Page 29 of Night So Silent
The next thing I know, I wake up to the faint glow of morning light behind the curtains and an empty space next to me.
I remember Sergei saying he was leaving early to go into work. I hope his building is still standing and free from damage. I don’t know whether the storm wasthatbad, but still, that would really suck to deal with. Kind of like when a storm blew through last spring and the dead tree next to my driveway fell on my car and I didn’t discover it until I was already late for a conference. And just as I’m reflecting on my empathetic virtues, I suddenly remember what happened last night with abject mortification.
Did I really do that?
And what’s more, was the feeling of Sergei Mikhailov’s arm on my hip seriously enough to send me into fits of ecstasy?
To be fair, it was his hand on my—
Stop it!
Consumed by shame and humiliation, at least I have some time to come to terms with it before having to see him again.
After I get up and get ready for the day, I’m reminded how considerate Sergei is despite his stoic demeanor. I’m buttoning my red flannel shirt when I spy a plate on the dining table withwhat looks like crepes and sliced strawberries with jam on top. Where did he even get halfway decent strawberries this time of year? There’s also some kind of layered concoction in a dish next to it that resembles a parfait and looks absolutely heavenly. My mouth is watering. As if I couldn’t feel any more like a skeeze.
After breakfast, I pour a second cup of coffee and join Edie on the sofa to read for a while. I could get used to this new routine; breakfast laid out as soon as I wake up, a fresh pot of coffee, and the wood burning stove keeping the house toasty while I gaze out the floor to ceiling windows to a winter wonderland. But before I can open my book, my phone starts buzzing.
My mom.
We’ve been texting since I got here, but I should’ve known she can’t go more than two days without hearing my voice. I like talking to her—it’s our thing—but I can’t deny that I’ve enjoyed the solitude and the change of scenery. It’s also been a relief not to receive any more unsettling texts from Caleb. Maybe after his asinine man-tantrum, he got it all out of his system.
“How long have you known this guy?” my mom asks after I give her a full update, including the roads being blocked and the unknown airport status.
“His name is Sergei. And I met him when I arrived last week. But it’s fine, everything’s kosher.”
I’m the one that turned out to be a total perv.
“You should send me a picture of him.”
“Why?” I snicker. “So you have something to give the FBI if you don’t hear from me again?”
“No, but that’s a good idea. I was going to ask if he’s cute.”
There it is, my mom constantly on the lookout for a potential mate for me.
“Yes, he’s cute. In aLord of the Ringscrossed withWitchertype of way.”
“He looks like a hobbit?”
“No!He’s a giant Russian man.”
“Does he speak English? If not, that could work to your advantage.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know how argumentative you can be sometimes. You might get along better if he can’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Rude,” I sneer. “And yes, he can speak English. Just don’t hold your breath for him to smile on command.”
Promising to keep her updated on my travel plans, I finally settle in for a relaxing morning. I don’t even realize that three hours goes by before I decide to return to the kitchen to find something for lunch. And while I’m munching on a plate of fruit and some of the leftover soup from last night, it occurs to me that I should probably do something nice for Sergei since he let me crash at his house, going on 48 hours with no end in sight.
I glance around the room, still gloriously silent. I guess cleaning for him is futile because every room is already spotless. And cooking him dinner would just be performative because the man can already cook. However, his house is completely devoid of holiday decoration. Brett’s house looks like the North Pole threw up, but Sergei’s might as well be the President’s Day Sale at IKEA.
Then again, do Russians celebrate Christmas? I suddenly realize I’m completely ignorant of Russian customs and holidays. Maybe secular Christmas is safe, mixed in with wintry decor. I have no idea when Sergei will be home, but I need something to do and I’m also trying to avoid thinking too hard about what happened last night.
But it’s not like he has any craft supplies…
It’s alright, I like a good challenge and I have the time to get creative. When I look out the window, I realize that I have anentire mountain of foliage at my disposal. After procuring a pair of kitchen shears from the drawer as well as some twine, Scotch tape, printer paper, and aluminum foil, it looks like I have all the supplies I need for a very minimalist, Northern Christmas decorating fest. Now I just have to muster up the gumption to go out in the snow.
