Page 35 of Heritage of Fire

“Where’d you like to sit, Nikolai?” my mother asks as her eyes scan the large park.

I point to a nearby tree, its roots jutting out of the ground in twisted directions.

She nods and moves to unfold the blanket she has clutched in her arms. Then, opening the picnic basket, she pulls out bologna and cheese sandwiches and a bag of pretzels. She also pulls out some cherry tomatoes to snack on, and I wrinkle my nose.

“Nikolai, slow down,” she chides when I try to eat as fast as I can so I have time to play catch. Scanning the park, I search for anyone who may want to play with me, but I come up short.

I turn, swallowing the last of my bologna sandwich to ask my mother if she’ll toss the ball for me, but pause when I notice her tear-filled eyes. She’s watching something.

Looking to where her gaze has settled, I watch the man in the business suit open the pizza box and three sets of little hands flood it. He laughs as three toddlers all reach for a piece. A woman behind them giggles as she passes out paper plates. The man stands to kiss her. But instead of a quick peck, the kiss lingers and she wraps her arms around his middle. When she pulls back, she rests her head on his chest and they stay that way.

My mother continues to watch them, and a single tear floats down her cheek. I shrug.

“Want to play catch with me?” I ask.Please say yes, please say yes, please say?—

“Nyet, Nikolai.” She wipes her hand across her cheek, smearing more tears that have fallen.

I sigh. “Okay.”

I scramble up, tossing a pretzel into my mouth before moving to play catch by myself. I toss the baseball as high as I can into the air and snatch it in my glove when it comes back down.

Tiny laughs bubble out of the toddlers as their father chases them. The wind carries his suit jacket open, and his tie flaps over his shoulder, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He growls and lunges, smiling while fulfilling the monster role.

Rolling the ball around in my glove, I hesitate to toss it again. Instead, I walk back over to where my mother is sitting and plop down. It’s no fun playing catch by yourself.

She smiles wide as she reads a message on her phone. Her grin stretches high on her face, and I try to remember the last time I saw her look so happy.

“Mom, do you know?—”

“Hold on, Nikolai. I’m busy,” she says, furiously typing on her phone.

I scoot back, leaning against the massive oak to wait. When she’s finished, she looks to me and asks, “What do you want, Nikolai?”

I chew on my lip and shrug. “Do you know if Dad ever played monster chase with me?”

My eyes betray where my question came from, as they dart to the man still playing with his kids. Even while they climb all over him like a jungle gym, he still laughs and doesn’t seem to grow tired.

Mother levels me with a look. “Your father doesn’t have to pretend to be a monster.”

Luna’s heart was in the right place and that bothers me.

It shouldn’t thrill me that she took the time to think about me. I shouldn’t relish the fact that she’s been buying my favoriteprotein bars when I run low. And she’d reinjured her burn—why is that so maddening?

I need an escape from all this. A distraction.

Since it’s Friday night, I pop over to the bar with Dmitry and Igor. It’s a lounge we often frequent in the heart of Manhattan’s Meatpacking District, steps from the High Line Park.

The well-dressed doorman, aware of our standing reservations, greets us with a warm smile. The centerpiece of the lounge is a masculine, handcrafted bar that bends into a circle while the liquor shelves extend to the ceiling. Its rich, dark mahogany wood stands out, and the shelves are backlit with the same golden hue present in the plush leather seating.

I love this place because you can’t sit at the bar—they don’t have seating there—and it keeps the whole cluttered vibe you experience at many nightclubs at bay. Plus, with plentiful high-top tables, along with the selectiveness of who can enter, it’s rare you have to wait for a server.

“First round is on me,” Dmitry says, as we head for the bar.

I slap Dmitry on the shoulder and smirk at the nearest blonde waitress glancing my direction. The bar has two specialty drinks tonight. An aged bourbon, smoked with cherrywood with a hint of orange blossom added. And also, a rare rye whiskey with black cherry bitters. Both of those sound terrible.

“Vodka neat,” I toss out to the young bartender. Once we have our drinks, we make our way to an empty table surrounded by several red leather armchairs.

“Surprised to get you out tonight,” Igor says, placing his glass on a cocktail napkin in front of him.

---