“But really?”
He gave me a weighty look and dropped his hand. “No more talk ab
out Moscow, all right?”
Releasing a sigh, I nodded.
I watched him walk up the lawn to the house, the sway and expanse of the Atlantic settling in my bones with a sense of longing and seclusion from the rest of the world.
My phone vibrated inside my dress pocket, and I was tempted to ignore it, but I ended up reaching for it anyway.
Papa: Happy birthday, angel. Sorry I missed it. Business as usual. We’ll celebrate when I get home.
Another message came in.
Papa: Have fun tomorrow. Carter is good for you.
I put my phone back in my pocket and replaced my earrings with synthetic blue diamonds. I imagined them glittering like the Heart of the Ocean as the sea dragged me down, forever suspending me in gasping breaths, pearl necklaces, and the lonely sounds of the ocean.
It was what convinced me.
Tomorrow, I’d be in Russia.
resfeber
(n.) the restless race of a traveler’s heart before a journey begins
I waded in a pile of clothes, half-bohemian, half-sophisticated socialite. The former, I felt compelled to buy but never wore. Papa seemed quietly disapproving of anything yellow and nonconformist, and I took peace signs seriously.
Until now, apparently, as I packed colors brighter than the sun into an old cheerleading duffle bag.
I wasn’t home free of The Moorings yet, so I dressed the part in a loose blouse, checker-print cigarette pants, and white ankle boots. I caught my reflection in the mirror: a taller, less-pink version of Elle Woods in Legally Blonde staring back.
On my way to the door, I stopped to unclasp my pearl necklace and dropped it into my jewelry box. Then, I wound up the ballerina, setting her on a lonely pirouette, before I tiptoed down the stairs at three a.m.
Passing Ivan’s bedroom door, I stilled when a very feminine moan sounded on the other side. Ivan wasn’t a Don Juan, but neither was he celibate. Sometimes, during my papa’s absences, I’d come down to breakfast to find a half-naked woman in our kitchen. It never really bothered me—my childhood crush had faded long ago—but now, a flare of rejection started in my chest.
He wouldn’t even kiss me earlier because death was on the line, and now he was talking dirty Russian to some random? Although, I found it more annoying than anything. He was so convinced I was such a doormat he hadn’t even bothered to put his guard up after our conversation.
My nerves played havoc as I disabled the home alarm, expecting Borya to hear the quiet beep and come out armed with a spatula. I inhaled a breath of relief when no one showed, but this was only the first step to getting out of here alone.
I shut the front door quietly, pressed my back against it, and stared at the motion sensor on the porch ceiling. If activated, blinding lights would flick on like a choir of angels, and an ear-piercing alarm would sound. The UPS man hated us.
Holding my breath and my bag against my chest, I stepped directly below the sensor, hoping to land in its blind spot. I broke out in a cold sweat when the yard remained dark and silent.
Lowering to my stomach, I awkwardly army crawled to the bushes with my bag, remembering the path I’d learned to take as an unruly child playing James Bond. Though, back then, the sensor was a laser that would slice my arm off if activated. Now, it was my papa’s disapproval staring a hole in my back, which seemed even worse.
When I emerged on the other side of the bushes, I stood, brushed my pants off, and jogged down the winding street. I doubted my feminine wiles would get me past our private neighborhood’s gate without Carl, the sleazy Friday night guard, alerting my father or Ivan, so I took a turn through a backyard, threw my bag over the iron fence, and climbed up and over it.
Pulling my phone out of my bag, I ordered a Lyft ride. It was the longest three-minute wait of my life. My heartbeats collided with each other in anticipation of Ivan running after me with his pants undone or a very disapproving phone call from my papa. But neither of those things happened. Not before my ride picked me up, and not after he dropped me off at the airport.
Uncertainty twisted my nerves into knots as I took in the bustle of people and the liveliness in the air. Everyone seemed to know where they were going, eyes bright with vacation dreams and independence. I was out of my element. I’d never even had to carry my own bag before, let alone travel solo, but determination pushed me to the ticket counter.
Luckily, due to a last-minute cancellation and my padded bank account—contributed to by a hefty allowance each month because my papa trusted me—I got the last seat on the plane, squashed between two boys throwing Russian insults and peanuts at each other. I didn’t know where their mother was, but I had a feeling she was the woman across the aisle pretending they didn’t exist.
Miami’s nightlights disappeared from view, the orange glow fading into dark and turbulent water. I mindlessly watched a couple of PG movies considering my audience, though things blew up like explosives were going out of style on their screens.
Twelve hours later, we landed in Moscow.