Page 119 of Twisted Pact
“Maybe. When I’m ready to talk again. After I’ve had time to sort through everything you’ve said.”
“That’s enough. That’s more than I deserve.”
“Mama?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for explaining and being honest even when it made you look bad. I might not agree with your choices, but at least now I understand them better.”
“That’s all I can ask for. Take care of yourself, Mila. And take care of my grandchild.”
We say our goodbyes, and I end the call. The phone falls from my hand onto the bed beside me. I lie there staring at nothing and trying to process the tangle of emotions the conversation created.
Understanding doesn’t equal forgiveness, but maybe it’s a start.
32
Alexei
Mila pushes food around her plate without eating for the third night in a row.
I set down my fork and watch her poke holes in the mashed potatoes and stare as the gravy pours out like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. The conversation with her mother two days ago left her somewhere inside her own head where I can’t reach her.
“You need to eat,” I prompt for the second time in thirty minutes.
“I’m not hungry.”
“The baby needs nutrition whether you’re hungry or not.”
She drops her fork with a clatter. “Can we not do this tonight? The whole ‘you need to take care of yourself’ lecture is getting old.”
“Then stop giving me reasons to lecture.”
“Maybe I’d have an appetite if I weren’t living in a concrete tomb with no windows and armed guards outside my door.” She sweeps her arm toward the front door with a flourish.
I place my fork down gently and prompt, “Talk to me, Mila.”
She blinks a few times before she asks, “About what?”
“About whatever’s eating at you. Or maybe why you’ve barely said ten words to me since the call with your mother.”
She stands and carries her plate to the small kitchenette, where she scrapes most of the food into the trash. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been distant since that conversation. What did she say that’s got you so twisted up?”
“She said a lot of things. Most of them were about how I’m repeating her mistakes, and how loving a man like you in this world is a recipe for disaster.” Mila turns to face me with her arms crossed. “She thinks I should leave before the stress destroys me the way it destroyed her.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think I’m tired of everyone telling me what I should do. Papa says I should embrace this life. Mama says I should run from it. You say I should marry you for protection. Everyone has opinions about my choices except me.”
I stand and walk to where she’s standing. “I’m not trying to control your choices.”
“Aren’t you? Every decision you make factors in what’s best for me without actually asking what I want.”
“Because what you want and what keeps you safe aren’t always the same thing.”
She laughs humorlessly. “There it is. That paternalistic certainty that you know better than I do about my life.”
