I nodded even though, inside, the thought of saying yes, of knowing I would force that word past my lips, trapped me in a glass box slowly depleting of oxygen, and I was banging on the walls, choking, coughing, begging for air.
I forced the feeling down. “Carter will still be here when I get back.”
Ivan remained quiet for a moment before he tossed out his best card. “You know your papa would not approve of this.”
I chewed my lip. In the past, whenever I’d asked to tag along on one of Papa’s business trips, he’d refused. But even as a child, I noticed something in his eyes, a spark that couldn’t say no with more volume than if he’d shouted the word. I was never, ever permitted to set foot in Russia, that much was clear.
“I know, but he’s not here right now, is he?”
“You are not going.”
I stared at him.
Ivan might complain sometimes, but he never told me what I could or couldn’t do. It was always, “Yes, Mila.” “Of course, Mila.” “As you wish, Mila.” Kidding. That one was a besotted, sword-wielding Westley in my dreams. My point was, he never said, “No, Mila.” I bet if I wanted to rob a bank, he would be my second, no questions asked. Naturally, he’d tattle on me to my papa afterward, but he’d still don a ski mask with me.
The suspicion I’d worked so hard to keep down popped like a balloon, grabbed ahold of my heart, and twisted. What was my papa hiding in Russia?
Another family?
The only conceivable reason he might hide something like that from me was he didn’t want me in their lives. And, eventually, in his too.
Je ne pleurerai pas. Tu ne pleureras pas. Nous ne pleurerons pas. I will not cry. You will not cry. We will not cry.
The conjugations failed me, and a single, annoying tear ran down my cheek. Ivan angled my chin up to his and wiped it away, the soft brush of his thumb wrapping me in warmth and contentment. Something else filled the space between us. A pull. An attraction. A little electricity. Some days, when I was feeling particularly suffocated, it sparked hotter than others.
Neither of us ever acted on it.
My excuse was the fortune-teller I went to when I was fourteen. At that very gothic age, I’d asked her what my purpose was in life. She’d frowned, sitting behind her crystal ball, and then said I would find the man meant for me and that he would take my breath away. It was a generic response she probably told everyone, but it stuck to me like glue.
I breathed just fine around Ivan.
And Carter, despite experimenting with him out of sheer boredom. Not to mention, he was incredibly persuasive.
My time was running out like the last few grains of sand spilling through an hourglass. Yet still, I waited. For more. For some silly idea Madame Richie had put into my head.
That was my excuse.
Now, I was curious to know Ivan’s.
I leaned into the thumb running across my cheek and blinked soft eyes up to his. “How come you’ve never kissed me?”
“Because I want to live more,” he deadpanned.
A corner of my lips lifted. I’d never even heard my papa raise his voice before, and certainly not to Ivan, who was practically a son to him.
“But really?”
He gave me a weighty look and dropped his hand. “No more talk about Moscow, all right?”
Releasing a sigh, I nodded.
I watched him walk up the lawn to the house, the sway and expanse of the Atlantic settling in my bones with a sense of longing and seclusion from the rest of the world.
My phone vibrated inside my dress pocket, and I was tempted to ignore it, but I ended up reaching for it anyway.
Papa: Happy birthday, angel. Sorry I missed it. Business as usual. We’ll celebrate when I get home.
Another message came in.
Papa: Have fun tomorrow. Carter is good for you.
I put my phone back in my pocket and replaced my earrings with synthetic blue diamonds. I imagined them glittering like the Heart of the Ocean as the sea dragged me down, forever suspending me in gasping breaths, pearl necklaces, and the lonely sounds of the ocean.
It was what convinced me.
Tomorrow, I’d be in Russia.
resfeber
(n.) the restless race of a traveler’s heart before a journey begins
I waded in a pile of clothes, half-bohemian, half-sophisticated socialite. The former, I felt compelled to buy but never wore.