I pick up my bag to hang it on the rack and put away the few groceries I bought when it hits me that the alarm wasn’t set when I got home. Nikolai gave me my own code when I moved in and showed me how to use it. If he had left after I did this afternoon, surely he would’ve set it himself.
His keys are on the hook, and I frown. Same with his motorcycle keys. He couldn’t already be asleep, could he?
I head upstairs and walk down the hall, but the door to his room is wide open. His bed is empty, the sheets unkempt and pillows strewn about.
So he still doesn’t make his bed. I roll my eyes.
In the living room, I throw myself onto the couch, shooting him a text.
Me: Are you home?
I watch the screen, waiting to change from delivered to read, but it doesn’t.
A loud bang and a colorful explosion make me jump out of my skin. Out the window, fireworks pop in the sky over the rolling hills. Explosions of white and red and gold dance one after the other, and I stand, walking over to the large patio doors and open them to get a clearer view.
They whistle and pop over and over, beautiful and fun. If I’m not going to be out at a party, then I might as well enjoy the show privately. I go to pour myself another glass of wine and grab a throw blanket off the back of the couch to take outside with me to watch the fireworks when realization hits me like a freight train.
I drop the blanket and slam my glass down on an end table, some of the liquid splashing out and staining the white marbled surface. I fling the doors shut so hard the glass vibrates within the frame.
“Nikolai!”
Each room I step into is empty and quiet.
Maybe he went over to Reid’s and had Hendrik drive him. Or he’s at the studio and forgot to text me.
Studio.
It clicks, and I jog downstairs to the basement. It’s dark with all the blinds down over the windows. I don’t bother flipping the lights on as I make my way through the living space and over to Nikolai’s in-home studio. The door is closed, and I knock on it, calling out his name again.
Nothing.
I test it, and when it’s not locked, I push it open and peek inside.
“Nikolai?” Quickly scanning the room, I come up short again. It’s empty and dark, just like the rest of the house.
Just as I’m about to turn around, a faint light from underneath the sound booth door catches my eye. I don’t bother with knocking this time. I push it open and my sigh of relief is quickly replaced with my entire chest squeezing as I take in the sight in front of me.
Sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled tight to his chest as he leans over them, is Nikolai. His head is bowed over his knees, face downcast and hidden behind his loose hair. Noise canceling headphones sit over his ears as he absentmindedly twirls a bottle of vodka around with one hand, while the other is closed in a tight fist.
Careful not to startle him, I crouch and gently reach my hand forward until it enters his line of vision. His head snaps up, andwhen his eyes lock on mine, a resounding crack echoes through my ears as it cleaves through my chest.
The usual bright blue of them is dulled, with the whites stained red as tense lines pull at the corners of them. His lips are pursed and he chews on the inside of his cheek.
An old habit of his.
“Hey,” I say softly, even though I know he can’t hear me. Rock music pours out so loudly from his headphones that even without me wearing them, I could sing along if I wanted to.
He makes no move to turn down the music or slip the headphones off. Instead, he simply extends the bottle my way in silent offering, and I sit on the opposite side of the booth and accept it. The vodka is smooth going down and I know it’s from his mother’s special stash that she brings back whenever she visits her family in Moscow.
The carpet is plush beneath me and I pull my knees up to lay my arms across them as we gaze at each other. The booth is small. Small enough that our legs brush and his cologne quickly becomes overwhelming.
I take another sip and pass it back to him. He immediately pulls it to his lips, where my own were just moments before, and maintains eye contact with me as he tips it back. The cords of muscles work in his throat as he swallows it down, and I scan the veins of his hand as he white-knuckles the bottle.
A clear drop clings to the corner of his mouth as he pulls the bottle away and he licks it away with a flick of his tongue. His head falls back silently against the padded walls of the booth and he shuts his haunted eyes away from me.
Finally, he says through a scratchy throat, “I hate the Fourth of July.”
And though he doesn’t hear me respond, I quietly say, “I know.”