Page 7 of Cruel Demands

That almost makes it worse.

I stop beneath a streetlamp, my breath fogging in front of me.

For a second, I think about lying. I could say classes are incredible, because they mostly are. I could say no news yet about the job, because technically that is true. I could say I’m fine, because that’s what daughters say when their mothers are one bad month away from crying somewhere no one can hear.

Instead, I type: Classes are good. Russian is trying to kill me, but I’m surviving. Still nothing from the governor’s office. I’ll tell you as soon as I hear.

I hesitate, then add: Love you.

Her reply comes almost instantly.

Mom: Love you more. We’re so proud of you. Don’t worry about us, okay? Just focus on school.

Focus.

I almost laugh. Even my mother is correcting my Russian from across the ocean, and she doesn’t know a single word of it.

I slide the phone back into my pocket before I can spiral too hard, and keep walking.

My apartment building is narrow and old, wedged between a bakery that never seems to be open and a little shop with a green sign I still can’t read without sounding it out like a child. The front door sticks. I shoulder it once, twice, then finally force it open with a groan of wood and metal that sounds personally offended by my existence.

Inside, the stairwell smells like damp wool, old cigarettes, and somebody’s dinner.

I climb to the third floor slowly, one hand dragging along the rail.

My roommate, Anya, is awake when I get in.

Of course she is.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the couch in an oversized sweater, her long silvery-blond hair piled loosely on top of her head. A few pale strands hang around her face, nearly the same color as the winter light that comes through our windows during the day. Her blue eyes remain fixed on a Russian reality show playing at low volume, the subtitles turned on because she claims it helps my listening comprehension.

So far, all it has taught me is that Russian women can weaponize silence better than anyone on earth.

Anya looks up and takes in my flushed cheeks, crooked scarf, and the way I have to brace one hand against the wall to remove my boot.

“Cultural experience?” she asks in English.

“Well, vodka, so you could say that.”

“Vodka with Petyr?”

I kick off one boot and point at her with finger guns. “You got it. Unfortunately.”

She grins. “He is sweet.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it is true.”

“I know it’s true,” I yelp, flustered, letting my forehead fall against the wall as I kick off the other boot.

“And yet?”

“And yet I am not moving to Russia permanently because a man with a dimple bought me a pity pastry one time.”

“So you noticed his dimple.”

I roll my eyes.