want to stay home and binge-watch something.”
He poured strained sour cream sauce over the bird and put it in the oven, low and slow. Just like Mama’s. Hopefully. “You could come with me.”
“Third wheel. Ugh. That’s worse than being home alone.” Her eyebrows collapsed, two exclamation points fallen onto their sides.
“Well, if nothing else comes up for you, the offer stands.”
“Thanks anyway, Dad.” She trudged into the great room and sat before the Christmas tree, sifting through the presents they’d opened a couple hours ago. From Alex, a self-defense kit, Beatz wireless headphones, a single-serve coffee maker, and a leather Frye backpack—a sophisticated upgrade from her beat-up JanSport. From Matt and Allen, a Paper Tablet with two replacement notebooks and a smart pen to digitize what she wrote. From her paternal grandparents, a monogrammed terryclo
th bathrobe, new bedding, and a customized box of Russian goodies including chocolate bars from Moscow. And from her maternal grandmother, several pairs of wool socks. Alex had nearly severed his tongue restraining himself from calling the woman and letting her know what a worthless bitch she always had been and always would be. Even if Stephanie had absolved her of tolerating the abuse, he refused to.
He knelt beside Anya. “You look like someone who needs a cookie. Or a whole box of them.”
She fought a smile and lost. Alex beckoned her to the kitchen, where he pushed the container of antlered cookies toward her and poured two glasses of fat-free milk.
“I know it’s hard. Wanting to be with someone, especially this time of year. Ethical issues aside, I don’t want to see you pine away from him if there’s no chance. Has he given you any reason to believe there is?”
Color flared in her cheeks.
So there is something going on. They’ve kissed, if nothing else. Alex bit into a cookie. In contrast to the cloying sweetness of most Western cookies, an array of more savory spices governed kozulya’s flavor. Do I report this to the school board? Lose Anya over a lousy six months? Help me out, Steph.
“I just thought”—she frowned at her phone again—“he’d at least wish me a merry Christmas.”
“All right, so the cookies aren’t working.” Alex brought down two bowls from the cupboard and from the freezer grabbed a container of Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream. He scooped some into each bowl and stuck cookies into it.
“Ice cream? Before dinner? You’re getting a little crazy, Dad. But I like it.”
He winked and nudged a bowl and spoon toward her. “Merry Christmas, baby. I know there are people you’d rather be with than your old man—”
“No, Daddy.” Anya shoveled a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth and smiled up at him. She was four years old again, immune to broken hearts, with eyes only for her father. “There isn’t.”
Chapter Fourteen
Anya
What had been her most anticipated part of the day two weeks ago now amounted to some kind of sexual torture. Lucas’s deft fingers working her arch and ankle, while she sustained a posture so rigid she had to hold her breath just to withstand it. To have something—anything—else on which to focus. She turned it into a game: How many seconds can I hold it until I pass out?
Only children hold their breath.
Anya let it out in a slow, steady stream so Lucas would think she was exhaling normally.
“Can I see you in my office?”
She rolled her eyes so hard she thought she heard them clack against her skull, then wriggled into her warmups, her socks, and sneakers, and trailed him into the office. “Can’t be that important, since you have to leave the door open.”
“You know how it is when the district hires hot twenty-two-year-old men.” Lucas poked his tongue out. His lower lip was still swollen at the corner, the cut itself a thin black stitch.
She was in no mood for him to play cute. “What did you tell the director happened?”
“Accident riding my bike home.”
“In Buffalo, in the middle of winter.” It couldn’t be more ridiculous unless they believed him. No one in the suburbs rode a bike in winter. This was SUV and minivan country. “And you have a car.”
“Plenty of people ride in winter. You just winterize it like you do any vehicle. But enough about that. How was Christmas?”
“Fine.”
“Big plans for New Year’s?” He glanced at the wall calendar as though he’d forgotten what day it was.
“No. Do you have a point?” Anya trained her stare on the clock. “And have you found my ring yet?”
“No. I’m sorry. Are you still mad at me?”
“I’m just trying to get through the rest of this season. What do you want?”
Lucas’s eyes widened before he cast his gaze at the desk and rubbed his bruised eyelid. “I was going to text you on Christmas. Maybe call you, I don’t know. I went home for the holiday, and I didn’t want to try explaining who you were.”
“Just a student athlete, right?” Her heart hammered in her throat. Don’t fall for it. For anything.
“Anya, I do want to be friends.”
“I don’t know if I can, after what happened.”
He jerked his head, as though her response stunned him. She had all the friends she needed, and some she didn’t, so fuck him. “Fair enough. I’m sorry I—”
“I’m staying home for New Year’s. That’s what I’m doing. Even my widowed father has a date, and I’m sitting home watching Netflix and eating myself stupid.”
“Why? You have friends?”
“You sound like him.”
“Ouch.” Lucas crinkled his nose. “I’m too young to sound like anyone’s father.”
Anya tipped her head back and sighed at the water-stained ceiling. “I have to go. I’ll see you around.” Time to close this particular door. A window would open in its place, or however the saying went. Channel all her focus into the things over which she held at least some control. “My dad wanted to pull me off the team and train me privately. He wishes he’d put me in the OHL.”
“Because of me?”
She made a face. “What do you think?”
Lucas rose from the desk, one hand on his hip as he scrubbed his dimpled chin. Which she hated. His stupid, perfect chin. “The OHL would have made more sense for someone on your trajectory. Way more competitive—”
“Oh, shut up.” She spun toward the door and stalked out. There would be no grand gesture, of course; school policy forbade Lucas to touch her beyond the parameters athletic training required. Never mind his tongue down her throat.
The memory of their kiss welled up from the tarn in which she’d attempted to drown it. She allowed herself one more cry, sequestered in the Mercedes in the deserted ice center parking lot. Dad was right as usual, which sucked to admit. She had everything in the world going for her, and no time for some guy she couldn’t even date sending her mixed signals. What was that other saying? Men were like buses; another one would come by in fifteen minutes. She was seventeen, for God’s sake.
She spied Lucas in the rearview, getting into his car. She determined to leave him there, no more noteworthy than a passing reflection in a subway window.
***
“And now I’m having second thoughts about the whole thing. Is this okay?” Dad ambled down the stairs in a charcoal gray wool suit patterned with fine checks, a crisp white dress shirt, and a blue striped silk tie. Shiny black oxfords completed the ensemble. At the bottom of the stairs, he did a little spin. Dimples creased his clean-shaven face.
“Very handsome. Thought you were keeping the beard.”
“Doesn’t take me long to grow one. Your grandmother is descended from the Tungusic people of Siberia. Very hairy.” He grinned. Easy for him to find the humor in it—he didn’t have to shave his legs. “Anyway, I wanted to look nice for the party.”
“You have a crush on her, don’t you?”
He blushed as he tucked his wallet and keys into his pockets. “What are you talking about?”
“Every time you talk about Hannah, you turn red.”
“I’m Slavic. I’m naturally ruddy.”
Anya snickered. Hard to be bothered by the idea of him and Hannah together when he was acting like a little boy infatuated with his preschool teacher.
Dad hugged her and kissed the top of her head. “You have everything you need? Sure you don’t want to come along?”
“I’m sure, but thanks.”
“All right. I’ll try not to be too late.” He shook out his hands and rolled his shoulders and head as if about to hit the ice for a playoff elimination game.
“Remember to breathe.” Anya kissed his cheek. “Have fun.”
“You too. See you later. Make sure the doors are locked and the security system is armed.”
“Yes, Dad.” She propelled him toward the door. “Stop stalling.”
&
nbsp; Dad snatched his pea coat from the closet. He opened the door, the frigid air swirling with snowflakes that danced over the threshold. Then he pivoted and wagged a finger at her. “No boys.”
“No worries.” She groaned. “Seriously? Go.”
He yanked his coat on. “Ladno, ladno! I’m going. I’ll call to check in later.”
“Bye, Dad.” Anya shut the door, locked it, and checked the security system. All set. She made some popcorn in the air popper—if you insist on eating it, this is much healthier than the microwave crap, Dad had said—then turned off the lights, settled onto the sectional, and switched on the components of their home theatre system. Seventy-five-inch 4K Ultra HD TV, receiver, wireless surround sound speakers. Multiple streaming services, cable, and a large digital movie collection. The longest night ever ahead of her. Noah texted a few times, but she ignored it as usual and let the predictable follow-up call go to voicemail. He had no right to her forgiveness, and she wasn’t ready to grant it.
The best part about living on an acre of land was turning up the volume as loud as she liked. Extra fun when watching hockey with Dad, who hadn’t learned to view it as a fan and had become the definition of an armchair coach. Tonight, the volume kept her company, chased away some of the fear she’d never confessed to Dad because it would break his heart. Mom had died in the house. Her soothing maternal presence persisted, bolstered by their memories, but something else did too. Anya did not go upstairs for any reason when home alone, too afraid of encountering a pale phantom, shriveled and hairless, eyes hazy with confusion and pain. Already frightening before her death, though Anya would never admit that to Dad either. And sometimes she was afraid she’d stumble upon an aspect of Dad himself, who haunted the house with the tenacity of any ghost.
So when the doorbell rang, she sprang off the couch with enough momentum that she could’ve hit the twenty-foot ceiling. She padded to the door, peered out the narrow window beside it. The snow was falling harder now, blowing; the idea that Dad might have to stay the night somewhere, leaving her here alone, splashed through her brain like hot vomit. Until she saw the figure standing on the stoop.
The Pieces Of Us (The Firebird Trilogy Book 3) Page 13