Page 25

MIA

“Mommy! What color do I do the petals?”

I smile at my son, my arm held out like a coloring book. “How about blue?” I suggest.

Eli beams, picking up a cornflower shade eye pencil. “Look, Mommy, it’s like your eyes.”

“Then I’d say it’s perfect.”

Happy with his choice, Eli starts coloring in the petals on my tattoos. They’re small, insignificant drawings, but for some reason, my kid loves them. Loves turning them into little works of art with my makeup bag.

“We watched Bluey today at daycare,” he says. “It was that episode where…”

As he starts chattering off, I fix my gaze on my arm.

There are tiny flowers on them, with leaves popping in between.

A couple of stars, too, and suns and moons to match.

The center of the suns and the flowers is blacked in, but the rest is just line art, which makes them the perfect canvas for a child with artistic pursuits.

Underneath the ink, the scars have almost faded.

When I went to the tattoo shop, I’d just stopped breastfeeding. I was barely making it through with what I had, but a friend of a friend got me a discount.

It was a patient’s idea, actually. A young woman, no older than eighteen, who’d been admitted after a neighbor called the cops on her deadbeat live-in boyfriend. She kept insisting she was fine.

But I knew the signs.

So I opened up to her. With domestic violence victims, it helps to show them they’re not alone, that it’s okay to ask for help. I showed her my scars, told her their story, convinced her it didn’t have to be hers. That she could be free of her abuser the way I was now free of mine.

I hate that he gave you these scars, she told me later, as I was drawing her blood in preparation for the kind of kit no one ever wants to give. I hate that, one day, your kid’s gonna ask how you got them.

I’d already decided not to lie to my son then. He was only two years old, but soon, he’d grow.

Soon, he’d start asking questions.

So I went to this friend of a friend’s tattoo shop. I explained what I needed, why I needed it. She suggested this design: flowers, stars, suns, moons.

Good, happy things to hide the ugliness beneath.

The first time Eli asked about my arm, it was to know if he could color in the lines. I knew then that I’d made the right choice.

“Are you listening?” Eli scolds me, bringing me back to the present.

“Sorry.” I wince. “Might’ve gotten a bit distracted. Start again from the top, please?”

He gives me a full pout. “Maybe you should get tested for ADHD, too.”

I gasp. “Eli Joshua Winters, did you just sass me?” I tickle him until he squeals.

“I’m sorry, Mommy! Please, no more!”

“Fine,” I harrumph. “I’ll grant you mercy. But only because you might be right. After all, they do say ADHD is hereditary.”

“What does that mean?” he frowns. “Her—haradi?—”

“Hereditary?” I laugh. “Just that it’s a trait you get from your parents. Or grandparents.”

He pauses, lost in thought. “Did Daddy have it, then?”

Bang. Shot to the solar plexus. My heart aches the same way it always does. At times like this, the one lie between us weighs on me like a thousand of them.

“I don’t know, honey,” I say, and it makes me feel horrible. Even if it’s the truth. Even if it’s the best I can do for him.

He accepts my answer. When it comes to his dad, he always does.

“I wish I could ask him.”

“I wish you could, too.”

He goes back to coloring. I take a long, deep breath to keep my arm from trembling.

“Green for the leaves?” he asks after a quiet minute. “Or orange?”

“I think green. It’s still summer, isn’t it?”

“Good point.”

The grown-up way he says that makes me laugh. He gets it from the cartoons he watches—new phrases, new sayings, every day. I love that for him. I love seeing him grow, even in little ways like this one.

Soon, if Yulian’s advance comes through, he’ll be getting his new words from friends at school.

I watch him finish his masterpiece. He’s added little clouds in white highlighter pencil, and used lipstick to paint butterflies. Once, these scars were a symbol of my pain. Now, they’re my son’s favorite pastime.

Kids are gifted like that, aren’t they? Returning innocence where it was once lost, without even knowing it.

It’s why I have to protect him at all costs.

I can’t let Brad take away Eli’s innocence, too.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. “Yeah?” I call from the kitchen.

“It’s Boris,” my last remaining bodyguard announces in a thick Russian accent. “I have a package from the boss.”

The boss. I roll my eyes.

Right away, Eli’s eyes go wide. “It’s the Russian spy?”

“He’s not a spy,” I tell him. “He’s just… new security for the building.”

Not technically a lie, since he provides security for us, who live in the building.

“Why?” Eli asks.

“Because someone decided it.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes, adults make decisions without consulting anybody else.”

“Why?”

Because they’re rich, entitled, stuck-up assholes.

“Beats me, munchkin.”

I open the door. Boris looms there, a huge box in his hands. I can feel Eli shrink behind me, his little voice whispering, “He’s totally a spy.”

“I’ll take that.” I swipe the package from his hands as fast as I can. “Thanks, bye, take care!”

Then I shut the door.

“Open it, open it!” Eli starts jumping up and down excitedly. “I wanna see!”

I put it on my bed—the only surface large enough—and pop the top open.

Oh. My. God.

I thought the blue silk dress was stunning. I thought it was the nicest thing I’d ever touch.

But this, right here?

It’s fit for a fucking queen.

I lift it up, mouth agape. The sage chiffon flows smoothly down, cinched at the waist by a golden belt. It has a Greek neckline, with two rose gold circles tying the shoulder straps together.

It’s a dream.

It’s a fantasy.

It’s also mine now.

“That’s for you? ” Eli balks in dismay.

“Unless you want it,” I shrug. It won’t do to let Eli see how shocked I am—he needs to think this is normal. No need to let my four-year-old son know about the big, bad wolf who pays the bills now.

Eli puts a hand to his chin and tilts his head to the side.

“I think it’s too big for me,” he decides solemnly. “Look, there’s shoes!”

I follow his gaze and realize he’s right. At the bottom of the box, there’s a set of matching heels in rose gold, along with a smorgasbord of glistening jewelry.

Then, beneath it all, a note.

Saturday, 8 P.M. Don’t be late.

I roll my eyes. I can practically hear his bossy voice as I read it.

Which reminds me: I still haven’t sent proof of life today.

Ever since our contract began, I’ve been taking pictures at the end of every shift, adding in a copy of today’s paper out of spite like I’m a hostage victim.

They weren’t good selfies, not in the slightest. Eye bags, dirty scrubs, messy hair, the whole shebang. Was it on purpose?

Little bit, yeah.

But now, perhaps because of this gorgeous dress in my hands, I’m feeling generous. Call me a material girl, but I haven’t held something this nice since that blue silk gown was thrust into my hands over a month ago.

So I hold up the dress, flash a grin, and take the snap .

Got your package.

Then I hit send.

I’m not expecting a reply—there’s never been one—but this time, a tiny bubble pops up at the bottom of the screen. My breath stays caught in my chest until…

Good. I’ll expect you to wear it.

Before I can think better of it, I fire back, Say please.

It’s a dangerous game, pushing Yulian’s buttons. But I can’t help myself. That cool, icy composure—I want to see what happens when it melts.

His reply comes even faster than before.

I don’t beg.

But you’ll thank me later.

“Right.” I roll my eyes. “Yessir.” How he manages to be this bossy even through text, I’ll never know. Though I hate to admit, he’s right—this dress is making me feel very grateful. Leave it to Yulian to have great taste in women’s fashion.

I’m about to pocket my phone when, unexpectedly, another text comes.

P.S.—Check your bank account.

With my heart in my throat, I do.

I click on the app. I put in the password. I wait for the home page to load.

And then I see it.

One hundred. Thousand. Dollars.

Dizzy, I lean on my dresser for support. There’s no way I’m reading it right—there must be a mistake. Either my eyes are starting to go, or my mind is.

But no matter how many times I refresh the page, those zeroes stay.

It’s double what I asked. It’s more than I’ve ever had all at once. It’s…

Kind. I realize that suddenly. This is Yulian’s way of being kind.

Warmth seeps into me. Slow, gradual, undeniable. A thrill fills my chest, the kind you get when luck finally turns your way. When you can let go of that pent-up breath you’ve been holding all your life.

Then I see the transfer note.

To prove how serious I am. —YL

They’re my words. My own words, staring right back at me in Yulian’s curt, bossy style.

“I want an advance,” I’d told him, gathering up all the courage I never had. “To show me how serious you are.”

And there, right there, is the answer.

He’s serious. He’s so fucking serious. He isn’t conning me, isn’t having a laugh at my expenses, isn’t toying with the girl next door.

He’s…

Committed.

To me.

I sit down on the bed and stare into space.

It’s just business, I repeat in my head like a mantra. This thing with Yulian is just business. See that ridiculous amount of money? That’s proof.

“Mommy?” Eli’s tiny voice breaks me out of my reverie. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I rasp. “I’m fine. More than fine, actually.”

Because, finally, I can take care of you.

Eli hauls himself onto my knees. He peers up, his curious gaze boring into mine. “Are you crying?”

“No,” I sniffle, drying my eyes. A little white lie. “Mommy’s just really happy right now.”

“Because of the dress?”

“Yes,” I laugh. “And because of you. You’re the best kid in the world, you know that?” I ruffle his hair.

“Stop,” Eli laughs, “it tickles!”

“Say, what if we went out to dinner?” I whisper conspiratorially. “Just the two of us.”

His face lights up. “Are we getting pizza? Or ice cream?”

“How about we get both?”

While Eli runs excitedly around the house, chanting “Ice cream and pizza! Ice cream and pizza!”, I text Yulian back.

Thank you, I type, even though it’s not nearly enough. Seriously.

Before going out, I snap another selfie.

Going for pizza AND ice cream!

I don’t expect him to text back at all, but he does.

Careful, kotyonok. Gratitude looks good on you.

Those words make me dizzy all over. I remind myself of every reason this means nothing: the transactional nature of our relationship, Yulian’s wild mood swings that make it impossible to tell what he’s really thinking, the vow I swore to myself.

No more men.

No more mess.

No more scars.

And no more falling where no one will catch me.