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“It had nothing to do with you,” Kolya intones. It feels like the first time he’s spoken today. His voice has a rough-hewn, just-got-out-of-bed quality that makes me shiver. “His disease was not your fault.”
I feel my breath catch at the word.Disease.It sounds so, I don’t know… binding, I guess. I don’t know why it’s a shock hearing him say it, when I’ve known as much for a long time now. “How do you know?”
“It started long before you came into the picture.” He toys with the clasp on his watch. Open and shut, open and shut.Click. Clack. Click. Clack.Then his eyes find mine again. “He thought music could save him. He was wrong.”
My breath catches and releases in my chest with every click of Kolya’s watch clasp. “Save him… from what?”
He lets his hand fall idle and fixes me with that unapologetic gaze. “From himself.”
I drag my index finger through the puddle of condensation streaking my leg. “He wasn’t all bad, you know,” I say softly, face aimed down at my lap. “There’s a reason I fell in love with him in the first place.”
“Which was?”
Strange as it may seem, I didn’t expect him to be curious about that. It takes me off-guard, leaves me floundering for an answer. Which of course makes me look insincere. Like I’m trying to change the reality of who he was so that I can mourn him in peace.
“Well…”
I close my eyes for a moment and remember how it began. He came to fill in for a performance ofSwan Lakewhen the Duval Theater’s usual piano player was home sick with a cold. I was dancing. He was playing. He looked at me and he struck the first note and I looked at him and took the first step and something started. A spark was lit.
“He was an artist,” I say simply. “We understood each other.”
I’m growing used to Kolya’s gaze. It’s so penetrating. Invasive, almost. But I like the lack of bullshit, the straight-laced, what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of attitude. For three months, everyone has come to me cloaked in sympathy, and what I’m learning about myself is that I fucking hate sympathy. I’ll take the unflinching truth over sweet lies any day.
“Thanks for talking to me,” I say before I drain the last few sips of my lemon soda. “And for the soda.”
He nods. Says nothing.
“I should get going. I have to make the house presentable. I’m interviewing potential roommates today.”
At that, his eyes flash with a sudden blue fire like the hottest part of a blaze. “Roommates?” he says in a low, dangerous growl.
I laugh nervously. “Well, I can’t afford to stay in that house on my own. Especially with a baby on the way. The only way around it is to find a roommate who’ll help with half the rent. So yeah, roommates.”
His eyes do that weird splitting thing. It’s as if the ice is cracking, breaking off like calving glaciers in the Arctic.
“Live with me,” he says abruptly.
I blink at him in confusion. I must’ve misheard. “Uh, what?”
He stands to meet me. “You’re pregnant. You’ve just lost the father of your child. You should be living somewhere comfortable. Not with…roommates.”
“Oh, that’s sweet of you, but my house is comfortable. It’s just—”
“I can have you moved in by the end of the week.”
I stare at him with my mouth hanging open. “You’re serious.”
He just raises an eyebrow. A silentYes.It’s eerie how much he can communicate without opening his mouth.
“Kolya, that’s… Listen, that’s—It’s very kind of you. But I couldn’t possibly—”
“You don’t need to live with a random fucking stranger.” It’s the harshest I’ve ever heard him sound, and I don’t care for it. It reminds me of all those times that I’d come home from work, only to find Adrian stalking around the house, spoiling for a fight.
“You’re a random stranger, too,” I point out. “You may have been friends with Adrian once upon a time, but I didn’t know that. Adrian never even mentioned you to me. So, yeah. Generous as the offer is, I’d prefer to stay in my own space. It’s no mansion, but it’s my home.”
With every passing second, I like the fire in his eyes less and less. Our once-pleasant conversation has taken a sharp left into uncharted territory, and I’m ready to bolt.
I set the empty can down on the table. “Thanks for the drink,” I say. “I’ve got to be going.”
