Page 30 of Vasily the Hammer

He made me breakfast.

He set the table so, yes, we’d be near each other, but I wouldn’t have to look at him. And when I approach, I notice my coffee is far lighter than his and he has a mountain of strawberries while I have a fruit salad, no strawberries.

I don’t recall what strawberries taste like, which makes me wonder if I dislike them, and Vasily seems to know that. He knows how I like my coffee, too.

Intrusive thoughts win as I reach for one of his strawberries, just to see if I really do dislike them. He drops his plate with a thud, one sausage bouncing off it and rolling across the table, to slap my hand away.

I make a little whining sound. I don’t even mean it, but ow? Why? My eyes go wide and wet as I’m suddenly flooded with all kinds of new ideas of how he might be a terrible husband to me.

“Allergic,” he says with a pant and a hand on his chest as though he’s even more freaked out than I am. “The grocery service messed up and sent strawberries, but you’re allergic. I thought I would eat them all now and then clean up really well. You’re allergic to kiwis and apples, too. I checked the juice, it’s all safe, and I’ve already dealt with the grocery service.”

That kind of sounds like he’s demanded someone be fired. Hopefully they agreed but didn’t actually fire anyone. “Is there an EpiPen here?”

“Six of them,” he says like that’s not an actually insane number. “One in each of our bathrooms, one in the kitchen drawer next to the sink, one in that end table, one in your luggage, and one in my office.”

Okay, so he definitely cares about my health. That’s something. Probably he doesn’t slap me unless it’s an emergency. That could be a better way to approach this, starting from nothing and working my way up.

“Am I close with my family?” I ask to shake the jitters away.

“It’s just your brother.”

“The one who sold me to you?”

He nods and reaches for a strawberry, only to frown, pick up the bowl, and throw everything— including the bowl— straight in the trash.

Actually insane.

“And you just married me and moved me in with you and your friend?” I ask as he scrubs his hands at the sink and then returns.

He nudges my plate toward me. “Eat, Ana.”

“Answer the question, Vasily.” But I pick up my fork.

“Yes, you moved in with me and...” He sighs.

I get this feeling inside me, almost a memory trying to break out, but it’s stuck. All I have is, “Was it Dima? I’ve heard you mention him a few times.”

He nods. “He was my friend.”

“Was?What happened?”

“Why is he no longer my friend? He was supposed to be keeping an eye on you, and you were kidnapped. Hurt.” His skin glows, a flush of anger at his temples and cheeks. “I’ll kill him when I find him.”

“You mean that, don’t you?” Oddly, I’m not as bothered by that as I think most people would be. Nothing that he’s told me this morning feels wrong. This is my life.

“He let you get hurt, Ana. That is—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what Dima could have told me to excuse that, but I hadhopes. But that was already enough for me to want to kill him. Now, he ignores my calls. He is the enemy, and I kill my enemies. It is what got you this home in the sky.”

Got me? Or him? I don’t push that, though. “What was I doing when I got kidnapped? Was I in Florida? Why was I there?”

“I don’t know.” He stares at me as he says it, a mere statement of fact. “I don’t track your every move, Ana. That’s what Dima was supposed to be doing.”

I give myself a break to think about that as I eat the breakfast Vasily has prepared for me. It’s simple. I know I could have made some fancy breakfast.French eggspops into my mind, and I wonder if I’ve made them for him before. It’s not a bad breakfast, though. The eggs and sausage are cooked properly. The fruits are all freshly cut. I am enjoying my coffee.

After I’ve eaten a couple forkfuls of eggs and selected some chunks of fruit, I have myself built up enough to say, “So, we’re not really together, are we?”

“It is complicated,” he says over the rim of his cup, and I catch a hint of his accent. He is a complicated man. I suppose everyone is complicated once you start peeling back the layers. Certainly, I keep surprising myself with every layer of myself that I uncover, but I’m also starting to wonder if Vasily, when he’s being true to himself, speaks English in a standard American accent, or if his comfort zone really is that thick accent with the stilted English.

“I think I should know. We’ve been married for six years and I’m not on birth control, but we don’t have any kids? Why? That doesn’t make sense.”

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