“He loves the guy. What am I supposed to do?”
“You’re supposed to let Cris handle it. If he wants Seth, he has to do this. If you get in the middle, they’ll both be upset and dissatisfied. No matter what you do or say.”
“Like some sort of dystopian future? I leave them to fight to the death?”
Vic snorted. “If he can’t fight for Cris and Cris for him, it’s not meant to be. If you step in too early she’ll never accept Seth. At least give them another five minutes. No one’s yelling or crying.”
“Yet.”
“Yet may be as good as it ever gets with this family, Alyosha.”
IT WAS PAST ELEVEN but the night was warm enough, even in November, for Maybe to be on the porch as she drank her tea and looked at the stars. While layered up in all her fleece, naturally.
Even in the middle of their quiet suburban neighborhood there was still activity. Houses here and there had lights on.
Next door at the Orlovs, the family dinner had been raucous enough that Maybe heard it from time to time. Mostly it had sounded festive, but a few times she was pretty sure she was overhearing an argument.
She’d come home from work, hung out with Rachel and Cora after band practice was over and still wasn’t quite ready for bed. So Maybe’d opted for fresh air and the stars for quiet company and wasn’t disappointed at all to catch sight of Alexsei stalking from Irena and Pavel’s place next door.
Maybe considered remaining silent and letting him go. But he was right there. And she wanted his company, even for a little while. So she raised a hand and called out quietly.
He turned, starting a little when he noticed her on the porch. He paused, his body tense in the yellowy light of the streetlamp.
Then he headed over to her.
“How was dinner?” she asked when he climbed the front steps.
“Irena is a good cook. I’m full.”
Which in Alexsei-speak would normally answer the question. If the food was good and he was full, it was a successful dinner. But he had a hesitation around his eyes as well as the set of his shoulders.
She waited, wondering if he’d elaborate. He didn’t.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked at last.
“No. Do you have alcohol?”
Ouch. “That kind of dinner, huh? Yeah, come on in.” Maybe unlocked the three front door locks and indicated he join her inside.
“Did you just get home?” he asked as she locked up once they were in the front hall and set the alarm.
“No. I’ve been back a few hours or so. Why?”
“The door was locked many times. Is everything all right?” He frowned and it made her tingly.
“We always lock the door, even when we’re home. Let’s hang out in my room. That way we won’t bug Rachel. Then I’ll explain.”
One corner of his mouth lifted slightly and she rolled her eyes as she grabbed a bottle and some glasses.
Maybe realized, as she led him down the four steps to the side of the house her bedroom inhabited, that he’d never been in there before.
Cool.
“Make yourself comfortable. I just need to run up and check on something.” She wanted to touch base with Rachel briefly. Her sister didn’t need surprises.
On the other side of the house, Rachel lay in her bed, surrounded by sketchbooks, her e-reader, comics, and whatever flotsam and jetsam that amused her at any given time.
“I’ve got a wild Russian bearded barber in my bed right now. Well,” Maybe amended, “in my room. The bed part is one of those wish fulfillment things. Anyhoodle. I just wanted to let you know what was up and that if you hear me screaming about God it was probably due to orgasms and other lady business.”
Then she froze and regretted her words. Oh a joke about screaming to her sister who’d been held captive by a madman for three weeks. So stupid!
But she didn’t apologize, knowing it would only start a thing between her and her sister.
Rachel’s face lit with recognition and then annoyance. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Maybe. You can’t remove every single word that might apply to something horrible that happened to me from your life. Mainly because you talk too much for that to be anything near a reality. But also, I’m not that fragile. I promise.”
“I know you’re not fragile. Jesus. You’re the strongest, bravest person I know. I’m sorry if I made you feel like that. I just want to protect you and I go too far. I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. You and me are fine. We always have been. I’m a work in progress and you let me be. That’s what makes everything okay. Now go on down to your wild bearded barber before he thinks you’ve escaped out the back door.” Rachel gave her a last, exasperated but affectionate smile before turning her attention back to the pad on her lap.
Maybe knew Rachel still checked every single window and door several times a day. Their security system was top-of-the-line and ridiculous and her sister reset it at least weekly, but it was one of the only things that had helped Rachel sleep at night when they’d first moved in to the house.
But Maybe had never thought of that as weak. Just the opposite. Every day Rachel woke up and lived her life and sometimes it was just a matter of making it without ending up in a weeping ball in the shower. But those days seemed less and less frequent, and Maybe liked that a great deal.
Alexsei was in her room where she’d left him. He’d made himself at home as she’d directed, splayed out in the chair near the bed, the bottle and glasses on the bedside table.
He’d even unbuttoned the top two shirt buttons, exposing his throat. Sending her heartbeat into a few salsa thumps.
Finally. After years of playing this scenario over in her head, he was actually in her room. In. Her. Room.
She kicked off her slippers and got onto her bed so she sat across from him. He handed her a glass filled with vodka and they clinked before taking the shot.
“I know it’s sort of stereotypical to hand a Russian vodka for shots and all.”
He sighed, as he often did when she just blurted out whatever.
“Some stereotypes are based on things that are true often enough to be a stereotype.”
“I really love your accent.”
He paused and then shook his head slowly. With a smile. “I like vodka. So thank you. Why are there so many locks on your door? Are you afraid?”
She frowned, not expecting this direction in the conversation. It wasn’t as if what happened to Rachel had been a secret. FBI agent tracking a serial killer gets kidnapped and barely survives that same serial killer. It was gangbusters for all the news cycles. Grist for click bait and the subject of a true crime book written by a woman who cashed in on the misery of others as a living.
But it was Rachel’s story. Her life and Maybe tried to respect that without making what she’d gone through seem like a shameful secret.
“We take home security very seriously around here. Rachel was an FBI agent so this is sort of her thing.”
“She killed the man who harmed her, didn’t she? Is there still a threat?”
He wasn’t being deliberately provocative or anything. She’d noticed over the years she’d known