Page 5 of Cruel Demands

“You are American. You think every feeling must be named correctly.”

“And you’re Russian, so you think every feeling should be drowned.”

He laughs, and I smile despite myself. That’s the problem with Petyr. He’s too easy to forgive. He’s something akin to lovable.

He releases my wrist and lifts both hands this time, surrendering completely. “Fine. No date. No proposal. No passionate love affair that ruins your studies and makes you stay in Moscow forever.”

“Thank you for respecting my boundaries.”

“I respect nothing. I am simply patient.”

“That’s ominous.”

“Why is everything ominous with you? It’s supposed to be romantic.”

I look at him in silence as I button my coat, my fingers shoving the squeaky plastic through the tight, threaded holes of the new material.

The tip of his nose is slightly red, but otherwise, he’s handsome. Stubble grazes a strong jaw. Sparkling hazel eyes sit deep beneath a head of thick auburn hair. He doesn’t flinch from my gaze. His eyes soften, and he tilts his head like he can get a clearer view into my brain.

“I’m not going out with you,” I say finally, reaching into my pocket for some rubles and setting the money on the bar.

Petyr snatches it up and pushes it back into my coat pocket. His grin returns, lazy and warm. “One day you will realize nice men are not so bad.”

I put my hands into my pockets, fish his hand out, and drop it like something heavy and dirty, but I don’t pull the money back out.

“I know nice men aren’t bad. That’s not…” I trail off, looking toward the door and the street beyond it, wishing I were already outside instead of having this conversation. Finally, I look back at him and finish lamely, “The problem.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

The problem is that nice men expect you to become part of their lives. They expect coffee in the morning and texts before bed and dinner with friends who already know where they’re going to be five years from now. They expect normal. They expect a future.

And they should.

But I barely know what I’m doing next week. I have a student visa, a scholarship that covers less than everyone back home thinks it does, a bank account that makes me nervous if I look at it too closely, and parents who keep telling me not to worry in voices that sound like worry has eaten them alive.

I’m double-majoring in political science and Russian, but the Russian is the reason I came here. A full year immersed in the language is supposed to make me fluent enough to turn the degree into something useful when I go home.

Diplomatic work, translation, international policy—something stable and respectable enough to justify being thousands of miles away while my parents’ lives slowly collapse.

Petyr is not the problem.

“I’m not here long enough,” I say finally.

His expression shifts. For the first time all night, the flirtation slips. Underneath it, he looks younger. Maybe hurt. Maybe just tired.

“One year is long enough for many things.”

“Not for that.”

“You are very sure.”

“I’m trying to be.”

He studies me for another second, then nods toward the door. “Let me walk you home.”

“No.”

“It is late.”