Page 49 of Vasily the Nail

I know his name. He wasn’t one of the ones in the car with Tony and me on our way up to Flagstaff from Phoenix, but his name is whispered about in hushed tones like he’s the devil himself. Tony even said it that day, that he was thankful Dima wasn’t in the car with us. But he’s a sweet man. He even sits next to me on the bed and reads lines with me while Vasily is out picking up Chinese takeaway for us.

I apologize for stealing his pillow, but I don’t offer to give it back. He tells me I can keep it, and I breathe a sigh of relief about not having to commit the faux pas of refusing to give it back.

Seriously, though, I don’t know if dry cleaners even take pillows, and I’m horrified at the thought that I might have left a stain on it because of Vasily.

Despite spending the day in bed, I’m exhausted after dinner. I have to remind myself I did have a late night last night and never did anything to address my hangover. I need to talk to Vasily, but Dima hangs out all day. And when I eat my fortune cookie, announce that I’m going to bed, and give a meaningful look to Vasily like he should follow me, he just gives the back of my hand a squeeze and tells me he’ll be in later.

But he’s not. I’m still alone when I wake up at one in the morning. I’m hopeful he’s out working since he does keep these late hours, but I can hear quiet conversation in the living room. Strangely, it’s not in English or Russian. I don’t understand any Russian, of course, but the past week here has given me a crash course in its cadence. No, this very much sounds like gibberish.

I peek out of the bedroom to find Vasily sitting in the dark on the sofa, staring at the TV with a video game controller in his hand.

He’s a scary guy. Maybe he doesn’t have the reputation that Dima has, but I just saw him go berserk on Dima. He was so kind and apologetic to me at the topless bar, but in the gym? He would have been terrifying if I hadn’t trusted him. And I’ve found blood on his clothes most days.

Two days ago, there was something solid, too. I think it was bone. I will never ask him about it, but I’m fairly sure he’s killed someone this week.

But right now, he’s just a guy doing guy stuff, staying up too late playing a video game. He has a bag of potato chips and one of the sodas Dima brought home next to him. There’s a chilly draft nipping over my toes; he’s got a lit cigarette between his fingers, and he’s trying to get the smoke to blow outside after I spent the week battling the stench in the fibers of the furniture.

It’s so painfully domestic that I could kiss him.

We need to talk, but not right now. I sit on the sofa next to him and pluck the cigarette from his grip, holding it to his lips to give him one last drag before stubbing it out. Since it’s late, I carry the ashtray outside and stand there another minute to let more of the smoke get whisked away.

My brother likes the violent driving games where they’re running over pedestrians and having shoot-outs with the cops. Sometimes when his friends are over, they play the war games or football. I figured Vasily would be playing something like that, but with the volume down to keep from disturbing me or Dima — oh, his door’s open, so I guess he’s not even here — but actually, he’s playing a life simulator.

It’s a family of four going about their day, the kids sitting at desks doing homework while the dad cooks food and the mom gardens outside the invisible walls. It’s raining, so she’s grouchy about that. He’s attempting to flip pancakes with his fingers and complaining about the heat.

I’ve played this game before and designed my characters to have wild hair and historical clothing, their home impracticalwith a pool that killed most people who jumped into it and not enough beds. But Vasily’s characters are just normal people with normal lives. The kids are both straight-A students. The mom’s an accountant and the dad’s a librarian. They have two cats.

As he’s scrolling through them to set up their next actions, he gestures for me to come back to the sofa. I close the door and curl back up next to him.

“You should be in bed,zvyozdochka,” Vasily murmurs, his voice low and smooth with just a hint of gravel, like he’s smoked too many cigarettes tonight but is balancing it by speaking softly. His eyes are deeply hooded, his smile lazy. I’m sure he’s high, but I think he’s mostly sleepy.

“Hmm, so should you,” I point out. I’m not about to ask him if he’s avoiding our bed because he’s still upset about yesterday, but I want him to come to bed.

His grin brightens. He kisses my forehead. “I thought I’d sleep out here tonight.” He says it sweetly, like it’s not meant to be rude and he thinks I need that space.

“I’d rather you sleep in our bed.”

He makes the coziest rumbling sound that reaffirms what I just said as he calls his computer-simulated family to the dinner table. “I like how you say that.Ourbed.”

“Why are you sleeping on the sofa?”

He peels his eyes off the screen to level a serious look at me and says, “Do you promise not to be offended?”

Oh, no. But I nod because it’s better to get this over with if that’s the only way for him to get a good night’s sleep. He’s muchtoo big for the sofa, and I think even if he’s still mad at me, he’ll fight me if I offer to sleep out here.

“You were . . . sleeping loudly,” he says delicately.

My cheeks go hot as I face-plant on his shoulder. “Oh God. My breathing’s all messed up from earlier today. I’m sorry. It’ll be back to normal tomorrow, I promise.”

He kisses my forehead and sets the next string of commands in. “No apologies. Dima snores like a feral hog, and it usually doesn’t bother me. My brain’s just been racing, so it was latching onto any sound.” He smiles at his own thoughts. “And then when you stopped snoring, the silence bothered me just as much. This is me.”

Looking at him now, I swear I can even hear the wheels turning in his brain, the metaphorical hamster running fast enough the wheel’s about to snap off the stand and send it barreling right out his ear canal. I need to help him get to sleep, and I don’t think the sofa is going to do any better than the bed did. It’s not the sound, it’s him.

I need to quiet his mind.

He’s focused back on the game. I cozy up more snugly against him, and I’m rewarded with an arm around me. When I tease my fingers at the waistband of his sweatpants, he makes a soft sound but doesn’t respond any further.

He grunts when I dip my hand in. “You don’t need—”

---