Page 79 of Maksim
That’s his point.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” he snaps, sitting up and flinging his hand toward the door. I flinch at the anger in his tone and slowly stand from the bed.
Where? Where would I go?
What would I do?
How long before they found me?
“Maksim,” I whine, the fear in my voice pathetically apparent.
He’s quiet for several seconds, the only sound my heart beating in my ears.
“Come here,” he orders, his voice calm but commanding.
My shoulders sag with relief as I climb onto the bed and crawl to him, not stopping until I’m safely wrapped in his arms, feeling like an idiot.
His hand smooths over my back, leaving a trail of warmth that melds me to him.
“You think I don’t understand,” he says, his voice soft and low. “But I wasn’t free when I came to America. I was angry and scared, just like you. I fought it for a long time, just like you.”
His words spread confusion through my mind, making my eyes squint, my head feel cloudy.
What?
“I promise you, lislchka, I am not your devil… Your fear has eyes like bowls but does not see a crumb.”
I pull back to look in his eyes, not to see if he’s telling the truth. I know he’s telling the truth. There was a time I didn’t believe the words passing Maksim’s lips, but now, I know he wouldn’t lie, not about this.
I stare wondrously at the vulnerability I knew would be on his face and reach out, cupping his handsome cheek and smoothing my thumb over bone. I spot curious lines for the first time. “What happened to you?”
His eyes don’t hesitate on me longer than it takes for him to register my question. He turns away, his firm cheek pulling from my hand.
I don’t ask again. His face, his reaction, is enough to show me he’ll never tell.
22
MAKSIM
ONE WEEK LATER
Elira stares out the plane window with her spine straight like clouds are somehow interesting, but I wonder if she’s actually studying them or if she’s lost in her head.
The girl is an enigma to me. She claims I hide things from her because a week ago I didn’t want to tell stories of my past, all the while sharing little of hers.
The week hasn’t been bad, aside from the fact that Anya still hasn’t come home. Things with Elira have even been, dare I say, pleasant.
We talk a bit, almost always about me or America or something that doesn’t matter. She steers clear of Albania, like it isn’t safe to mention. The woman has walls, but I can tell her trust for me is building.
It’s … nice. Nice to come home to someone. Nice to have someone to worry about Anya alongside me, or better yet, to talk me down.
We eat together every night, mostly Elira’s cooking, but we went out once. I felt her discomfort like I was transported back in time, and it was my own nerves set on fire. All the people, all the noise, the chaos of it all. I figured she wouldn’t want to leave the house again for weeks.
Then yesterday, out of the blue, she asked me to take her to Chicago. To find her father.
I was going to say no. Opened my mouth with the word balanced on my tongue.
I know this is going to come as a surprise, but my job does not offer vacation days. Or sick days. Or a 401k. I have responsibilities that don’t allow me to catch a flight to another city to take my foreign whore to see Daddy Deadbeat.