Page 27 of Sin Wager
"Is there?"
I hand him the cup and settle into the chair beside his bed. Through the doorway, I can see our father moving around the kitchen, opening and closing cabinet doors. He's been restless lately, prowling the apartment whenever he's home from work, as if constant motion can somehow fix what's wrong with our family. I can tell he carries this on his shoulders too much, and I worry that my nights away and extra hours are pressing on him too much now.
"Batya's worried," Elvin observes, following my gaze.
"Batya's always worried," I tell him, but I see the tension in his shoulders and I know Elvin's right. This is more than normal worry.
"Not about me. About you."
I take a sip of tea and study my brother's face. Even weakened by treatments, he sees too much. "What do you mean?"
"You've been different. Distracted. And you're wearing new clothes." He gestures at my blouse, a soft blue cotton I bought last week after my dinner with Misha. He said I could buy nice things for myself. I felt guilty, but don't I deserve this with how hard I work to help my family? "Nice clothes."
Heat rises in my cheeks. "I can buy myself nice clothes." The justification feels weak. I have no way to explain the sudden splurging without making them afraid. Misha is harmless, but they will never see it that way.
"You can, but you usually don't. You save every kopeck for my treatments and Batya's medicine." His expression grows serious. "What's going on, Vera?"
Before I can answer, our father appears in the doorway. Anatoly Kovalenko fills the frame with his broad shoulders and worker's hands, but there's a gentleness in his movements as he approaches his son's bedside.
"How are you feeling today?" he asks Elvin.
"Better… Stronger too… Vera made tea." Elvin's face hides every trace of the skepticism he just showed me. He's a better liar than I am.
"Good. That's good." Batya's eyes shift to me, and I see the questions brewing there. "You're home early for a Saturday."
"I took the day off." I let one shoulder bob to dismiss his comment, but guilt knots my chest. A day off is somethingeveryone deserves, but I never take them. The money is too crucial for us.
"You never take days off."
"Maybe I should start." The words come out more defensive than I intend them to. Batya's eyebrows draw together, and I know he's reading between the lines, searching for explanations I'm not ready to give.
"I've been seeing someone," I say quickly, before the silence can stretch too long. The change in the room's atmosphere is immediate. Batya's back straightens, and Elvin sets down his teacup with renewed interest. I know Elvin's been encouraging me to cut loose a little, but he is naive. Batya, however, knows things are shifting. More money, fancy clothing, days off, my not coming home at night. It's adding up to things I know he won't like.
"Seeing someone?" Batya's tone has sharpened, carrying a protective edge. He has to watch out for his only daughter. "Who?"
"Someone from the track."
"One of those jockeys? Those boys who think they're hot shots because they can sit on a horse?"
"No, Batya. Not a jockey." My shoulders sag now, afraid to tell him the truth that I'm not even sure who he is. Just an owner with an eye for me.
"Then who?"
I wrap my hands around my teacup, using the warmth to steady myself. "He's older. Well-dressed. He's an owner…"
Batya's expression doesn't soften. If anything, he looks more suspicious. "How much older?"
"Does it matter?" I feel frustrated, a scowl creasing my forehead. Misha is perfect to me, maybe on the mature side, but he's right. Men my age don't respect a woman like me. I deserve someone who does.
"It does to me."
Elvin shifts against his pillows, and I can see him trying not to smile. "Let her talk, Batya."
"He treats me well," I continue. "Takes me to nice restaurants. Buys me things I need."
"Buys you things?" Batya's voice rises slightly. "What sort of things?"
"Clothes. Dinner. Normal things." My stomach feels like someone poured acid into it. His questions don't feel protective. They feel accusatory.
