Maryruth was right where he left her that morning—curled up on his couch with a mug of tea. She was still in his sweats, his socks on her feet. Setting down the magazine she’d been flipping through, she turned her attention to him.
“How did the business meeting go?” she asked.
“Good,” he said, shrugging out of his suit jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair. Igor hadn’t expounded on what his business entailed and thankfully, she hadn’t asked.
“How are you feeling?”
“Okay. I think.” She sighed.
“Talk to me,” he offered, taking a seat next to her on the couch.
“It’ll sound dumb.”
“No. I doubt that.”
She bit her lip and brushed her blond hair off her shoulders. It was a tangled mess, and he was glad she wasn’t the type of woman who had to appear perfect all the time. He knew what she looked like going to bed, knew how she looked in the morning.
“I think I want to go to college.”
He blinked. “That’s not dumb.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“But it feels so…average. Normal. And my life has been anything but.”
“Which is why it might be good for you. I think it’s a brilliant idea.”
She smiled and looked relieved.
“How long,” he asked quietly.
“What?”
“How long were you living Auggie’s dream and not your own?”
“Ah.” She brought the mug of tea to her lips but at the last moment decided not to take a sip. “It was amazing for those first few months. New. Exciting. This older man…” She looked at him. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
He nodded. He wanted to know everything. Ignorance was never bliss. Whoever had thought up that statement was a fucking moron.
“It was about him. Always. His wants, his needs, his muse, his demands. It was exhausting. I gave it all to him, you know? So what was left for me? Nothing.”
“You came to my door last night and you were crying,” he reminded her. “You looked devastated and heartbroken.
“It was relief,” she admitted quietly. “I was crying in relief.”
“Oh,” he said because he didn’t know what else to say.
“I didn’t know it was relief, though. Not until I had a good night’s sleep and realized I didn’t have to get up and be anything to anyone. I was finally able to just be me and think about what I wanted, when I wanted it.”
“And what you want now is to go to college, yes?”
She nodded. “I just…want to learn, you know? Absorb all this knowledge and figure out what I’m good at, what I love. Because I don’t know any of those things. I didn’t have a family that encouraged growth. It’s part of why I left, I think. I figured out a lot of things away from them and then as I got wrapped up in Auggie, I didn’t have to figure out anything. I’d had a momentary purpose.”
“I know what that’s like,” he admitted slowly.
“I’m tired of hiding. Tired of not knowing who I am or what I want. I’m ready to figure it out.”
“You’re pretty resilient. You know that, don’t you?”
“Kind of have to be.” She smiled, but it wasn’t in humor. “You can’t rely on anyone else to save you. Misplaced faith.”
Sometimes, you can’t even rely on yourself, he didn’t say. Instead he said, “Have you eaten yet today?”
“Tell me something,” Maryruth said after she pushed away an empty plate.
“Tell you what?” Igor took the dish and placed it in the dishwasher. He could’ve left it in the sink and the housekeeper would’ve taken care of it, but he was an adult and not a slob.
“Where the hell did you learn how to cook like that?”
He looked over his shoulder at her and smiled. “Liked it, eh?”
“Loved it. You could be a chef.”
His smile slipped.
She frowned. “What did I say?”
“Nothing. It’s not you.”
“Then what?”
“According to my mother, I could’ve been a great many things,” he admitted.
“Never too late.”
He threw her a wry smile. “So you’ve told me before.”
“What else are you good at?”
Igor raised a suggestive eyebrow, causing them both to laugh. There was an easy intimacy between them; when she ebbed, he flowed. When she waxed, he waned. He knew they were right together, knew it in his bones. But he wasn’t going to push her for anything more at the moment. She wasn’t ready; she was still reeling from her separation.
Whoever had come before him didn’t matter; Igor Dolinsky was going to be her last. And he could wait.
“Hello? Igor?” Maryruth asked. “Did you hear my question?”
His eyes came back into focus. “Sorry. Yes. You asked what else I’m good at?”
She nodded.
He paused a moment and then, “Follow me.” She trailed after him into the living room. He gestured for her to take a seat on the couch. When she was curled up and comfortable, he retrieved the old, battered viola case from the hall closet. He hated that he kept it tucked away and out of sight. One moment in time, the viola had been an extension of himself, as necessary as a limb.
“Oh,” she breathed when he revealed the instrument to her.
He told her the story of how the viola had come to the family. She listened with rapt attention. Finally, he was silent as he put the viola to his shoulder and tuned his beloved instrument. Igor spent a moment saying hello after a long absence.
As Igor played a mournful ballad, he felt the ice around his heart begin to thaw. This time, he let it. It was truly exhausting holding himself back from living, from loving.
When he played the final note, the sudden silence felt deafening. He slowly opened his eyes, afraid of what he’d see.
Maryruth was frozen like a marble statue. If not for the tears streaming down her cheeks, Igor would’ve thought his music had done nothing for her.
“Put down the viola,” she said through a strained throat.
He did so without question. The moment his hands were free, Maryruth leapt up from her seat and launched herself at him. Igor grunted when he hit the floor, but he didn’t care because Maryruth was on top of him, her hands cradling his cheeks.
“I’m in so much trouble,” she murmured.
Igor let out a strangled chuckle. “You? I’ve been in trouble since the moment we met.”
Her smile was brighter than a solar flare. Throwing her head back, she shouted with laughter. She leaned over and rubbed her nose against Igor’s. Her eyelashes fluttered against his skin and he closed his eyes, savoring the feel of her in his arms.
“Tell me about that piece.”
He opened his eyes. “What about it?”
“It meant something to you.” She brushed the drying tears from her cheeks and sat back but didn’t move to get off him.
“It was the song I composed for my mother’s funeral.”
She let out a long sigh.
“My father wouldn’t let me play it.”
Her face contorted into fury. “I hate your father. How could he?”
He shrugged.
“That’s not an answer!” she snapped, her hands fisting in righteous anger. “You were a child who had just lost his mother, and you composed, composed, a tribute to her and he wouldn’t let you share it?”
He took one of her fisted hands and brought it to his mouth and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “Thank you, pchelka.”
Her face softened. “What does that mean?”
“It means ‘bee’. It’s a Russian endearment.”
“Oh.”
“Now, pchelka, I’m going to ask you to either kiss me or get off me. And if you do get off me, will you grab me an icepack? I think I bruised something.”