Page 81 of Maksim
Maksim nods. “Just up ahead.”
“That can’t be right.” I look around for an apartment complex, a side road, a guesthouse where they keep the peasants, something that would make more sense, but my mind can’t think right now. I’m too wound up, too nervous.
It’s been over a decade.
A decade.
What if he doesn’t recognize me? I’ve grown so much, matured from the little girl I was back then. Do I look like the photos he keeps on his mantle? Would he know my voice or my eyes?
And what about Maksim? What if he’s as abrasive as Maksim is with his sister’s boyfriend? What if my father doesn’t want me to leave?
It could be a problem, but I can’t help but feel the tiniest bit giddy at the idea of it. At the idea of living here, being away from Las Vegas and instead living in Chicago with my father. Maksim offered me my freedom a week ago. There should be no reason he would rescind that offer today.
There are so many things I want to say. So much I want to know.
What happened?
So many things could’ve happened. People get put on no-fly lists for ludicrous reasons. People suffer financial hardships. He could’ve lost his phone then subsequently lost my mother’s number and been unable to afford to fly. His family lives in another country as him, not a different state. It isn’t as easy to come see us, there are more things that could go wrong.
I forgive him. That’s the biggest thing I want to say, that I forgive him. I will get a job here that will pay enough to fly him to Albania to be with my sisters and mother who have missed him as dearly as I have.
At last, we will be together, and I will thank Maksim for that for the rest of my life.
When the car stops, I look over at Maksim, planning on telling him this, but when I spot pity, I look at the house instead.
It’s similar to the houses on either side of it except it has a basketball hoop bolted to the top of the garage and a convertible in the driveway along with the mommy car.
A memory snaps to my mind, my hair whipping around crazily in the back of a red convertible with toddler Asher beside me and my parents kissing in the front seat. My father was spoiling us with a trip to Tirana for Mami’s birthday. We were going to eat at a fancy steakhouse and stay in a hotel with a pool. It felt weird, like we were playing pretend or had won some lottery, but it’s one of my favorite memories because my dad is in it.
I keep staring at the black convertible.
“We can go,” Maksim says like he’s reading the situation. Like he thinks my heart is about to break. “I know the city better than I let on before. I could show it to you.”
Does my father really live here?
Why is there a basketball hoop?
“Elira?”
I climb out of the car, ignoring Maksim’s offer, and walk toward the convertible. My lips numb when I read the ‘my kid is an honor’s student’ logo on the bumper.
This can’t be his house, but I still run my finger over the decal, my heart pumping hard.
The front porch looks like something out of a spring catalogue … flowering plants, a welcome sign, a mat that says Home Sweet Home. It’s perfect except for a set of muddy roller skates laying on their side.
I blink at them and ring the doorbell.
A girl, younger than me but older than Asher, probably seventeen or eighteen, opens the door wearing black shorts and a blue top, a uniform of sorts. Her chestnut hair the same shade as Bora’s is up high in a ponytail, and when she speaks, braces shine.
“Hello, can I help you?”
“H-hi,” I stumble, taking hold of my wrist. “I’m looking for Joshua Martin.”
She turns her head to yell inside. “Dad!”
Dad.
My heart swells until it’s in my throat. I don’t say anything else, but she doesn’t seem concerned anyway because she steps out of the way when the man I’ve looked up to my whole life steps to the door with a friendly smile.