“How old were you when you had this girlfriend?” I don’t know what middle school means in America.
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen? Oh God,” I laugh. “I was stupid with boys at fourteen, too. I’m not sure you should completely write off relationships based on that experience.”
He gives a low chuckle. “Maybe not, but I’m not looking for anything intense.”
Again, I want to call bullshit. He isn’t afraid of intensity. He’s unflinching in the face of my panic attacks. In the face of getting punched in the face for trying to calm me down when I freaked out after attempting sex. He’s the opposite of afraid. I want to root out the real reason behind his reluctance to take on a girlfriend, but I shouldn’t care. I don’t want that, anyway.
I finally work up enough courage to bring up the topic of sex with me again. “So, was that a no? I don’t blame you for not wanting to try again with me.”
“Nah, we’re definitely having sex. I’m totally down.”
My heart skips a beat. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“We’re going to the burlesque show Thursday, right?” he reminds me.
A fluttering in my chest starts up. We have a date. One I wasn’t sure was even happening. “Yes.”
“The Storytellers have our rehearsal at the Kremlin on Thursday this week,” he tells me.
My heart flutters just knowing he’ll be in the building in a few days. Thursdays have long been the highlight of my week for those chance–or sometimes orchestrated to seem like chance–meetings with Flynn in the hallway before or after.
“We could hang out after rehearsal and then go to the show.”
“Yes,” I say as if he’s asking me to marry him. I don’t know how us watching the burlesque dancers will turn into sex, but it doesn’t matter.
I’ll be with Flynn.
There have been many days these past months when I could barely get myself out of bed because of depression and anxiety, but when I’m with Flynn, I feel like I’m alive again.
“Great. I’ll see you Thursday.”
Thursday. Four long days away.
“Yes, okay. See you Thursday.”
I end the call and press the phone to my chest. I have a date.
Non-date. Whatever.
I’m going to see Flynn again, and maybe this time, I won’t freak out.
Flynn
I stick around in the studio after rehearsal Thursday, trying out some new riffs on the guitar. What we’re doing with the band doesn’t feel like enough anymore. What I’m doing with my life doesn’t feel like enough, either.
Knowing Nadia’s walking around trying to rebuild her life after having so much taken from her suddenly makes my lackadaisical approach to living feel empty.
I carried the weight of Nadia’s pain all week. It’s not a burden. I know I chose to pick it up. But, fuck, if I could help it! My eyes burned, and I wanted to cry like a fucking baby when she told me.
And then when she asked if we could try again, I was even more conflicted. On one hand, it seemed like even my mom was right. Nadia had way too much going on emotionally to forge any kind of relationship with someone right now, particularly not a sexual one.
But, of course, like the first time she asked, I was also incapable of denying her anything at all.
She wants sex from me? She can have it. As much as she needs for as long as she needs. I will make it my life’s mission to ensure she gets exactly the kind of sex she needs to recover from her trauma.
But I can’t pretend that knowing her story didn’t change me. It did.
“You staying?” Lake asks me when I don’t pack up.
“Yeah. Oh, hang on, Story. I need you to use your keycard in the elevator, so I can pick Nadia up.” I unplug my guitar and shove it in its case.
“You’re picking Nadia up?”
Damn. Ty, Lake, Story, and Oleg all stare at me now, wanting the full scoop.
I shrug, forcing myself to look casual, which is usually my only way of being. “Yeah, she wants to see the burlesque show at Rue’s.”
“She does?” Story’s brow wrinkles and I suddenly realize that she might know Nadia’s story. Damn her for not telling me although I guess it’s not her story to tell. No pun intended.
“Yeah. She might make their costumes. And she wants to style us if we do another video.”
“What?” Lake asks. “What does that mean?”
“She’s a fashion designer. That’s what she did in Russia. She has ideas for the band.” I don’t know why, but it seems desperately important that I help define Nadia as something other than a victim to everyone around her.
“That’s cool,” Ty says.
“Wow, I didn’t know that,” Story says, getting in the elevator with Oleg. I follow them on. Ty and Lake wait for one going down.
When the doors shut, Oleg inserts his key card and presses the button for Nadia’s floor. When the elevator starts, Oleg signs something to me.
I look to Story for interpretation, but she makes an impatient sound. “You won’t learn if you don’t try, Flynn,” she says. Oleg, her giant bratva fiance, had his tongue cut out by his old boss. Story has insisted that we all–Oleg included–learn American Sign Language, so we can communicate with him.
I’m not around him enough to have picked much up yet.
“Okay, try it again,” I say, watching intently.
The elevator stops on Nadia’s floor. Oleg blocks my path and repeats the sign.
The only thing I recognize is the sign for sorry.
“He says, sorry, but he has to accompany you until he knows you’re authorized to be there since it was his keycard.”
“Huh,” I mutter. The three of us walk down the hall together. “Let me ask you this, Oleg. If Adrian tries to beat my ass for taking Nadia out again, whose side are you on?”
Oleg’s face remains impassive, which is normal for him. I know it drives Story crazy because it’s part of his non-communicative thing.