–Courtney: Love! That’s great!
Amusement and contempt twine like snakes inside me. It shouldn’t have taken this long for you to type three little words, Courtney. Was the declaration of love such a shock?
–Me: He’s perfect. I didn’t know multiple orgasms were real until now.
–Courtney: Wow. I’m thrilled. So tell me about him.
–Me: He makes me happy. And whenever I’m with him, I think of the future. Like, wedding and babies. I think I deserve it after eight years. Don’t you?
I puff, enjoying the cigar. Angelika’s now on her fifth latte. Is she trying out a new recipe? I thought those fancy drinks were more or less all the same.
–Courtney: Incredible. Just incredible. You know who you have to call to be your maid of honor!
–Me: I can’t impose like that. You live so far away.
–Courtney: Not for my best friend! Besides, I’ve always wanted to visit L.A. You’re still at the same place, right?
Oh? Did Roy ask you to find out where Angelika has gone? It doesn’t take a genius to know her garage apartment is empty. I never made any attempt to hide the fact that she doesn’t go there anymore, and she doesn’t know enough to think about that. She’s too drunk on her current good fortune. As well she should be.
–Me: No, I moved in with my guy. It’s for the best. Safer, too. He makes me feel protected.
I hope she films Roy’s reaction when she shows him these texts and sends me a copy. It would be very entertaining.
–Courtney: Good for you! He must be special.
Oh, I am—specially skilled.
–Me: He is. We even work at the same place.
–Courtney: The café?
–Me: No. At a charitable foundation. It’s amazing.
I don’t give her more information. It wouldn’t be like Angelika to go into that level of detail. But it should be enough for Roy to figure out. If not, I will be disappointed.
–Courtney: Sounds cool. Listen, I gotta go. Boyfriend’s calling.
You mean you have to run to Roy and tell him everything…
–Me: Okay. Have fun.
–Courtney: You too!
I put the phone away and finish my vodka.
Angelika lets out a frustrated groan.
“What’s wrong?” I stand up and make my way to the kitchen. Six lattes.
“I can’t do it. This is so frustrating.” She throws her hands in the air. “I’ve been practicing for weeks!”
Her reaction is out of proportion, but since making lattes seems to be important to her, I decide to make an effort to calm her down. “It’s just some latte. Nobody cares that much.” I certainly don’t.
“It’s not the latte. It’s the art!”
I look down. Each cup has some kind of picture created with milk on top of the coffee. They seem fairly good. “Are you trying to put them on your social media account?” Last time I checked, she doesn’t have anything like that, but she could’ve made one. I’m not opposed to the idea; it’ll upset Roy Wilks. And the more upset he becomes, the more reckless he will be…which means it will be easier to dispose of him.
“No. I don’t do social media. I’m trying to…” She blows out a frustrated breath, then gestures at the cups. “What do you think?”
I study them with a focus worthy of Monet or Picasso.
“They’re excellent,” I say after a moment. “This…hamster is quite good. Superb facial features.”
Angelika buries her face in her hands and collapses bonelessly onto the countertop. She looks like one of Dali’s melting clocks.
I look at the hamster face again. Is it supposed to be a squirrel? The cheeks are fat… “Apologies. I meant squirrel.”
Her shoulders are shaking now. A low, pained sound tears from her throat.
She needs to quit making that sound. It’s…grating. “Chipmunk. I often get the animals mixed up.”
She finally lifts her face, which is red. “No! It’s supposed to be a Doberman! Like them!” She gestures at my dogs.
“A Doberman?” I look at the smiling foam creature, then look at Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky and Stravinsky, then back at the latte.
“I thought it’d be cool to make one for you. You said you’d like it.”
I did? I don’t remember. I must’ve said it off-handedly at some point. But admitting that would upset her, since she went through all this trouble.
“Ah, a pup,” I say, since the animal’s nothing like one of my dogs. It looks too young and cute. Like some friendly Disney woodland creature. “Stravinsky was like this when he was small,” I say, looking at the wide, innocent eyes the little fawn has created in the foam. It’s a lie. Stravinsky was far too feisty, with a tendency to bite, when he was a puppy. Mussorgsky schooled that out of him.
She sighs. “Never mind. I know it doesn’t look anything like your dogs.” She turns the cup around and studies her creation. “You’re right. It does look sort of…rodentlike.”
Her distress is uncomfortable. I should shrug off the discomfiture and help myself to another vodka, but somehow my feet refuse to move.
After a moment of struggle, I say, “At least it’s cute.”
“You think?”
“If you hadn’t said anything, I would’ve never known it was a failed Doberman.”
Her shoulders sag as she cups her face in her hands and stares at the lattes. So much moroseness in her eyes. Perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut.
I puff my cigar, since that’s better than shoving my foot in deeper.
“Do you think it’s even possible to do a Doberman?” she asks after a second.
Do I look like a connoisseur of latte art? “Most certainly,” I say, patting her back gently. “Just practice some more.”
An abrupt thought stills my hand. I’m behaving like she’s more than convenient bait. The fact that I don’t want her hurt physically, I can accept. After all, she’s a nice young woman. Lovely and entirely too trusting. But not wanting her hurt emotionally? That’s a completely different level, and not something I signed up for when I took her in.
But what disturbs me more is that I don’t find this new wrinkle horrifying. The only thing I’m feeling is a tight squeeze in my chest, where my heart is beating.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tolyan
I’m still deciding what I ought to feel about my sudden realization from last weekend. I wait for it to lessen, but it doesn’t. A factor that was never a part of my contingency plans is an unwelcome distraction.
The problem is that I can’t quite settle on what to do about it.
The only people whose feelings I care about are Lyosha and Lizochka. And I didn’t care about Lizochka’s until she offered to bring Lyosha to the U.S.—and kept her word.
The little fawn is going to help me fulfill my son’s tenth birthday wish, but the circumstances are nothing like with Lizochka. Angelika hasn’t done anything to earn that level of devotion from me.
So why is there this desire to care about her feelings? I try to methodically analyze what she evokes in me.
The innocent eyes that can fire up with rage—baffled amusement. What could she do with her little fists?