Текст книги "Delayed Penalty"

Автор книги: Sophia Henry

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“Awesome. Thanks. Oh, I have a job, so is it okay if I check my schedule and let you know when I can be back?”

“Are you kidding me?” Aaron asked. “You know this takes time and dedication, right?”

Geez, I thought I’d won that dude over.

“I wasn’t trying to be a jerk,” I explained. “I just got cut from the soccer team and I have to have a job because I lost my scholarship.”

“Damn,” Josh said, grabbing a black hoodie off the chair next to me.

“Yeah, well—” Aaron’s eyes lost some of their fighting flare. “See you later, Auden.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Josh said.

I climbed the steps two at a time, pushed the door open, and held it for Josh, who was on my heels.

“Holy shit. I’m in a band,” I said, unable to contain my excitement.

“Welcome to the jungle.” Josh cupped a hand around his cigarette and flicked his lighter multiple times to unfavorable results. The blustery winds wouldn’t let up, so I stood in front of him to shield the next gust. “You’re a kick-ass girl,” he said, turning his head and blowing the smoke away from me.

“Gotta take care of my boys.” I winked and skipped to my car.

Very rock and roll.

Soccer. A band. It was all the same to me. And it felt damn good to be part of a team again.

Chapter 6

“Soccer. Kerby Field. Pick you up in ten minutes,” Drew ordered when I answered the phone the following morning.

“It’s out of your way. I’ll just drive over there,” I said, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder, crawling to shut my bedroom door.

“I’m going through Auden withdrawals,” he whined.

“Okay. I’ll be ready.”

Drew Bertucci and I went to elementary school and high school together. One of my favorite childhood memories was riding our bikes to the sports store three blocks from my house to buy hockey cards when one of us would come in to some birthday or holiday cash. Our friendship survived even after I’d made a fool of myself by writing him a note asking if he wanted to be more than friends.

The lesson: Don’t write down your feelings about a guy. And if you do, don’t ever share them with him. Unless, of course, your heart is made of rubber and you can bounce back from the embarrassing backlash unscathed.

I traded my pj’s for a Liverpool F.C. T-shirt and soccer shorts, then pulled black warm-ups over that. After shoving my cleats and shin guards into my duffel bag, I threw it over my shoulder and wandered into the living room to wait for Drew.

Grandpa was lounging in his recliner when I dropped my bag and parked myself into the chair across from him.

“What are you doing with that?” Grandpa asked, eyeing my soccer duffel.

Evidently, when you’re cut from a team, you can never play that sport again.

“I’m heading over to Kerby to play with some kids from high school.”

“What kids?”

“Drew and the hockey guys,” I answered, knowing my answer would end Grandpa’s interrogation. Drew was on the approved-friends list because our families had known each other since our parents were in high school.

When I heard the three quick honks signaling Drew’s arrival, I grabbed my gear and ran out the door, calling goodbye to Grandpa over my shoulder.

“Hey, Drewseph!” I said, sliding into the passenger seat of his faded red SUV. Drew came from a large Italian family where everyone was a Joseph, except him.

“What’s up, Aud?” Drew asked, alternating looks over his shoulder and in his mirrors as he backed out of the driveway.

“Not much.” I shrugged. “Just working. Viktor set me up with a job for the month.”

“Translating The Communist Manifesto?”

I laughed. Drew knew all about my previous projects. “No. He let me work with a real person this time. I’m a translator for a hockey player.”

“Really? Who?” Drew, a hockey player himself, had taken the college route. He chose State for their Landscape Design program.

“Aleksandr Varenkov from the Pilots.” I kicked an empty water bottle rolling back and forth on the floor.

“No way.” Drew glanced at me.

“Way,” I replied, happy to be around a friend I’d known so long that we had inside jokes. When we were in eighth grade, we’d had a movie marathon. Since neither of us could drive, we had to choose movies from his dad’s collection. We’d picked Wayne’s World, Tommy Boy, and Billy Madison. Absolute classics. People still quoting them today is totally understandable.

“I heard he’s—” Drew began.

“Douchey?” I supplied.

Drew snorted. “Exactly.”

“He’s not so bad. I’ve learned how to rein him in.”

“I bet. He’s got a reputation with you ladies.”

“Oh my gosh, Drew! That’s not what I was talking about.” I smacked his thigh. “I meant, Viktor will kick his arrogant Russian ass if he steps out of line.”

“Okay, good. I don’t want to hear that you were one of his conquests.”

“He knows I’m not a bunny.”

“You’re a hot girl hanging around hockey players. To them you’re a bunny.”

Frowning, I gave Drew a sidelong glance. “For my job,” I emphasized.

“Don’t get involved with him, Auden.”

The big-brother role, which I’d appreciated every other time he’d played it, annoyed me now. Where did he get off trying to interfere in my dating life? I held back my anger, as I always did with my friends. I didn’t have very many, so there was no reason to rock the boat with the close ones I had.

“You don’t have to worry about that. I called him out in the locker room in front of his team. It was in Russian, but I think he got the point.”

“The bunnies say he’s a total dick afterward.”

“Oh! So this is really about you trying to hook up with Varenkov’s leftovers? No wonder you’re mad,” I joked, massaging his shoulder in an attempt to ease the tension between us.

“Just looking out for you.” He shrugged off my hand. And my comment.

“Thanks, Drewseph. I appreciate your concern,” I said, hoping my sincerity was apparent.

A few silent minutes later, Drew whipped his Explorer into a parking spot at Kerby Field.

Instead of following Drew toward the group of guys warming up near one of the soccer goals, I scouted out an empty patch of grass on the sideline near the white chalk line and sat down. The dry, brittle blades prickled my calves when I tugged off my warm-up pants. Though the ground was hard and frozen, the grass’s earthy scent was so ingrained in me, the memory of the smell alone brought me close to tears.

Being cut from Central State’s soccer team hadn’t been a hit only on my college finances. It majorly bruised my entire sense of self. Soccer, the one thing I excelled at and never gave up on, had been taken away from me.

Coach Tamber’s words still echoed in my head: There’s no easy way to put this, Berezin, but we’re gonna have to cut you. We’ve got some talented upcoming freshman, and we need to make room. Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t try to walk on next year. I just can’t hold your spot.

Or my scholarship. Or my pride. Or how I’d defined myself for the last fourteen years. See ya, Soccer Girl.

I should have realized my dismissal was imminent, having sat the bench for both of my two seasons on the team. Most players sat as freshmen, but when sophomore year came and went and I still hadn’t been subbed in, I saw the writing on the wall. Still, I hung on to that last optimistic thread of the severed rope I’d been grasping, hoping I’d get my chance. Was I the most talented player? No. But I worked my ass off and practiced harder than anyone on the team.

Shaking my head to dismiss the thoughts, I checked out the crowded field. Guys I’d known for years scattered across the grass. A few went to high school with Drew and me, but the majority were guys that Drew had played with on travel hockey teams. As the only girl who’d ever been invited to play, you’d think I’d have dates for the rest of the year. But no. None of the guys had ever expressed interest in me. Granted, I’d been shy in high school, but still, not one of them found me even remotely attractive?

No wonder I went boy crazy when I got to Central State.

A few feet away from me, a guy jumped up and down tapping the top of his ball in an alternating pattern, left foot then right foot. It was someone I hadn’t seen at the field before but recognized immediately.

Aleksandr, in all of his soccer-shorts-wearing, Mohawk-pulled-back-in-a-ponytail, ridiculously muscled glory. His thighs and calves alone were a testament to how much time he spent working out off the ice. As my gaze traveled upward, my mind flashed an image of his half-naked body. I blinked a few times as if that would erase the memory of the magnificent work of art under his shirt.

Without thinking, I ran up behind him and stole the ball he was tapping on.

“Hey!” Aleksandr called, looking up with narrowed eyebrows as I darted away. His annoyance faded, and he smiled. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I play with these guys all the time.” I waved to a guy I’d gone to high school with then spun around and passed the ball back to Aleksandr. “Who invited you?”

“Your twin.”

“Excuse me?” I didn’t have any siblings.

“Landon’s brother, Jason. He looks just like you.” He nodded to the circle of guys juggling balls. The one next to Landon Taylor had dirty-blond hair very similar to my color, but I couldn’t get a good enough glimpse to see if we had more similarities.

“Not mad at me anymore?” Aleksandr’s question caught my attention in time for me to see him send the ball back to me.

I stopped it with my left foot. “I’m over it. I just want to finish out the month.” Which was true. I’d taken Kristen and Gram’s advice to heart. His prank could’ve been a hundred times worse. I could handle a few more weeks of his immature shenanigans.

“You’re going to get back at me by kicking my ass out there, aren’t you?” He nodded to the field.

“Scared?” I asked. I can’t be sure, but I think I puffed out my chest—chimpanzee-challenge style.

“Stand down, Berezin.” Aleksandr held his palms up in front of his chest. “I deserve whatever you give me.”

“It’s all in good fun, Sasha,” I said, rocketing the ball at him. He jumped, and the ball bounced off his broad chest and onto the ground near his feet.

I’d be using the Russian diminutive of his name in public from now on. If anyone noticed that Audushka, the diminutive he’d created from my name, sounded like a feminine care product, they could tease him because his sounded like a girl’s name.

Aleksandr kicked the ball. I followed it as it sailed over my head and dropped in front of Drew.

“Game on!” Drew yelled. He gave Aleksandr an evil-eye assessment. It reminded me of an overprotective father meeting his daughter’s date for the first time, just before telling the poor kid he had a shotgun.

“That’s English for, I’m about to kick your ass out there,” I said to Aleksandr, then turned my back and darted to the other side of the field.

I wondered if any of the guys knew he understood English. Not that it mattered. They probably just figured that even a foreigner could pick up curse words and soccer slang.

“Good luck!” Aleksandr called to my retreating figure.

“I’m not the one who’ll need it,” I sang over my shoulder. Confidence was so easy on the soccer field. Out here, I ignored the ridiculous way my heart pounded around him.

The group divided into teams in a quick, militaristic manner. I would be playing opposite both Aleksandr and Drew. In any other situation in my life, I would’ve been timid and nervous about not having a friend on my team, but this was soccer. On the field, I stepped out of my body and ignored my hypervigilant, overanalytical mind. On the field, I talked trash and kicked ass. If Aleksandr thought he could beat me at my own game, he’d better think again.

It was an intense and fast-paced match. I played center midfield for the first half, setting up one goal and scoring another. I’d railed through the defense without having to throw any elbows, as I’d expected. This group played no-referee soccer. No red or yellow penalty cards. The boys never took it easy on me, which I learned the hard way the first time I’d played with them and left the field with a set of bruised ribs. The injury taught me to defend myself better and I learned a few dirty tricks.

In the second half of the game, I moved back to play defense. Despite both of my team’s goals in the first half, Aleksandr’s team had scored three against mine. The score held at 3–2 through most of the second half. We didn’t have a time keeper, so the game would end when both teams decided we’d played long enough. And my teammates weren’t finished yet.

Jason, the dirty blond that Aleksandr had called my twin, had taken my place at center mid. He booted the ball up the field to catch one of our forwards on the fly. Drew sprinted between the forwards, intercepting the pass, and soon he was in our zone, dribbling the ball down the field with a burst of speed and intensity. He passed the ball to a teammate on his left without even a side glance. The ball went out-of-bounds off the foot of our defender.

As I walked backward toward the goal, I noticed Aleksandr was my man to cover. We jostled for position as his teammate got ready to throw the ball inbounds. If I did nothing else the rest of the game, I would not let Aleksandr beat me. It didn’t look as if Aleksandr would let me win either. Fair enough.

When the ball came sailing inbounds, both Aleksandr and I jumped up to head it. I planted my hands on his shoulders, hoisting myself higher since my five-foot-four frame couldn’t beat a six-foot-tall man to the ball. After smacking the ball away with a brutal flick of my head, it sailed up the field and into the possession of one of my teammates. He was gone with a breakaway.

“That was bullshit,” Aleksandr said between labored breaths, as we jogged together up the field.

“All’s fair in love and war.”

“Which one is this?” he asked, lips tilting upward.

“War,” I growled, watching the play develop at the other end of the field.

“I disagree.” Aleksandr raced up the field, leaving me in the dust. Literally. He’d kicked up so much dry dirt as he sprinted, I felt like Pig-Pen.

My teammate missed the breakaway, at which point many of the guys started calling for the end of the game. Aleksandr and I walked to the side of the field together. I took a long swig out of my water bottle and offered it to him. Drew and a few other guys came over as well, teasing and congratulating one another. A few guys slapped me on the back or rustled my hair, welcoming me back and telling me they missed me.

It was irritating how little they cared about messing up my ponytail. I patted my hair down as if my palms held magical smoothing powers.

“Are you getting a ride home with your friend?” Aleksandr asked.

“Yep.” I pulled on my warm-up pants.

“Hang out with me. I’ll drive you home.” Aleksandr dragged a tattered gray hooded sweatshirt over his head. On the upper-left chest, there was a small red flag with a yellow hammer and sickle below a star in the left corner.

“You know the Soviet Union is no longer, right?” I joked, rubbing the goose bumps on my arms beneath my warm-up jacket.

He looked down at his chest and laughed. “It was my father’s.”

“Daddy-o still stuck in the Soviet era?”

“No. He’s dead.”

“Oh my gosh, Sasha, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun of it.” The silly smile slipped from my lips—it had to, so my foot would fit in.

“It’s okay.” He grabbed both of my hands and tugged me to my feet. “It’s the most comfortable sweatshirt and it makes me think of Papa.”

“I understand,” I said. “I have an old softball shirt of my mom’s. The fabric is so thin, you can see straight through it now, but I love it.”

“Can you wear it to the next game?” The skin around Aleksandr’s eyes wrinkled with his smile.

“With anyone else I would be totally embarrassed right now,” I admitted. My brain jotted a mental note to wear the shirt next time I’d be around Aleksandr outside of the arena. Then I mentally smacked my brain upside the head.

“But not with me? Why not?”

“I’m used to your sense of humor.”

“Are you sure that’s it? Maybe you just want to parade around me in a skimpy top.”

His teasing, but true, comment struck a major embarrassment geyser, because I felt a burst of fire to my face. Drew interrupted our conversation before I mustered a weak verbal protest that Aleksandr would have never believed.

“Ready, Aud?” Drew asked. He jumped up and down to keep warm, and just looking at him in his sweat-soaked gray T-shirt and blue soccer shorts sent shivers through my warm, covered limbs.

I knew I should catch a ride with him, because staying with Aleksandr would get me into trouble.

“I’m gonna hang with Aleksandr,” I said. “He’ll give me a ride home.”

“Auden?” Drew’s voice lifted, scolding me like I was a child.

I shooed him away with a wave of my hand.

“Fine.” Drew shook his head and knocked into Aleksandr’s shoulder as he blew past him.

“Should I let that go?” Then, without waiting for an answer, Aleksandr nodded to himself. “Yes, I’m just gonna let that go.” He watched Drew jump into his Explorer and slam the door.

“I have protective friends,” I said as if that was an explanation for Drew’s rude behavior.

“He’s just a friend?”

“So, you guys won last night.” I ignored his question.

Aleksandr chuckled. “How did you know?”

“Read it in the paper.”

“I like that you keep track of me when I’m on the road.”

“All part of the job,” I assured him.

We traded the grass of the soccer field for a wood-chip-covered playground. A tall metal slide loomed in front of us. A swing set with six black U-shaped seats swaying in the wind sat empty a few feet away from the slide. I dropped my duffel bag on the dirt and claimed one of swings. I took a few steps backward to push myself off, but I didn’t get a good start. Strong hands on my back propelled me forward. Aleksandr gave me a few more pushes so I could get moving.

Sailing through the air with the wind against my face was magical. No matter how long I lived and how jaded I became, I hoped I could always appreciate a good swing. Forcing myself higher and higher by using the pumping power of my own legs was liberating.

“I’m sorry I embarrassed you the other night. I thought I was being funny.” Aleksandr’s voice interrupted my childlike euphoria.

“It’s fine.” I dragged a foot in the wood chips to slow me down. “I blew it out of proportion. Sorry for yelling at you in front of your team.”

“I deserved it.”

“No you didn’t. What I did was totally unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional, of course,” he said, a wry smile on his lips.

“This is the first time I’ve ever gotten to work with a real person. Grandpa always had me translating documents before. I just want to prove I’m good enough.”

“Good enough? You speak Russian better than Gribov.” Aleksandr laughed.

“Don’t even talk about that guy.” I shuddered at the memory of Aleksandr’s teammate’s toothless sneer and rude gesture.

“A woman who doesn’t want to talk about Pavel Gribov? Can’t wait to tell him.”

“He was mean to me for no reason. I don’t even know what I did to piss him off.”

“Maybe because you don’t stare at him in the locker room. Most women want to see Gribov naked. He gets fan mail about it.”

“I don’t stare at anyone.” I didn’t want him to think I was a perv.

“Not true.”

“Who, I—” I started, but realized he was talking about himself and chuckled. “When he has his teeth in, Gribov is hot. But I know some hot guys who aren’t nice people. Now all I see is the ugly. It works the opposite way, too.”

“Which one am I?”

“Attractive. Inside and out.” I couldn’t lie to him.

“Whoa!” Aleksandr sat up straight on his swing. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

“Yeah, but I still have to figure out how to get back at you,” I teased.

“Wasn’t wearing that black dress punishment enough? I need to keep my pants on when you’re around.”

Just to make sure I hadn’t missed something, I dropped my eyes to his legs, which were covered in a pair of gray fleece warm-up pants.

“My hockey pants, I meant. I’m not usually excited by things in the locker room, you know? And my hockey pants keep, uh, things hidden.” He must’ve noticed my eyes widen after his unconventional compliment, because he kept talking. “Did you ever audition with that band?”

A flustered subject change from the cocky jock. Any other time, I’d take that as a win, but knowing I’d gotten him hot and bothered in the locker room was having a similar effect on me right now.

“I did. And I made it.”

“That’s awesome.”

“Thanks.” I took a deep breath and caught his eyes. It was my turn to apologize. “I’m sorry I made fun of your sweatshirt. I didn’t know about your dad.”

“No worries, Audushka. How could you know?” He smiled, but his eyes lost their shine. “What about you? What happened to your parents?”

“What about them?” I crossed my arms in front of my chest. Talking to guys about my parents was unchartered territory. I’d never felt comfortable enough with anyone I’d dated to tell them that my grandparents raised me. Hell, I’d never dated anyone long enough for that conversation to come up.

“You live with your grandparents and you said something earlier about having an old shirt of your mom’s. ‘Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in their own way.’ ”

“Could you be any more stereotypically Russian? Quoting Tolstoy, drinking vodka, playing hockey.”

He laughed. “Don’t be jealous because Americans can’t quote great literature like Russians can.”

“My dad ditched me before I was born and my mom was killed in a robbery when I was six,” I blurted. Dropping the traumatic bomb of my childhood would push him off his high horse and get him off my tail. Except, I wasn’t sure that’s what I wanted.

“Shit! I’m sorry, Audushka.” Aleksandr’s expression softened.

I was used to the look his face held: a crease between his eyebrows, droopy puppy-dog eyes, lips in a solemn line. I hated pity.

“Don’t worry about it.” I shrugged. “It’s been a long time.”

“Did they find the person who killed her?” Aleksandr asked.

I locked eyes with Aleksandr. You’d think the question would be routine, but it wasn’t. Most of my friends would shut up and change the subject when I talked about my mom’s death. After years of fielding the “Why do you live with your grandparents?” question, I usually felt so desensitized when I told the story that most conversations sounded as if I was reciting a rehearsed script.

“I don’t think so. I doubt anyone is even working on it anymore.” Murders were a dime a dozen in Detroit. My mom’s was a freezing cold case by now.

“Never having any justice, any closure, has to be frustrating for you.”

“I used to believe that the police would find her killer and my life would go back to normal, but that’s not how it works. The damage has been done.” I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. “I have to live with a bad decision someone else made and hope karma really does exist.” An empty, bitter, and completely inappropriate laugh escaped my lips.

“My parents were killed,” Aleksandr murmured, reaching out to brush a strand of hair out of my eyes and tuck it behind my ear. “I wish I could believe some force in the world will provide justice.”

“They were?” I bolted upright, backing out of his reach. “I’m, geez, I’m so sorry.”

“It was a car accident,” he clarified. “The traffic in Moscow is bad, um, heavy, yes? They were taking back roads trying to get somewhere faster. A bus turned onto the side street they’d taken and hit them head-on. They had no chance.”

I didn’t know what to say, since I’d never been around another person who’d lost both of their parents in such a tragic way. So I followed his lead. “You didn’t get closure either. You never got to say goodbye.”

“No.”

“Are you okay?” I leaned toward his swing. My fingers were stiff and alert in case I had to brush away tears.

“I am Russian. Cool head, blazing heart,” he responded, tapping his temple, then his chest. He shook his head and gazed into the distance.

Forcing myself to focus on deep breathing, so as not to ruin the tranquility of the moment, I folded my hands in my lap. Silence meant I wasn’t telling him something foolish that I would regret later. It was comfortable to sit there with him.

There was a faded yellow stain a few inches below the frayed crew neck of his sweatshirt. I imagined a young Aleksandr and his parents eating lunch at a picnic table in a park, with the magnificent onion domes of Saint Basil’s Cathedral looming in the backdrop. The Varenkovs are feasting on hot dogs and potato chips. His father raises his hot dog to his mouth, and a dollop of mustard falls onto his favorite sweatshirt. Aleksandr and his dad laugh as his mother tries to blot it away, warning her husband that the stain will be there forever. Mr. Varenkov just smiles and says it will be a constant memory of the wonderful day he’s had with his family.

“Do you think about your mom a lot?” Aleksandr asked, interrupting the fake memory I’d conjured of his family. A memory that highlighted how American I was, even in fictional day dreams, since I doubted that Russians sat in Moscow’s city center eating hot dogs and potato chips.

“Probably more than I should,” I admitted, which was true. I was a pro at constructing grandiose memories about other people’s families because of how often I did it for myself. I’d imagined myself and my awesome mom on countless fictitious adventures over the years.

“What do you mean?” he asked, turning to face me, his head cocked to the side. Strands of hair had fallen out of his ponytail during the game and were now hanging over his eyes. It didn’t mute the intensity of his gaze.

“It’s been fourteen years and I still think about her all the time. I should get over it, but I can’t. I can’t let it go. I can’t stop thinking about how she left me.”

“She didn’t leave you, Audushka. She was taken from you.”

“I was with her in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Kids aren’t allowed, but I wouldn’t leave her, and I made her tell me she wouldn’t leave me. She promised me she wouldn’t leave me.” As I rambled on, tears I never expected to show him—or anyone—gushed over my cheeks. “I know she didn’t leave on purpose, but tell that to a six-year-old. All I’ve ever known, all I can remember, is being left.”

So much for comfortable silence.

Aleksandr jumped up, pulling me off my swing and into his arms. His breath was warm as he whispered “Shh” into my hair. A normal girl would snuggle into his strong, warm arms and let him hold her, but I wasn’t a normal girl. I was completely messed up. So messed up that I spilled my life story to a guy I liked but wouldn’t allow myself to get close to.

“And now I don’t remember her at all, Sasha. I don’t remember her voice or her smell, not even what she looked like. I don’t remember one single moment with her. It’s like my brain has blocked out my entire life with her.” My shoulders shook as the horrible thoughts that plagued me throughout my childhood spewed with no filter.

“It’s okay,” Aleksandr whispered as he rubbed large circles across my back with the palm of his hand.

“Have you ever seen that eighties movie Pretty in Pink?” I asked and lifted my eyes to his. He shook his head. “There’s one character who talks about a friend of hers who didn’t go to prom. She felt like something is missing. She checks her keys, counts her kids, then decides nothing is missing and blames it on the fact she didn’t go to prom.” I paused, imagining how stupid this comparison sounded to Aleksandr. “Some days I wake up and think something’s missing. I check my keys. I check my wallet. Nothing is missing. Except my mom. She will always be missing. And no one understands.”

“What about your grandparents?”

“Yeah, right. All I’ve been is a horrible burden to them. They should have been able to enjoy their retirement, but they couldn’t because they had to raise me.”

“Your grandparents knew what they were doing when they took you in.” He squeezed me tighter.

“But should a child have to feel like a burden?” I asked. “To live life believing that nothing is permanent? Believing everyone I love will leave me someday? Is that what my life is supposed to be like?”

I was relieved that my face was buried in his chest, so he couldn’t look at me.

“No, Audushka.” Aleksandr stroked my hair. “No one should ever have to live through what you have. You aren’t alone anymore. I know what you’re going through, what you’re feeling. Talk to me. Lean on me.”

“Oh geez! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking selfish.” I elbowed out of his arms and covered my face with my hands. Aleksandr pulled me back immediately, enveloping me in his safe, strong arms as I shook.

“You’re angry and lonely. It’s okay to show your feelings. It’s okay to be scared and upset. We’ll get through it,” he assured me, rubbing my back.

I willed myself to stay in the safety of his arms, but my confessional outburst and psycho water-works display embarrassed me so much that my body stiffened, and I wriggled myself out again. I stumbled away, covering my face with my hands and wiping away tears and snot. I had only gotten a few feet when I heard his footsteps running to catch up.

“I’ll take you home.” He put a warm, strong arm around my shoulders, giving me a slight squeeze.

I wanted to hug him back, but the tension refused to release its paralysis of my body.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, watching the leaves shrivel under my feet with every step I took.

Our ride was silent, with the exception of the directions I provided between snot sniffs and hiccups. When Aleksandr pulled into the driveway, he shifted the Jeep into park and killed the engine.

“I’m here if you want to talk. You can always call me.” Aleksandr rested his hand on my leg.

My body went rigid, and I grabbed the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

Just as I was about to escape from an emotionally intimate situation I wasn’t ready for, Aleksandr grabbed my forearm. My head snapped toward his and I met his eyes, but I held my tongue. He moved his hand to my face and stroked my temple with his thumb.

“Whenever I start the car, I see my parents’ accident,” he whispered. “I see it happening to me. Every time I turn the key something bad could happen, but I still drive.” Aleksandr removed his hand from my face and twisted the key in the ignition, revving the Jeep to life. “I can’t change the past. Can’t escape the fear. But I can’t let that fear paralyze me. Sometimes you have to take a chance.”