by Kat T. Masen
The side of his face is smeared with grease, hiding the one dimple that sits on his right cheek—such a cheeky dimple, cute and adorable.
“I never expected to make this decision, you know. I wish it were different, I really do.”
How I wish it were different. Alaska is my home. The only place I know. I have only left the state once—a joy ride that went wrong, resulting in Mama having an almost-heart attack that her fifteen-year-old daughter would do such a thing. Aside from that, I know no different. A big city with crime, corruption, and God knows what else. I’m not that daredevil anymore—Los Angeles terrifies me.
Liam places his hand on top of mine, rubbing the tips of my knuckles with his calloused fingers. “And us?” he asks with a croak.
“We’ll just be us. Why does it have to change?”
“Because you’re thousands of miles away. You don’t even own a cell.”
I nudge his shoulder, welcoming the small joke. “Yes, I do. So, it’s not fancy and one of those so-called smartphones. It still works.”
“I believe Vanilla Ice called from the nineties and wants his brick back,” he snorts, easing the uncomfortable tension between us.
“That’s what he said about your outfit.” I laugh, pinching the fabric of his baggy navy overalls which he wears to work every day.
“I’ll miss you, Milly.” Placing his arm around me, he kisses the top of my head, his lips lingering enough to warm my icy skin.
I will miss him terribly. In hindsight, I probably should have married him. Then I wouldn’t have to move. We could have lived in his parents’ basement, oblivious to all that lay ahead. If only he didn’t scare me with the ‘kids’ talk, the desire to start a family, and a big one at that. It isn’t in the cards for me. Kids—singular or plural.
A lonesome tear fights through my pride and falls onto his forearm. I wipe it with my hand, watching it mix with the grease that clings to his skin. Dammit, I don’t want to cry in front of him, and this is the second time today I have broken down. The emotions running high have only amplified my exhaustion. Everything hurts—my body, my mind, and most importantly, my heart.
“It’s only a plane ride away. This is my home, it’ll always be home. Don’t think of me gone forever…”
“I won’t.” He gulps, pursing his lips and thinking with his eyes. “Just don’t forget me when you get there.”
I touch his hand and lean in, placing my lips on his. Everything about his kiss is home—warm, inviting, and connects with my heart in ways I never imagined. The familiarity of his gentle touch makes me ache all over. What if he forgets about me?
“I will never forget you,” I tell him. “Good guys like you aren’t a dime a dozen.”
“And you’re my lucky penny.” He winks.
I stand up while he continues to sit on the bench. He offered to take Flynn and me to the airport, but I refused. Saying goodbye is hard, and having crowds of people watch me break down into a blubbering mess isn’t something I’m fond of doing. We had a proper farewell last night with dinner and lovemaking while his parents sat in the den watching re-runs of Mash.
Resting my hands on his shoulders, I wrap them around his neck, knowing the boys in the garage are watching from where they stand.
“Take care of yourself. One day I’ll be back, and it’ll be like I never left.”
His endearing smile hides the pain as his heavy gaze tells me everything I need to hear at this moment. “You’ve got my heart, Milly.”
“And you’ve got mine, Liam Dean Davies.”
One more time, we allow ourselves to lose each other in a goodbye kiss. It might have been my imagination, but his kiss was more forceful this time, unlike his normally gentle and relaxing manner.
Time ticks at a fast and demanding pace. We have only minutes left and this kiss—though deep and full of emotions—will be our last.
In a world full of promises, I can be optimistic and know that he’ll always be around. But inside that world lies doubt. With everything riding on my shoulders, I will now carry the weight alone. I have no choice but to succeed.
For my brother, who has no one else.
For my Mama to be taken care of.
And for my safe return home.
The sound of a horn beeps at the end of the driveway. Mama’s cousin, Vladimir, sits in his truck, parked out front with Mama and Flynn inside. I turn back around and touch Liam’s scraggy hair one more time, before letting go and walking away. I refuse to look back, but by the time I’m sitting in the truck beside Flynn, I stare out the window to catch that last glimpse.
He wears a smile like a badge of honor, but his eyes tell a different story. I can promise this man many things, but my fear drives my thoughts, and the truth is, I have no idea what the next twelve months will hold.
***
The drive is relatively quiet—small talk about Alaskan history and my grandparents’ migration from Russia. The exit to the airport is only a few miles ahead, and before I can blink an eye, we are parked in Departures. Vladimir unloads our bags with Flynn assisting as I stand watching, swallowing the pain that crawls inside me and cripples my words.
Flynn isn’t one to show emotion, but when he wraps his arms around Mama, the little boy inside of him comes out. His tall, lanky frame almost relies on her for support, resting his head awkwardly on her shoulder while she whispers into his ear.
She always had a soft spot for him, her only son, her baby. He pulls away with bloodshot eyes, mouth twisted while mumbling goodbye and busying himself with our luggage.
There’s chaos around us with people leaving, saying goodbye to their loved ones. Some smiling, some laughing, those that let their tears fall freely while holding onto each other tight, and a couple who embrace while jamming their tongues down each other’s throats.
“You’ve got my details, where we’ll be staying,” I say quietly.
Mama smiles softly, caressing my cheek with the back of her hand. She always wears this ring—old gold with an emerald stone in the middle. It had once belonged to my great-great-grandmother and was given to her by some queen in Europe. As a child, I would lay by Mama’s side and fantasize wearing the ring, planning the moment when she would leave it on her dresser, and I could slip it on wishing it was like Cinderella’s glass slipper. It never happened. She wears it every day and never takes it off.
“Yes, I’ve got your details, and you know where to find me. Did you pack your sun hat? The Californian sun is awfully strong.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“What about your sweaters? The night air may be chilly.”
“Yes, Mama. I’m not sure if I should be doing this. In fact, I know we shouldn’t be doing this,” I blurt out the words that were trapped earlier, ignoring our idle chit-chat about appropriate weather attire.
Despite my earlier acceptance of the situation, the reality is hard and cold, knocking me back and forth.
“You promised me you and Flynn would do this. Live your life, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ll have the right people around me.”
“But maybe we should wait, you know, get you settled, then go.”
“Vladimir and Aunt Nellie will help me get settled. Besides, your interview is in two days, and this is your final round. You passed all the initial interviews with flying colors. They love you and haven’t even met you. I know this will work out for you, Milly.”
I know she won’t be fine—that’s what hurt the most. Relying on other people to take care of her, it’s their paid job, so they won’t be doing it out of love like we would. And, all of a sudden, the guilt hits me. The pain I had put my mother through, raising a teenage daughter who was fixed on making everyone’s life hell because she had no clue that her mother was already living a nightmare.
I owed her this.
For my mistakes.
My arms follow Mama’s actions, wrapping around her while we stand holding onto each other without saying anything. My grip is tight, not wanting t
o let go, remembering this moment, remembering her smell, the way her gray hair is always neatly tied up in a bun, and how I would tell her often that she needs to let it out since it’s beautiful.
“You need to go now, honey. You don’t want to miss that flight.”
I walk away, trying my best to hold it in, and as my steps take us further apart and reach the automatic doors, I turn back around one more time and see her standing by the truck. The smile that she wore earlier is no longer there, replaced by sadness and confusion as if she doesn’t know where she is or what she’s doing. If anything is going to break my heart, it will be that image of her feeling alone.
Dropping my suitcase, causing a loud bang that people jump in shock over, I run fast, throwing myself into her arms just like Flynn, but this time I sob, sob so deeply, crying into her shoulder, snot coming out of my nose, and I don’t care who can see. I don’t care what people think of me. I just want to hug her because I don’t know how she will be when I come back. I don’t know if I will be coming back to the same woman.
Most importantly, I don’t know if she will even remember my name again.
She pulls away slowly, her eyes full of tears threatening to fall. Despite her strong will, one escapes, and a tear falls graciously onto the smile she wore before.
“Do this please, for me, just do this for me,” she begs with exhaustion. “It’s all I ask of you. If anything changes, I promise you I’ll be the first to call you to come back.”
I hold onto her words and reluctantly let go, Flynn calls my name one more time as the announcement warns us that check-in time is almost closing.
Swallowing the pain that consumes me more than I can imagine, I take those baby steps back toward the door, but this time, I don’t turn around. I keep walking and link my arm into my brother’s, resting my head on his shoulder for support.
Crying silently as the plane takes off, and I say goodbye to my home, I continue this for the whole trip.
Chapter Four
It has been an eventful few days in Los Angeles.
We find a place to rent—a small, run-down but liveable apartment—in a questionable part of town. It’s all I can afford until I land a job and earn some decent money.
Flynn hates the apartment. It is nothing like our home. It’s dreary with brown walls and squeaky floorboards that creak with every step. There is no view of the mountains, instead, a brick wall that belongs to some Indian restaurant and a questionable massage parlor on the top floor.
He has made a few friends at the backpacker hostel where we stayed and wants to crash there. As much as I also love chatting to the friendly tourists who were sharing the rooms with us, our purpose is to make a life here, and that means finding a permanent place to live.
Once we finally have the keys to the apartment, Flynn makes himself scarce, busying himself with God knows what. He refuses to talk to me, shutting down all channels of communication like this is my fault.
It only makes it all the worse for me. Battling being homesick and trying to be strong for everyone becomes a difficult juggling act. I can’t recall a time when I’ve felt such an enormous amount of pressure on my shoulders, and the worst part is, I can’t run to Mama to save me.
I try my best to make the apartment feel like home with the little I can afford to spend. We have our own beds, a small sofa, and a fridge full of food. The first night in, I cook us a meal, and all I get is a grunt before Flynn disappears into his room.
It’s the night before my big interview, and the nerves are eating away at me. Phoebe calls me to run through some prep questions, but all it’s doing is making me more anxious.
“Okay, just breathe,” she says, calmly. “What are you wearing tomorrow?”
“My black pantsuit and white blouse.”
“Too simple. What about your red blouse?”
“You don’t think it’s too loud?”
“Milly.” She laughs out of nowhere. “You’re in Hollywood. I highly doubt your red blouse is too loud.”
True. Earlier today, I saw a man in a pink sundress carrying a straw purse like it was normal. I let out a loud sigh, hoping to alleviate the stress.
“Hollywood… nothing like what the movies depict it to be.”
“I’m still jealous,” she reminds me. “Movie stars and fancy cars. Rodeo Drive, the Playboy Mansion.”
“All of the places that have no interest to me.”
“I love you, you’re my best friend, but Jesus Christ, woman, you need to live a little. Head out of your sandbox and go have some fun in Tinseltown.”
This isn’t the first time Phoebe has told me to let loose, often calling me Nanna Milly. A joke that doesn’t bother me since I have no concerns with my social life. I don’t need one, happy to plod along doing what I do. Phoebe is deprived of hurrahs, often telling me that it’s the only place I would let her down in the best-friend department. But despite Phoebe’s eccentric ways, she knows my limits and never pushes me beyond my comfort level.
We talk for a few minutes before hanging up. I need sleep and pray that I will get some with all this anxiety building up. I have so much riding on this that the more I force myself to sleep, the harder it is to shut down.
The next morning, I wake up early, just as the sun begins to rise. Flynn is still sleeping, snoring loudly through the thin walls. The coffee begins to brew, the aroma reminding me of back home. I pour myself a cup while reading through my notes. I practice my answers out loud—at least, the questions I expect to be asked in a face-to-face interview.
The clock ticks past eight, and it’s time to leave. With my purse in hand, I grab my keys just as Flynn stumbles out of his room wearing only his boxers, rubbing his eyes vigorously like a vampire struggling to see through the sun.
“Hey,” he calls as I open the door. “Good luck.”
It means everything to me that he had mumbles those two words. I offer him a smile, closing the door behind me, ready to catch a cab to the address scribbled on the piece of paper that sits inside my nervous and drenched hand.
***
“Miss Milenov.”
My head lifts to face the lady who calls my name. I stand up too quickly and walk toward her as my foot slants to the right almost causing me to lose my balance.
Dear God, calm the hell down, Milly.
The three women waiting in the reception area snicker, each of them impeccable in designer dresses and four-inch heels. Between the three of them, there’s so much silicone that my eyes have no choice but to look. My small chest, though natural, looks flatter than ever.
Inside the office sits a panel of three other women—a gorgeous young woman in the middle, the lady who called me in on her left, and another beautiful brunette on the right. Combined, they shatter any confidence I carry. Each one uniquely stunning in her own way.
“Sit down, Miss Milenov,” the older lady instructs in a less-than-impressed tone. “I’m Sonia Jones, and I’m Emerson’s publicist.”
“Thank you.” I smile, politely. “Please, call me Milana.”
“Milana,” the woman in the middle repeats. She appears to be young, perhaps in her mid-twenties, dressed nicely in a denim blue off-the-shoulder blouse. I’m unable to see her body behind the table, yet she looks fit, typical California girl with dark blonde hair cut to her shoulders and flawless olive skin. “It’s a very pretty name. I’m Emerson Chase. I’m sure you know who I am.”
The name doesn’t ring a bell, and all eyes stare at me with curiosity, waiting on my response. I don’t watch television, movies, or keep up with social media like Phoebe does. I assume she’s a model. The interviews that I had passed were formal, not once mentioning who this high-profile client is.
“I apologize for my ignorance, I’m not quite sure who you are. I don’t, um… get out much.”
The second it left my mouth, I regretted it instantly. I sound dumb.
“You don’t know who Emerson is?” Sonia questions with slight mockery, scribbling somethi
ng on her notepad and sliding it across to Emerson.
Again, I smile, hiding my nerves and sounding my words in my head so as not to sound like a bigger fool. “My life back home consists of two things… work and family. I’m a hard worker, perhaps a workaholic. I take things seriously and wish I had time to relax, but unfortunately, time just gets away from me.”
“Understandable.” Emerson smiles warmly, flashing her perfectly white teeth. “You sound like what I’m looking for, a hard worker.”
Sonia clears her throat, quick to interrupt. “Well, let’s get down to it then, shall we?”
She proceeds to ask me a string of questions, many that I can easily answer and some that are out of my comfort zone. Scenarios like how will I react and what will I do. They are odd and judging by the type of questions, I conclude that Emerson Chase is a household name, just one that hasn’t made it to mine.
I could feel myself breaking out into a sweat, question after question with no end in sight. Sonia Jones is relentless, not allowing Emerson or the lady on the right to get a single word in.
“Hi, Milana.” The woman on the right, a stunning brunette wearing reading glasses, introduces herself as Charlotte Edwards, Emerson’s lawyer.
“I want to make you aware that this role deals with many confidential matters. If you were successful, you would need to sign a confidentiality agreement.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem, my previous role dealt with highly confidential legal matters, so I understand and have no intention of breaching my employer’s confidentiality.”
She smiles in response, jotting down some notes while I continue to sweat like crazy, riddled with nerves and praying that my deodorant works the magic it says it will.
“Milana,” Emerson speaks while reading my resume that sits on the woodgrain table in front of her. “This role will involve round-the-clock work, including traveling. How does this sit with your personal life?”