Page 93 of His Turn

I guess Nadia has made a friend.

Lovely. I’m happy she’s settling into her new life.

They walk out of my view and say goodbye again. The door closes with a click. Nadia sighs, like she’s exhausted. And then she appears as a silhouette in my office door, backlit by the foyer chandelier and sparkling from the light reflecting off the crystals.

“Well,” she says.

“Have a good time moving?” I ask. “Come in here and have a drink with me.”

She hesitates, but then decides it’s not worth a fight, and obeys. She sinks into one of two leather chairs positioned in front of my desk and takes the glass of brandy I just poured her. Sips it. Scowls. Puts it down. Smiles. “I think it went better than I expected.”

“No Jordan, though, huh?”

“He’ll be here,” she says. “He texted me this morning and said dinner time.” She glances at the clock. It says six twenty-five. “So soon, I guess.”

“Are you in love with him?” I ask.

“What?” She laughs out her answer. “No.”

“Then why are you so nice to him?” It bugs me. “He’s not as attentive as I am.”

“And he didn’t buy me a five-million-dollar house.”

I shrug. “It’s in my name.”

She shrugs back. “Jordan is…”

“Is what?” I ask, when she doesn’t continue.

“He gets me, ya know?”

“And I don’t?”

“Not even a little bit, Elias.”

At least she calls me Elias. “So what am I missing?”

“Everything.” She sighs, leaning back in her chair and setting the arches of her feet up against my desk. She’s got socks on. And she’s wearing her dance clothes still. Ripped leggings with holes in the knees. The leggings cover her toes, but those have holes in them too. Her pinky toe is looking at me right now. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt that hangs over one shoulder to reveal the tank top she has on underneath. Her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail.

She looks every bit a dancer right now. The down-and-out type. The I-take-my-art-seriously type. The type I like.

“Specifically?” I ask, wanting more from her.

“Specifically… I don’t know.”

“You know,” I say. “So tell me. I did just buy you a five-million-dollar house. I think I earned a little insight.”

“Well, I didn’t need—or want—a five-million-dollar house.”

“So what do you need?” I ask, sipping on my brandy.

“Just a game, Elias. Just a normal game.”

“I’m playing wrong?” I ask.

She nods. “You want to buy reactions. Jordan is just himself. I know who he is.”

“Who is he?” I ask this because I’m truly interested. I know him, better than her, that’s for sure. But I’m interested in her perception of him.