67

Story
For a moment, when I wake, I don’t recognize where I am. The soft sheets, the warm bed. The sense of comfort. There’s a feeling of safety and of the presence of another, but I can’t quite remember…
I open my eyes, and it all comes rushing back to me.
Oleg.
It’s amazing how comforting his presence is to me. Grounding. Solid. When I’m around him, the chaos in my head seems to quiet.
Oleg is up and dressed, sitting at a table near the curtains. A bag from the local bagel place sits on the table, along with a cup of take-out coffee. The scent gets me out of bed.
I don’t want to think about last night.
The gun at my head.
The three men Oleg killed. The trouble he must be in. I know I need to demand answers-we’re going to figure out how to communicate one way or another-but part of me isn’t sure I even want to know what he’s into.
I was a witness to murder last night.
I don’t even want to think about all the horrible things that could mean. Right now, without knowing Oleg’s story, I can make up my own fairytale around it. He’s the innocent one being hunted. He did what he had to do to protect me, the girl he loves, because I got caught in the middle of it.
That’s the pretty way I want to spin the story.
This is what I’ve always done. I live in the area between fantasy and reality. My life has never been structured and organized. I had the opposite of what you could call a “stable home life.” There was love-so much love-but it wasn’t stable.
But what if it’s uglier than that? What if Oleg’s the villain in the story?
No.
He’s not. I know that from the deepest place in my soul. Not the man who touches me like I’m the most precious thing in the universe. Who looks at me like I’m the only other being in the world. He can’t be bad.
Just like my mother isn’t bad for all her nervous breakdowns, live-in boyfriends and bad breakups. And my father isn’t bad for drinking too much, sleeping with every band groupie who came into his life, and putting his kids last.
I’ve lived in total chaos my whole life. I think that’s why I choose to live alone now. Because my thoughts are messy and disorganized, and usually, when I add someone else to the mix, I lose myself completely. Except that doesn’t seem to happen with Oleg. Maybe because he doesn’t talk. I don’t want to look at that like a plus, but he not only doesn’t add to the noise, he absorbs it. Now that I’ve identified it, I’m sure that’s why having him at my shows made it so fabulous for me. He somehow gave me space in the chaos.
“Good morning, sunshine.” I kiss his temple.
Oleg’s dark gaze sweeps over my naked form and grows hooded.
My nipples pucker at his appreciation.
Purposely provoking him, I dance out of his reach to the wall of curtains, curious to see what’s behind them. I yank them back and gasp. “Whoa.”
It’s an entire wall of floor to ceiling windows looking out over the city. “This is incredible, Oleg.” I take another look around the place in the light of day, drinking in what, in the shock of last night’s trauma, I failed to notice. This place is gorgeous. And expensive. It’s weird because it’s just a studio without any kitchen-not even a mini fridge, unless I’m missing something-but it’s very high end. We’re in some kind of small penthouse on the top of a building that must be very close to Lake Michigan. I’ll bet other apartments in the building have lake views.
“Can people see in?” I ask, realizing if they can I’m putting on quite a show.
Oleg makes a popping sound with his lips. I turn to find a t-shirt flying through the air at me.
“Thanks.” I catch it and shake it open. It’s one of Oleg’s shirts-soft cotton and hunter green. It’s gigantic. I pull it over my head, and it almost falls to my knees.
“Is this a hotel?”
Oleg shakes his head.
“This is your place?”
A nod.
“I love it.” I race past him to leap onto the bed, which, sadly, doesn’t bounce. “Except your bed has no springs.” I pick up a pillow and lob it at him. “You need a bed with springs, so I can jump on it.”
He catches the pillow. The corners of his mouth tick in a barely perceptible smile. I realize I have never-not once-seen this man smile. His face is usually as inexpressive as his voice, which makes him doubly hard to read.
I’ve just been going by his intense stares-reading everything into those. Or maybe just his solid presence.
I jump off the bed and go to him, like I’m drawn to a magnet. Now that he’s touched me, I can’t get enough. I need more of this giant bear-man who’s always watching me. I push him down into the chair and climb in his lap, careful to avoid his injury. I guess because he can’t give me his words, I crave physical touch with him. Not even sexual-although holy hell-last night! But I’d take any contact right now.
Oleg pulls me in, molding his arms around my hips and back to cradle me against him. I lean my head against his giant shoulder, and he shakes open the bagel bag and brings it under my nose.
I shove my hand in the bag and fish for a cinnamon raisin one. Oleg cracks open the cream cheese and hands me a plastic knife.
“Mmm, this is good.” I reach for the coffee, opening a tiny container of half and half and dumping it in. “They make these too small, don’t you think?”
Of course, he doesn’t acknowledge my words. I don’t really expect him to. It’s okay, I can talk enough for two of us.
“I need, like, five of these for one coffee.” I open the other three packets that were on the table and empty them into my cup then try my coffee. Still too black.
Oleg’s brow wrinkles, like he’s concerned.
I shrug. “I’ll live. I’m just grateful for the coffee. You don’t drink it?”
“When did you even go to get bagels?” I straighten myself on his lap to spread the cream cheese. I twist to look at him and raise my brows. I swear to God, he’s going to have to start trying to communicate. I mean, he could gesture. He could draw, like he did at my apartment to let me know to move the van.
This is a problem for me. Oleg doesn’t just not speak. It’s like he’s abandoned all other methods of communication as well.
Maybe no one tries with him. He’s been written off. Or he wrote himself off. That thought sends a sharp shard of pain straight through my chest because it rings true, but I steel myself against it.
I know I’m probably nuts. The red flag should’ve been when he got shot in front of my apartment or when I saw him expertly assassinate three men in about fifteen seconds. But that’s not it for me. I don’t know, I’ve already seen and experienced some crazy things in my short life. I’ve witnessed death before. Not murder, but a drug overdose at a party and a car accident. Oh, and two friends committed suicide when I was in high school. My tolerance for trauma has been built up.
For me, the red flag is this side of Oleg. The stone-faced man who doesn’t respond to direct questions. I want the guy who makes his thoughts felt and heard, through his touch, through his energy. The guy I got to know at my apartment before his friends showed up.
I don’t know what’s going on with him. I don’t know who those men were or what they wanted from him. I don’t know what Oleg’s thinking about at all and what he plans to do. But I do know that Oleg needs to figure out how to explain things to me.
I wish I had a smartphone. We could probably find an app to translate-text to each other, but all I have is my flip phone. I’ve been stubborn about upgrading-half because I like how much it shocks people that I’m still on the earliest cell phone technology and partly because it’s an expense I don’t care to incur. My money goes to stuff for the band. I never needed a fancy phone.
I finish my bagel and coffee. “I missed you last night. At my show.” I don’t say it to make him feel bad. Only because I want him to know. He matters. We may have rarely spoken all those months, but I felt his participation and vitaly and viscerally as I felt the strings under my fingers or the mic in my hand.
His gaze holds regret.
“Where were you?”
His expression closes. Turns blank. It’s his non-answering face. Frustration wells in me. I set the guitar back in the case.
“Were you in hiding?”
No answer.
“Why were those guys after you?”
Of course, he can’t answer that one, but he’s gone dead on me, and it drives me freaking insane. I snap up the locks on my guitar case and slide off the bed. “Listen, you can’t do that to me. I know you can’t speak, but there are so many other ways to communicate, and you don’t even try.”