Page 70 of Trust

“Hey,” I say, licking my dry lips. “I… I hope that was okay. I probably should’ve had you sign off on the pieces I wanted to play.”

“You were good,” Ilya says, patting me on the head. “The music created atmosphere.” He motions out to the restaurant. Most of the diners are dressed up nicely, with the soft lighting providing an intimate ambiance.

It’s nicer than the place Adam took me to.

No wonder Ilya was so quick to pay my bill, though. He knows what the restaurant business is like.

“They’ll remember the music when they think of their dates here.” Ilya laughs, and I wonder what the joke is. He doesn’t explain further though, and I don’t want to embarrass myself by asking.

“I hope they remember it in a good way,” I say, resisting the urge to edge closer to him even though I want nothing more than for him to wrap a strong arm around me.

“If it was a good date, yes.” Ilya smiles down at me. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

I’m surprised to realize that now that the initial stress of playing in public has faded, I am. I nod. “Thank you for giving me this chance,” I tell him. “I’m not taking a break for long, I promise. I only want to ease up from time to time so I don’t distract everyone.” I nibble on my bottom lip. “I hope that’s okay.”

“You are not distracting,” Ilya says firmly. “But take your time.” His phone buzzes, and he pulls it out to check the text he received.

It’s in Russian, again.

Ilya sighs. “I need to take care of this. Keep playing, Mishka.” He walks toward the back, where I know his office is.

How am I supposed to find anything out when everything is in Russian? This feels hopeless, but part of me doesn’t mind because it means I get to stay out here longer. I get to pretend to be someone with an identity, even if I don’t know what that means for me.

I return to playing, but this time I focus on the audience. For the most part, they’re not paying attention to me, though a few look over at me with smiles. It’s not the reaction I would’ve expected, but it’s welcome all the same.

I turn my attention back in full to playing, and this time, I slip from one piece to the next.

I stop only when I’m too exhausted to play more. My stamina is decent from the number of hours I spend playing, but this environment is different enough to where it isn’t the same.

This time, I put the cello back into its case and carry it to the break room to wait for Ilya to finish dealing with the business that had taken him from the restaurant floor.

One of the other servers finds me a few minutes later. He’s a tall Asian guy, with his hair in a neat side part.

“Oh, good. We thought you’d left already,” the guy says. He stops in front of me and holds out an envelope. “Here.”

Surprised, I take it from him, peering into it to see cash inside of it. “What?” I ask dumbly. “What’s this for?”

He grins at me. “Tips, of course! Some of the patrons asked us to give this to you. No one wanted to interrupt you to give it to you directly.”

“But I wasn’t doing anything special. You and the others should take it and split it,” I tell him, trying to push the envelope back to him.

He steps out of the way. “Nope. That was your hard-earned money. Take it.”

I can’t deny that I want the money, so I don’t fight him. “I… Thank you.”

“No problem.” The server waves.

My eyes land on his arm. There are several dark marks along his arm, close to where he’s rolled up his sleeves.

It’s impossible to mistake them for anything other than what they are: track marks, and the bruising around them makes them look recent.

I wonder if my family supplies him.

I wonder ifIlyasupplies him.

“Thanks again,” I mumble, looking quickly away.

That’s what I always do, isn’t it? Look away, pretend there’s no problem, go about my life as though nothing’s wrong at all.