Page 74 of Trust

Why do I care? When did things get so murky?

I’m reluctant to part from him, feeling beyond clingy even though I know we can’t stay like this for the rest of the night. Ilya pulls away and nods. “Do you need help with your cello?”

“Yes, please.” He’s always shown nothing but care with it, and he handles it more easily than I do.

I know he won’t treat it with anything less than care.

Unlike Adam.

Why do I keep comparing them?

It’s almost like my mind thinks there’s actually a reason.

Ilya carefully picks up the cello case, and he carries it to the back door like it weighs nothing at all.

I hold the door open for him and help him get it into the back seat of the car. Ilya lets out a small huff of air.

“You could have used the wheels,” I point out gently, bracing myself for a harsh reprimand.

Ilya laughs. “But there was the step. Wheels do not go over steps.”

That’s fair enough. I don’t point out that he could’ve used the wheels until he gottothe steps. There’s no sense in further inviting any sort of negative reaction. “Thank you,” I say. “For caring for him.”

Gendering the instrument reminds me of our first conversation, and it brings a wistful smile to my lips. I wish it had been a genuine meeting, not something I’d orchestrated at Adam’s behest.

We don’t speak as we drive back to his condo. I wonder about where he’d gone, what he’ddone, to end up so agitated.

It’s not my business, except it is.

I need to know, but I don’t want to know.

The first thing Ilya does when we get back to the condo is disappear into the shower. I listen to the water running and contemplate leaving despite it all. I have the tip money. That would get me a bus ticket or a train ticket to…

Well, to the hotel I’d already turned down.

Or out of New Bristol entirely.

It’s not much, and it wouldn’t get me far, but maybe other cities would offer new opportunities.

The cynical but realistic part of me reminds myself that I have nothing: no job history, no time to pack the clothes Ilya’s gotten for me, nowhere to go.

I hate it.

I hate the sense of helplessness I feel.

Adam’s still waiting for me, anyway.

He misses me.

He needs me.

I let out a slow breath then turn for the kitchen. I don’t know if he ate at the restaurant or not, but I dig through the fridge and pantry to look for something I can cook if it turns out he hadn’t. Caring for a man is something I know how to do, and if he relaxes with me, he might talk.

If he relaxes, I’ll be safe.

I’ve finished prepping a quick dish of pasta and a fried egg when Ilya returns, wearing a t-shirt and loose sweats. He’s still toweling his hair dry.

“Sorry,” Ilya says, and he sounds subdued. “I scared you.”