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MARGOT

Six years prior

T he boy’s name is Arseni.

He’s seventeen years old, was abandoned at birth, and has been through every group home in Vegas, as well as two stints in juvenile detention.

At one time or another, he’s been charged with vandalism, theft, and assault.

He doesn’t respond well to authority, especially from men, and has provoked fights with his last five foster fathers.

And he’s on his way to my house.

My heart beats rapidly as I make his bed for the fifth time, practicing the pronunciation of his name again and again.

The colors in this room, in his room, are neutral, but I secretly hoped I’d be placed with a girl.

Someone between the ages of eight and twelve.

I told the agency none of this. When they asked if I had a preference, I felt too guilty to say, so instead I let fate decide.

I could picture the daughter I’d one day adopt so clearly in my mind—blonde hair, a freckled nose, looking for love the same way I am. The same way I was when I was in her place.

Instead, they’re placing me with a son.

I stand up straight when I finish with the bed and look around at the blue walls covered with posters of cars and old rock bands. I lift my thumb to my mouth to chew on the nail.

When I was putting the posters up at one in the morning after panic buying everything boy-related I could think of, they seemed to give the room the masculine feel that would bring comfort to a seventeen-year-old boy.

I paired it with a peach candle and sheer curtains that I felt added balance and a pleasant smell.

Now with the morning light leaking through said sheer curtains, the room looks like a gross mashup of feminine and masculine energy.

When the doorbell rings, I jump, my nail ripping from my mouth. I spin toward the doorway but go to the candle instead to blow out the flame. Candle wax sloshes onto my finger as I jerk the jar too quickly off the dresser, and I end up dropping it on the floor, hot wax melting into carpet.

“Fuck,” I hiss, trying to shake the burning wax off my hand, but it’s already hardened.

The bell rings a second time as I stare wide-eyed at the carpet. I kick the candle beneath the bed and furiously wipe wax onto my jeans while hurrying to the door.

I throw it open with a smile on my face that feels too wide, my tight skin stretching to accommodate it.

My face almost droops when I register the far-too handsome kid standing behind the social worker I spoke to on the phone last night.

A garbage bag is thrown over his muscular shoulder, his chest expanded.

But it isn’t his toned body that stands out.

It’s his face, clear of any blemish or facial hair, a chiseled jaw and strong chin the only thing breaking an angelic look.

He looks caught between a boy and a man, long lashes framing the deepest chocolate brown eyes I’ve ever seen, as empty as they are deep.

He doesn’t return my smile.

“Hello!” I say, my voice embarrassingly high. “Angela, nice to see you again.” I hold my hand out to the social worker. The woman takes my sweaty, wax-caked palm as she smiles grimly. When she pulls away, she wipes her hand on her slacks and opens her mouth, but I interrupt before she can speak.

“And you must be Arseni.” I make sure to put emphasis on the second syllable of his name. It comes out slow and accented. Forced . I hold out my hand—my left this time—and am partially relieved when he chooses not to take it. His brows pinch together as he eyes me warily.

“May I speak to you in private for a moment, Ms. Stevens?”

My smile falters, but I recover it and nod. “Of course.”

Angela steps past me inside while Arseni stands in silence.

An awkwardness comes over me when I’m not sure if I’m supposed to just leave him on my porch or if I should invite him inside to check out his room.

I thought my memories were crystal clear, but I can’t remember a thing about adult procedures from when I was young. Did they leave me outside?

“Ms. Stevens?”

I shuffle backward and shut the door.

Angela stares at me with her lips puckered in a lemon-sucking way when I turn around.

“Ms. Stevens, I want to thank you again for allowing Arseni into your home. During your training, you learned that being a foster parent can be tough. They’ll test you beyond what you think you can handle.

But as I’ve said before, Arseni is a special case.

If he had anywhere else to go, anywhere at all , he’d be there. ”

My smile falls completely at that. I don’t think she meant it as insulting, but it curbs my enthusiasm, nonetheless.

“You’re going to want to regularly attend a support group with your fellow parents,” she continues. “Do you still have the information I provided?”

I nod. “I do, yes, and I appreciate your concern. I think I’ve mentioned that I’m familiar with the system?

” I wait only a moment to see if her memory will jog.

I don’t know what I expect. Maybe for her eyes to light up and for her fingers to snap.

Ah, that’s right. You’ll be just fine. I see now the boy is in good hands .

“I’ve seen it all,” I go on. “Some kids just need proof that you’re not going to abandon them. Trust me, I can handle a little boundary pushing.”

It’s fucking up his room that I can’t handle.

Or not being what he needs. Him sleeping in constant discomfort under a roof with yet another person who doesn’t understand him. Me creating the same environment that made me feel so utterly alone.

I don’t tell Angela any of this. I’d never admit my fears aloud.

Angela blinks but says nothing else. She walks to the front door and opens it up for Arseni. I don’t hear what she says when she speaks low into his ear, but I watch his blank expression to see if it’ll break. It doesn’t. Not until she says her goodbyes and leaves.

As soon as the door shuts, Arseni drops his trash bag of stuff by the entrance and tucks his hands into his pockets. He roams the room curiously.

“I’m so happy to have you here,” I say, my awkwardness returning. “I don’t know if Angela told you, but I’m Margot. I’ve heard so much about you.”

His lips lift into a smirk as he turns his head toward me. Like he knows exactly what was said. And not a thing was positive.

I’ve heard so much about you. Why the fuck would I say that?

He wanders over to the standing shelf next to the kitchen entrance.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, fidgeting with my hands. “I could make you something to eat. Or would you like to see your room? I wasn’t sure what you liked decor-wise, so it might not be your taste, but maybe later we could go to the store to?—”

“You said your name is Margot?” he interjects. His voice is perfectly balanced. Smooth . It makes my chest flush from embarrassment at how nervous I am. I’m supposed to be the source of calm, not him.

I take a moment to even my breathing before I respond. “Yes.”

He picks up the framed drawing of my mother’s from the shelf, and I bite my tongue to keep from asking him to be careful. I should’ve put it away before he arrived.

“Mar-got,” he repeats, my name slow and enunciated coming off his tongue.

My earlier struggle with his name feels so ridiculous now that my shoulders hunch.

It strikes me that he has no trace of a Russian accent because duh , he wasn’t raised by Russian parents, but still, I don’t know what I expected.

“Are you an artist?” he asks.

“No, that was my mother’s. I’m an engineer.”

He sets the frame back on the shelf, relaxing tension in my shoulders.

“Can I tell you something personal, Margot? Would that be all right?” His words are timid, but his voice is silk. He has this glint in his chocolate eyes that makes my lungs pause.

“Of course. You can tell me anything. I want…” I shift my weight while thinking of the right words. “I want this to be a safe place for you.”

He looks around and nods. “I’ve never called anyone my mother before, but I don’t know, you seem … different,” he says, his voice low. Now he sounds timid. “You just look like you get it , you know? So would it be all right if I called you Mom?”

My mouth drops open, and I stumble on words before answering. “Y-yes. Yes, of course . I’m so happy you can see it because I really do understand what you’re going through. Before I was adopted, I spent years in the system, and I know what it’s like to?—”

“Can I give you a hug?”

A hug?

Already?

Suspicion settles in. This feels too soon. But I still nod.

“Of course.”

When he comes toward me, I get the urge to back up. His strut is a little too confident, his eyes run a little too low. I’m not sure if he’s staring at my breasts or my blouse. I glimpse down at my chest and spot an orange, waxy splotch. Small but noticeable.

When Arseni wraps his arms around me, I stiffen but manage to hug him back.

Part of me hopes he feels the discomfort I feel.

Hopes this is the last hug for a while. His palms run over my back as he sighs, and when his hands lower to my waist, I try to ease away.

Strong arms hold me in place and bring panic to the surface of my mind.

I try to pull away more forcefully but then freeze as his full lips press against my cheek in a hot kiss.

“Thanks, Mommy,” he whispers, the word charged with sexual energy.

He lets me go and steps back, a slow, evil smile lighting his face. It feels like our roles have been flipped because it’s me who doesn’t smile back this time.

I cross my arms over my chest and try to ignore my blistering cheeks.

The spot that he kissed me stands out among every other inch of flesh.

“I’m happy you’re comfortable, Arseni. I so badly want us to be comfortable with each other.

But as with any relationship, boundaries are important.

I think maybe just mom would be best, or if you aren’t comfortable with that, you can call me Margot. And as far as kissing goes?—”