Page 11

Not the pretty kind. The ugly, body-shaking kind, with my mouth open and no sound coming out because I’ve gotten very good at crying silently. And now I’m doing it in a stranger’s shower, surrounded by more luxury than I’ve ever touched, and the contrast is so brutal that it makes me cry harder.

I cry about my parents. About the scholarship I lost. About Andi disappearing and reappearing and disappearing again, leaving me with a baby I don’t know how to care for. About the eviction notice I know is coming, and the heat I can’t afford, and the fact that the most kindness I’ve received in two years came from a man I met on a street corner at midnight.

I let the water carry all of it away, until the tears stop and my breathing slows, and I’m just standing under the stream feeling empty and clean. Then I wash my hair with the shampoo that’s in the shower—something that smells expensive and woodsy—and scrub my skin until the smoke and sweat from the club are gone.

When I finally turn off the water and wrap myself in one of those ridiculous towels—it’s so soft I want to steal it—I feel clean and somehow lighter. Like I left something under that water that I don’t have to carry anymore. At least not tonight.

I change into my purple boxer shorts and oversized T-shirt, wring out my wet hair over the sink, and take a breath.

Then I hear it.

Through the bathroom door, muffled but unmistakable—Alexei’s voice, low and deep and gentle, singing. Not in English. Russian, I think. The melody is slow, almost like a lullaby, and his voice has this warm, rolling quality to it that I didn’t expect from someone his size. He’s singing to Ella.

I press my hand flat against the door and just listen.

I don’t understand the words, but it doesn’t matter. The melody is achingly tender—the kind of song that’s been passed down through generations, sung by mothers and grandmothers over cribs in countries I’ve never seen. He’s singing it to a baby who isn’t his, a baby he met two hours ago, and the sincerity of it makes my eyes sting all over again.

I stand there longer than I should, my forehead almost resting against the door, letting the sound of his voice wash over me the way the water did. There’s something about a man’s voice going soft for a baby. Something about the deep baritone gentled to barely above a whisper. It undoes something in me that I’ve kept locked up for a long time.

When the singing tapers off, I clear my throat and open the door.

He’s on the couch with Ella cradled in his arms, her eyes heavy and half-closed. Her tiny fingers are wrapped around his index finger, and the sight of it—her impossibly small hand gripping his impossibly large one—nearly takes me out at the knees.

“Hey,” he says, his lips turning up in a smirk. “Your shower okay?” His gaze wanders from mine down to my bare legs, and then back up. It’s quick, but I catch it.

My cheeks turn pink, and I tug at the hem of my T-shirt even though it already hits mid-thigh. I nod and join him on the couch, tucking my legs underneath me and keeping a cushion of space between us. “That showerhead is seven-ways-to-Sunday amazing.”

He chuckles. “Completely agree. That showerhead alone is worth double its price when you need to relax.”

He places Ella so she’s reclining on the couch between us, propped up by her new Boppy pillow and swaddled in her blanket like a little stuffed burrito. She looks content for the first time all night—pacifier moving slowly, eyes drifting.

“She took the whole bottle, and then I changed her. She should be ready for bed anytime.”

“You changed her?” He changed her diaper. While I was crying in his shower, this man fed a baby, burped her, changed her diaper, and sang her a Russian lullaby. “Thank you.”

I give Ella’s tiny pajama-covered foot a squeeze, and it’s only then that I notice the spread on the coffee table. A white platter with green grapes, sliced cheese, pretzels, and hummus. Everything is arranged on the plate neatly, like he actually put thought into it.

“You didn’t have to do all that.” My voice comes out softer than I intended. “Thank you.”

“It wasn’t any trouble.”

I help myself, popping a grape into my mouth. It’s cold and sweet, and I realize I haven’t eaten anything since a handful of fries I stole from a customer’s leftover plate during my shift. That was over eight hours ago. I try to eat slowly, casually, like I’m not ravenous, but I’m pretty sure I’m failing because Alexei is watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.

“This place is amazing,” I say between bites, scanning the room again. The floor-to-ceiling windows. The art on the walls. The kitchen that probably has more square footage than my entire apartment. “How long have you lived here?”

He considers my question, still watching me. “I moved to the city about three years ago.”

“For work?”

He nods.

“What do you do?”

A beat of hesitation, so brief I almost miss it. “I play for the Chicago Hawks.”

It takes me a moment to process this. I’m not a sports person—not in the slightest. I don’t watch football. I don’t follow basketball. I couldn’t name a single player on any team in any league if my life depended on it. But even I know the Chicago Hawks are the pro football team, because their logo is plastered all over the city.

“What position?”