Perhaps that was a sign of overconfidence or maybe he didn’t recognize the difference in the scenarios, but I didn’t think that was it. I suspected he was more than aware of the differences in each, but that he was simply confident in his ability to handle whatever might confront him, be it a room full of enemies or a stupid woman making a fool of herself.
When I’d left him, I’d scurried back to my childhood bedroom. I’d never thought I would live here again, but even still, even after Sergei had taken this house as his own, I felt safe here.
Comfortable.
So comfortable that I’d immediately fallen into a deep sleep, the excitement of the day and the embarrassment of the night overtaking me.
I exhaled, stood, and then went to my bathroom. The morning would not wait, so I showered and prepared for it. I took my time, not certain what today would bring and not entirely excited to confront it, or see him. No, that was a lie. I was very excited to see him, not that I would ever admit it, but I was far more reluctant to again be reminded of how he’d rejected me. It would happen though, so once I was showered, I dressed in a gray pencil skirt and cream-colored sleeveless blouse.
More formal than I would ordinarily choose for a day where I had no specific plans, but I might have visitors today to congratulate me on my wedding. Or, more precisely, to gawk at me and try to figure out what the marriage meant.
I’d handle them all without any problem.
The other reason for my attire, I was less sure.
Sergei had caught me unaware yesterday. I couldn’t have anticipated how brazenly I would react to him, but I should have been able to recover more quickly.
I hadn’t.
He had awakened parts of me that I wasn’t yet sure I could control.
But there were things I could control, my attire being one of them. If I looked like myself, the self I tried to project, I’d be better able to act like it, and that would better allow me to deal with Sergei.
I hoped.
I descended the stairs, listening for any sounds of life, though after the movement I’d heard this morning, there was now nothing but silence.
I entered the kitchen, could see that someone had been here, but no one was here now.
Deciding not to go looking for him, I instead headed toward the refrigerator and poured a glass of orange juice. This was so familiar, comforting. I could so easily picture my mother here, remember how she’d created a safe environment.
I could so easily picture my father here, remember how that safe environment could be destroyed with a single look from him.
Still, I loved this place, and valued it, but it wasn’t mine anymore. Wasn’t my mother’s. It was his, just as I was. I didn’t like that, but didn’t dislike it nearly as much as I should.
As if conjured from my thoughts, Sergei came into the kitchen. I’d heard nothing, didn’t even turn to look at him, but I felt his presence. It was like a disturbance in the atmosphere, a thing that couldn’t be seen but couldn’t be ignored.
I lowered the glass of juice to the counter, not trusting myself to hold it, and then, after a moment’s pause, turned to face him.
Felt that same kick of awareness, desire, that I had felt last night. Tried to chase it down with shame, and failed miserably.
Again, he seemed to know what I was thinking, gave me one of those quick smiles I’d already come to associate with him, annoyed at myself for associating anything that wasn’t misery with him, but doing so nonetheless.
“Good morning,” he said, his deep voice rasping through the kitchen and making me think the most inappropriate thoughts.
“Hello, Sergei,” I said, prim and proper.
He lifted one corner of his mouth. “Sleep well?”
“Of course I did. This is my home,” I snapped, before quickly going silent.
“Our home,” he corrected, still smiling, though I could see his unspoken order that I dare correct him, and could see even more clearly that he knew my anger was simply an attempt to cover my embarrassment.
He continued toward me, and on instinct, I stepped aside, though not quickly enough. I’d wanted to avoid contact, but he brushed past me, him warm, solid arm ghosting against mine and setting off a wave of shivers that was outsized for our minimal contact.
That had been what I hoped to avoid. Even now, confronted with the reality that my family home was no longer mine, that I myself was no longer mine, a bare, almost nonsexist touch had my stomach fluttering, body alive, ready. All because of him.
I watched him as he got his own glass of juice, eyes riveted by his precise movements, the way the strong column of his neck worked as he swallowed. Trying to look away would have been futile, but I could only hope my expression was one of displeasure and not fascination.