Page 91 of Wicked Serve

I try to focus on her. My panic attacks have never made me pass out, but I feel pretty fucking close right now. I sense a hand squeezing my arm, another running through my hair. I twist, retching yet again.

“Okay,” she says—distant, as if I’m underwater. “Breathe through your nose, hang on.”

She leads me to the bathroom, her hand cool and dry on the back of my neck as I flip the toilet lid and vomit. She says something else, but I can’t hear her. I can’t hear a thing but the conversation with my father, echoing over and over, and my own ragged breathing.

It’s never been this bad. Never this absolute. He said my name—not Nikolai, not Nik, but Kolya—and I unraveled completely. Usually, I manage to keep my past in a lockbox, but it’s all I can think of now. A million painful moments, sprung open by that one word.

And the conversation itself, taking a hammer to the week I’ve had with Isabelle’s family. He’s planning a trip here. To New York. Not tomorrow, but soon. It’s been three years since I saw him in person, and now...

“Go,” I say roughly. “Please.”

She blinks, and I realize that I said it in Russian. I swallow, trying to find the right words in English. When I manage it—or something close enough—she just shakes her head.

“You know how to breathe,” she murmurs. “Focus on it, honey. Do it with me.”

Tears prick my eyes. I press the heels of my hands against them. I don’t cry. I’m especially not going to cry now, in front of Isabelle. I take one shaky breath, and then another.

I used to hear my mother cry at night. She’d deny it, in the morning, but I heard it, just like I heard the arguments.

Something must show on my face—a shard of pain too large to bury fast enough—because Isabelle hugs me. I stay still, losing myself in the lemony scent of her hair. I should work up some sense of embarrassment at the sweat on my body and the sour smell of my breath, but I can’t.

“Hug me back,” she urges. “It’ll help.”

She feels fragile. Breakable. I knocked her hand away, outside, and it would be all too easy to shove her away now. I don’t want to hurt her, but I could. I could give her the marks my mother would hide with makeup, after a particularly bad night with my father.

If you won’t come home, I’ll just have to travel to see you, Kolya.

I force myself to focus on her warmth. I don’t hug back, but inch by inch, I relax. My breath comes easier. The lingering nausea fades, although my body begins to ache with exhaustion. I could fall asleep here, on the bathroom floor.

Isabelle finally steps back. I see the disappointment on her face, but she just grabs a washcloth from the cabinet and wets it.

“Use some mouthwash,” she says, wiping my face. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”

“Thank you,” I say when she’s at the doorway.

She stops, giving me a hesitant smile. “You’re okay.”

I just nod, pulling my sweat-soaked shirt over my head.

“And I’m here for you.” She digs her teeth into her bottom lip. I notice how cute that is, and it makes my heart skip a beat, even with the lingering effects of the attack. “If you don’t want to talk about it now—”

“Tonight.” I clear my throat. “Let’s talk tonight.”

Chapter 45

Nikolai

Isabelle spreads the blanket on the cold sand, smoothing the corners. She gives me a faint smile as she pulls another blanket out of her tote bag. “Are you going to sit down?”

I sit, carefully, shoving my bare hands into my pockets. She drapes the blanket over my shoulders. When she suggested ditching her family’s New Year’s plans, I thought we’d hang out in her room, but she had the sliver of beach attached to her parents’ property in mind. The Long Island Sound is flat and dark, moonlight dancing across the surface.

Since that night at thirteen, I’ve spent every New Year’s Eve alone. I thought I’d spend this one alone, too, but instead of going back to the city after Christmas Day, I’ve stayed with Isabelle and her family. I should have expected Dad’s phone call today, of all days, and yet I fooled myself into thinking he’d drop it after our last argument. Visiting me. What a fucking joke.

She nestles into my side, sharing the blanket. The tip of her nose is red.

I slide my arm around her. “Are you too cold?”

“It’s a pretty night,” she says. “And we’re alone here.”

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