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Russia’s back on his two feet (mostly) by the end of the following week, when he comes into the shop for his next session.
We’re starting on the shading today and we’ll see how much I can get done before the session needs to be over. It’s different now, that we’ve shared kisses, that he’s made his “intentions” clear, for lack of a better word.
Like I’m in some sort of Regency novel and he’s the rakish duke that wants me only for my virginity.
Sorry, pal, you’re a little late to that game, yeah.
I let myself bask in the happiness at seeing him again, even though we’ve talked to each other every single day—sometimes not for long (I can barely hold phone call conversations to save my life, always multi-tasking and talking out loud is the thing that goes first), other times long text messages on a giant thread that begins with half-formed thoughts and ends going on tangents.
It’s nice, super nice.
After I finish up, Russia waits around for my shift to finish, and I end up introducing him to Jake, my boss, as my boyfriend, and Jake gives me the most monumental shit-eating grin that I want to die on the spot, dig a hole into the ground and live there forever and ever.
I can’t do that, obviously, so I stand there and take it, pointing at Jake viciously once Russia’s already out the door on the official first day of Easter break (my ass it’s the first day of the long weekend when it’s still ten below and I swear I saw a few snowflakes driving into work this morning) and mouth the word “Sera,” and Jake snaps his mouth closed and disappears from my line of sight.
I wave bye to Bekah, pull on my coat and step outside into the fading sunlight—which feels glorious, glorious—now that daylight savings time is over, even if it sucks losing an hour of sleep.
Russia holds out his hand for me, letting me make the decision, and after glancing around to make sure no one’s watching how I’m going to transform into a puddle at his mere touch, I grab onto his hand, his grip firm against mine, and I don’t actually combust, which is great, but also I’m holding Russia’s hand. We walk carefully since Russia’s gait isn’t at a hundred percent yet and make our way to that restaurant we went to the first time we ate together, the one after I brought him to the clinic.
I order pasta—because when am I not ordering pasta? —and Russia orders us a bottle of wine, white, like he’s noticed I prefer even though I’m pretty sure he likes red more.
Still, it’s a nice gesture and there’s already heat blooming in my cheeks, my body practically hunching in on itself, suddenly shy. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, either.
I was the epitome of a total professional touching him and tattooing him, even if I’m looking at him in a different light now, studying the contours of his body not in the way a graffiti artist would look at a particular section of wall or building and see the end result.
Instead I find myself looking at him now like I’m going to be getting opportunities to touch those areas because he’s going to let me touch those areas, and because I want to, want to find out where he’s most ticklish (even though I think along his ribs is a good bet).
Everything’s different, but still kinda the same.
“Sera came by the other day,” I say, not really understanding why I’m bringing it up since it’s none of his business who shows up, but I know on some level that I’m testing him, testing his reaction, heart beating hard in my chest, my breath rattling in my throat.
And I keep doing it, keep vomiting up the words.
“She was really sweet, actually, bringing everyone donuts and muffins.”
Russia raises a single eyebrow in a silent question as his mouth tightens, his jaw clenches, the hands holding onto his napkin-wrapped cutlery flashing white.
I’ve gone and touched a nerve.
I know I have.
So what do I do?
I keep pressing the stupid thing, making sure the pain makes him lose his mind.
“Yeah, and Matty came, too. He wanted to see some of my artwork, and I’m pretty sure my boss, Jake,” I say, unnecessarily since Russia just met the guy, “fell in love with her at first sight.”
“She’s married,” is all Russia says, the words heavy and loaded, and I feel my spine straighten, my body lengthening, like a pufferfish that makes itself look bigger in the face of an enemy.
Russia’s not my enemy, though. He’s not.
Why are you doing this, Soph? Why?
Because I have to know for sure, once and for all.
I don’t ever want to be second best, that’s just not fair, and not what I want to sign up for.
Nope, not me.
Maybe that’s just an excuse for not wanting to be someone’s first, though, Soph, because that’s some scary shit, isn’t it?
I nod, glancing down at my nails like I’m the supervillain with all the time in the world, the hero captured and under my control while I lay out my evil plans for him to understand what he’s going to be missing out on.
I lick at my lips, take a sip of my wine, the coolness soothing the raging fire inside of me, the drumbeat of blood pounding along in my head, at my ears, the base of my throat.
“I know that, and Jake knows that,” I say, watching him get flustered, his body rigid, sitting all the way across from me. It’s not the right kind of answer to give, the implications clear—that Jake knows that, but he’s still willing to take a shot, regardless if she’s married or not.
And maybe there’s an implication there, that Russia should take his shot before Jake takes his...if he wants to jump on that particular opportunity.
I hold my breath, watching and waiting for his answer.
“Sera wouldn’t do that, she wouldn’t do that to Hunter,” he says, shaking his head like a wet dog trying to dispel himself from all the evil moisture. I don’t know who he’s trying to convince—himself or me.
She wouldn’t do that to me... The words are left unspoken, but that doesn’t mean I don’t hear them, loud and clear.
My heart trips up, slip-sliding in my chest like it’s been dislodged, like it’s taken one too many hits in my twenty-six years of life, and now I’m staring at Russia, a man it would be so easy to love, who clearly loves another.
There’s no other reason why he’d be so invested in her, in her reaction to another man wanting her in the way that Jake clearly does.
Russia...Russia hasn’t gotten over her, he just hasn’t...he’s in love with another woman, and it just had to be Sera freaking Delos, who’s done nothing to return his affections.
What am I supposed to do now? What the hell am I supposed to do now?
What am I going to do—hate Sera for having a place in his heart, when I’ve met her and know exactly what she’s like?
How can I possibly hate her when she’s done nothing wrong, done absolutely nothing wrong?
It’s like hating the sun for rising every day or hating the rain that makes all the trees grow.
You can hate the sun and the trees, the rainfall, the oceans and seas, but you’d be dumb to try and stop them, to try and stop others from loving them in your stead.
So it comes to this.
Our menus lie discarded on the table, neither of us paying attention to them, and when our waiter approaches out of the corner of my eye, I just give him a subtle shake of my head, and the kid gets the message: stay the fuck away, we’re not ready yet.
“I don’t know, Jake’s a good-looking guy,” I find myself saying, advocating for cheating and I’m starting to hate myself for it, but I can’t take it back now, I can’t unsay it.
It’s like I’m watching myself from the outside-in, watching myself screw this up for me, self-sabotage at its finest.
I’d have to be stupid not to see that Sera’s so clearly happy with Hunter and Jake can suck it and wait for his own dream woman to come along, one who likes his tattoos just as much as Sera appeared to. It can’t be that hard, surely.
“Sera would never fall for somebody like that,” Russia continues, his words almost guttural now, pulled deep from his chest like they have to be pried out of him.
“Somebody like that,” I repeat slowly, leaning back in the booth, my back pressed tightly to the back of it, creating as much space between us as I possibly can.
My heartbeat’s erratic now, and my palms are getting slick with the nervous kind of sweat that makes me feel out of control. “What do you mean? Somebody like that?”
Russia shakes his head, doing his own version of creating space between us, pushing against the edge of the table as if he can pin me with it even if the thing’s anchored to the ground, my foot right next to the table leg.
“Somebody like that, somebody who would try to lure her away from her husband.” He sounds...disgusted, and there’s something moving behind his blue eyes that I don’t really have a name for.
“I thought you said she couldn’t be lured,” I snap back, watching his neck tighten as his head snaps up, like I’ve called him to attention, or there’s an invisible thread linking him to me and I can control his movements—the puppet meets the puppet-master.
But that’s not the case at all.
My face feels wooden and not my own, my features at rest like I’m about to go to sleep, even while I push and prod and hope for more of a reaction from him, digging down deep for the truth of the matter.
Who is he going to choose? Sera or me? Sera...or me?
“No, you mean somebody who looks like that—tattoos and piercings, looking like they’ve gone through life living it, loving it, not following the rules,” I supply, Russia looking at me as if I’m the stranger, like he doesn’t know me at all.
My brain brings the images of us kissing last week forward, a memory to reminisce and cry over because I know what I have to do.
I know, but it’s just going to hurt like a bitch.
“Someone like that, Russia?” I prompt, ice crowding in around my heart, making it hard to breathe. “Someone who looks like me?”
It hurts, God, it hurts, knowing that he thinks that, but doesn’t actually say it, his silence another kind of slap I wasn’t prepared for.
If I were ever to meet his parents, would he want me to cover up completely, cover me from throat down to my toes, hiding everything that makes me...me? Would he be so ashamed to be seen with me like that?
What about his friends? Do they think that, too? Was it all just a farce?
Russia shakes his head, his eyes pinning me back against the booth and it feels like I can’t move unless he releases me from his stare. His voice is steady and even when he speaks. “Sera’s the most loyal person I know. I don’t care about this Jake guy, even if he is your boss.”
Ah, so he’s going to play that card. “Sera’s the most loyal person you know?” I add the emphasis where it’s needed, watching his face start to change from complacent, bemused to angry now as I attack one of his friends, attack the woman who has his heart, who doesn’t believe that he loves her as much as he is able.
How did I get involved in this soap opera—how did this happen to me?
“Yes. She is. The kindest, sweetest person I know.” His blue eyes blaze with the hottest kind of fire, the hottest part of the flame is always the blue part, and he burns me right through.
“Why are you talking about her this way? I thought you liked her, and I thought she liked you.” He says the last part like he doubts it, and I get it, since I’m the one asking questions, pushing for answers that I want to hear.
“Loyal enough to never want anybody else?” I ask, hating the insinuation—I don’t know what she goes through every single day, taking care of her son, watching him and his blood sugars, being there, a pillar for him to lean on when he’s exhausted and tired of living in that way, only nine years old and sick of his life as a diabetic. I don’t know that story.
Wouldn’t it be easier, though, for her to have fallen in love with someone like her friend, Russia? The one who seems to know her best?
“Sera doesn’t make assumptions on character based on looks alone, she cares about how you act, what you do, and sometimes what you say,” Russia stresses on a labored breath.
The silence stretches and I wonder if he’s going to do it now—if he’s going to bring into question everything I’ve already been thinking about, about the two of us, about the lingering feelings he has for her, clear as day underneath the high-noon sun.
So I do it for us both instead when he takes too long, once and for all.
“I think I’m going to refer you to another colleague of mine, Remy, to finish up your tattoo. There’s only the finishing touches left anyway and then you’ll be good to go.” The words tumble out of me before I can fully process them, but I’m not taking back anything I just said.
It's for the best, it’s the for the best for me.
“Why? Why are you doing this?” Russia asks, and I sit there, my spine unbending, hard enough to snap. “Why are we talking about Sera like this? Why does it even matter?”
I close my eyes, her name ricocheting in my head like a litany, a prayer, a curse.
I want to shout in his face, to yell at him—doesn’t he know, didn’t he think I would find out, that I wouldn’t know how much he cares for her?
Every question I’m asking about Sera is really about him, about what he’ll do when he gets tired of me, when I don’t meet his expectations of being the perfect girl of his dreams—Sera Delos.
I have too many tattoos, have piercings in private places, I don’t wear my hair in a boring haircut even if Sera’s hair looks glorious. I wear colorful makeup and I have an eyeshadow palette addiction (I have to collect all the shades with every kind of undertone—cool, neutral and warm), and so many lipsticks that I’ve lost count.
I don’t look a thing like her, I’m not strong like her, taking care of her kid in a way that’s gentle and friendly and looks to be like she deserves the mother of the year award ten times over.
Me?
I can’t compete with that, can’t compare to that. And I shouldn’t have to.
“Russia,” I say on a sigh that burns my throat, that knots me up, and makes tears burn in my eyes, sting my nose. “I think you should figure out what you want, who you want.”
“Why? What? Sophie, I don’t know what’s happening here, but I promise we can go and talk somewhere private to discuss it.”
“Well, I don’t want to discuss it, and I don’t want to eat with you anymore. Please, just make a decision and tell me what you decide. I don’t want to compete for your love, that’s not fair to me, and it’s not fair to you. Okay?”
Russia shakes his head, looking lost. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about, we were going to have supper and then we started talking about Sera—”
Her name’s like an invisible knife lodging in my ribs—between the fourth and fifth to be exact as watching Game of Thrones has come to teach me.
“I want you to figure out what you want,” I say again, getting to my feet, holding up a hand to stop him from moving. “I’m going home, I need some time away from you.” Could I have phrased that better? Sure. But it’s the truth, no matter how much I pretty it up.
“Sophie...”
I shake my head, ignore the pleading tone in his voice that turns my legs to lead, that makes my knees want to buckle to sit back down at the booth again, to pretend the conversation didn’t happen, that he didn’t rise up to defend her like he’s the one who had something to lose.
“Sophie, please. Let me just order us food to go and we can talk about it. Did Sera do something to upset you the other day? Is that it? Do you want me to talk to her?”
I clench my jaw tight, tight, tight, grab my coat and pull it on. “I need to go home now, Russia. Get home safe, yeah?” I say, zipping up my coat and leaving the restaurant behind, that look on his face branded into my memory, even as everything inside me starts to hurt, the kind of hurt you feel when you look down at the open wound, seeing once and for all the piece of yourself that you’ve lost.
I end up running to the shop, grabbing my shit in a whirlwind of activity, holding it in, holding it in, keeping myself contained.
If I can just get home, if I can just see Elena, she’ll help me figure out what I need to do to drown this pain away, to forget about Russia and his tattoos and his terms of endearments that I’ve learned to say by myself, in near perfect pronunciation I’ve practiced them so, so much over the last week.
I just need to get home.
***
THE APARTMENT’S EMPTY when I trudge inside, Elena clearly not anywhere in here, clearly with her Beckett. And I can’t help but be jealous right at this very moment, that he’s taken my friend away from me when I need her here.
I keep making these sounds in my throat, whimpers like Pongo would make for a treat, but I’m alone here, and I head into the shower where I can’t distinguish the tears on my face from the water running down in a stream over my head and body.
I replay the whole conversation again with Russia, the way I was instigating all of it, stepping my foot in it while I waited for Russia to show me the truth, not asking it from him, but taking what I wanted and only what I wanted to see, to hear.
I feel a little sick, stomach flip-flopping, even as hunger claws at my stomach lining.
It’s not until I drag myself into bed, freshly washed skin and hair, running through the motions of skin care and hair care, that I glance down at my phone, find Elena’s text message: Staying over at Beckett’s. Don’t wait up! Wish me luck!!!
I can’t bring her back here, make her come back here when I made this mess, when I demanded to know the truth.
Russia—Tommy—has never said my name in the exact same way he’s said Sera’s, like it’s a gift in his mouth, a precious gem that shouldn’t be swallowed, but admired.
So there’s my answer.
It’s the one I wanted, yeah.
I shuffle under my sheets and covers, the bed unmade because the bed’s always unmade, burrowing underneath all the layers and layers, my fuzzy reading socks on, my phone on do not disturb, and my laptop sitting next to me, taking up the space there instead of someone I love, sleeping in the same bed next to me.
I pull up John Wick again, watching it for the millionth time, and when that scene shows up, I let myself cry again, great, racking sobs as the grief tears through me.
There’s something incredibly cathartic about watching John Wick bring the pain (and so much murder) and revenge to those who had wronged him.
It helps me sleep, even if the lines in Russian stir something inside me I didn’t really acknowledge was in there: that I’ve gone and fallen in love with Tommy Ivanov—and he doesn’t love me back.
