Page 23 of Pay the Piper

Misha: No dinner. Starving actually. Hope you have snacks.

Snacks?

Not even fifteen minutes after I first messaged him, closer to ten if I really think about it, Misha knocked on my door after warning me he was here so he wouldn’t scare me. After I explained the noises I heard, he went on a long walk up and down the hallways and stairwells of my building but didn’t find anything suspicious. Now, he’s sitting on my couch like it’s the most natural thing in the world and rummaging through a stack of takeout menus I’ve accumulated since I moved in.

“So not much of a cook, I take it?”

His question floats in one of my ears and out the other. I’m too focused on how relaxed he is. As if I didn’t just interrupt his evening, although he’s dressed casually in dark jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. His beard is scruffier than I’ve seen it, as if he was planning to trim it tomorrow morning.

“Abby? You okay?”

“Huh?”

“I said, you must not enjoy cooking. Or maybe you’re on a mission to rank every take-out place in Thunder Bay.”

He laughs as I take a glossy menu from his hand and smack him on the side of the head with it, then sit on the opposite end of the couch facing him.

“For your information, I do in fact hate cooking. I don’t mind baking, but neither is necessarily my favorite pastime. I have a meal prep service I use during the week, but on weekends, I actually am on a quest to find the best comfort food in Thunder Bay.”

His eyes light up at that, and he flips through the menus with renewed vigor before triumphantly handing me one. Mimi’s.

“Have you tried it yet? Are you an alien who hates Italian food? Do you have any allergies?”

He’s already dialing the restaurant as he peppers me with questions.

“No, no, and no.”

Before I can snatch the menu from his hand or tell him what I usually order from Italian restaurants, he answers the phone in fluent Italian, and I melt into a puddle on the floor and die.

“Buonasera, Fredo. Come sta tua nonna? Bene, bene. Senti, ho qui una persona che non ha mai assaggiato la cucina di Mimi...Lo so, lo so. Puoi mandarmi il menu completo?”

Holy shit. It never crossed my mind that Misha would speak Italian once he told me he was Russian. I guess it makes sense, since he’s close to the Santoris, but…I wish I could go back to before I heard him because now it’s going to be even harder not to be awkwardly stare-y at every practice. Menu completo sounds like he just ordered the entire restaurant, but surely, he wouldn’t.

After he gives the address of the building but not my condo and hangs up, he straightens out the stack of menus and heads to the kitchen. Mimi’s menu goes in pride of place on my fridge, and he gestures with the stack. Pointing at the drawer where I keep them, along with all my other junk, he tucks them away, then returns to assess my refrigerator magnets.

“These are sad, Abby.”

“My magnets? Why?”

It’s a generic pack of twenty I ordered on a whim when I moved in. They’re beach-themed, partly because I thought it was funny to lean into the Florida vibe when I moved in and partly because I liked the pink flamingos that were included.

“Where are all your travels? Your friends and family? Or at least things that represent what you love. A fridge should be eclectic and full of memories.”

I haven’t traveled for pleasure in years. Any hint of a vacation was always a ruse to allow Conor to pass me around to more men and take part in debauchery across the world. Or to try to drum up support for his campaigns. Whenever I’d try to suggest we get away, just the two of us, he’d laugh and ask what the point of that would be. It took me less than a year to learn never to ask.

As far as things that I enjoy…pieces of my personality that have been buried under the facade of Mrs. Fitzpatrick for years…I’m not sure where they all are. Decorating this space has been harder than I expected. Years of Conor deciding on every inch of gaudy decor in our home obliterated any chance I had to develop my own style, and my hobbies have lain dormant too. I suppose some album covers, skates, and a few bookish magnets would Abby-fi the fridge.

“Abby? Hey.”

Misha’s much closer now, and the soft concern in his eyes tells me I’ve been quiet for far too long.

“I was just teasing you. I like these magnets just fine. Especially the flamingos.”

Huffing a laugh, I head for the safety of my blanket nest on the couch and plop back down.

Even this stupid couch is an example of how shitty and all over the place my style is these days. A fluffy pink blanket clashes with the group of throw pillows I bought one night after drinking an entire bottle of wine. A neon orange Ace of Cups tarot card, a green caterpillar body pillow, and an embroidered skull on black corduroy seemed like they would be whimsical in theory, but in practice, they look like they belong to an unstable lady who’s trying too hard.

A.k.a. me.