Page 63 of Vasily the Nail

“He’ll do the right thing if I get pregnant,” I insist.

“But is it the right thing?”

I stare down at my pale gold tea, my goat cheese stuffed hibiscus flowers, my crab canapes. This isn’t going to be my life with Vasily. If we have a baby, we’re going to struggle, and not just financially. We’ll make it work, and we’ll work well together, but it’s going to be a lot of stress on him that I already know he won’t handle well.

If he finds out I baby-trapped him, he’ll resent me whether or not he cares about me.

No, this isn’t the right thing, not for him. Nico wouldn’t like this either, and he’ll be the one I have to confess to. My Catholic church wouldn’t mind, as long as we got married, but I don’t think I’ll be right in the eyes of the Lord.

But if this is how I gain control of my life, it’ll be worth it.

“I see that face, Laces,” Camilla grumbles. “I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I?”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry you’ll lose my birth control if I get pregnant, though. We’ll figure something out.”

She sighs and sits back in the frilly wood chair meant more for a kitchenette than a restaurant. “No, no. If you’re having a baby, I guess I’ll suck it up and have one too. Dima will shit himself with excitement, probably take me on a Tiffany spree.”

I doubt I’ll be getting any push presents, but I’m okay with that.

Kostya drops me off at home— well, at Vasily’s condo, which I probably shouldn’t be referring to as home, but nothing has felt more like home since I lost my father— and I’m excited that means Vasily’s home. I don’t need to be babysat by Kseniya and Miguel. Not that I haven’t had a wonderful time with them or that they’re treating me like a child or a burden but, well . . .

Well. This feels like home, and their place doesn’t.

I walk into the apartment to find Dima in the kitchen, chowing down on some Doritos. I pass through to Vasily’s bedroom, but it’s empty.

“He’s not here,” Dima yells coarsely, the kindness shown after my near-death experience having fizzled out into something between disinterest and hostility. I think the Tagalongs were his.

“When will he be home?” I ask.

“Not my business to know.”

Again, maybe disinterest, maybe hostility.

I tell myself not to be grouchy about this. I’m not the most extroverted person. A lot of people think otherwise since I love being on stage, but I have a script on stage. Every line is rehearsed. I know what’s expected of me. I know exactly what to do to satisfy the audience. I haven’t had much time to myself the last couple of days, and I do have a ton of homework to do. It would be more comfortable to sit at a table, but I make do on the bed, jamming one pillow behind my back and propping my computer up on another.

I lose track of time as I work through a script, only realizing that night has fallen and I’ve missed dinner when my tummy rumbles. I hear Dima moving around in the kitchen and debate holding out until Vasily gets home, but that could be hours away. With a resigned sigh, I set my laptop aside and wander out of the room.

Dima is by the fridge, the freezer door ajar, with two broad, flat boxes in his hands that his gaze flicks between. He knows I’m standing here, but he doesn’t even look my way.

With a flip of one of the boxes, I see that he’s debating between which TV dinner to make for himself.

Yes, a part of me wants him to have a shriveled, freezer-burnt Salisbury steak, mealy mashed potatoes, wet green beans, and a cherry cobbler that even the microwave can’t thaw for dinner. I’m not mad at him for what happened with the fruit salad. On the contrary, the way he’s acting toward me now shows just how horrified he was to have hurt me before. But he’s being a dick tonight.

And he’s just sort of a scary dude. His nose is crooked, broken too many times for it to ever go straight again, his lip also slightly twisted. He dresses in all black even now, at home in his comfortable clothes. There’s a gun on one hip and a switchblade on the other, even in his comfortable home. I’ve already witnessed him pull both those weapons in situations that did not call for them. In short, he’s a scary guy. And a part of me says scary guys don’t give a shit about what they eat, so what point is there in giving them something better than nasty frozen food?

But that’s not who I am, not really. And as grouchy as he’s been in our few interactions since the kiwi incident, I don’t think that’s who he is, either.

So I take a hesitant step forward and say, “I was going to make pierogies, if you’d like some.”

He looks up at me, I’m thinking with curiosity, but then he glances back to the fridge. He jabs his thumb in that direction. “We don’t have any pierogies.”

I didn’t realize they were something that even came pre-made, but I don’t say that. I don’t want to sound weird.

Which is ridiculous. He saved my life. He probably watched Vasily and me have sex. Twice, if the hand job on the sofa counts as sex. It felt like sex.

I smile brightly, no point pitching attitude about frozen food at him. “That’s why I’m going to make them!”

He raises one eyebrow. I’m not sure if it’s surprise or skepticism. “Is this something that you just do? Tuesday night, so fuck it, let’s make pierogies?”

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