29
CORA
“Hi, Franny.”
The screen is black for a second longer before Francia appears. She’s holding the phone out in front of her, but as the call connects, she leans it against something on the table in front of her and sits back. “Can you talk?”
“Yeah. I was just—” Dodging Jorden’s questions and lying to our mutual friend. “I’m free. What’s up?”
“I talked to Jorden.”
“When?” I ask. “I was just talking to her.”
Are the two of them talking and putting the pieces together? Maybe I should find a way to tell them the truth if it will mean they stop looking for answers.
“A few hours ago. She told me what you told her. About the wedding. It would have been nice if you’d mentioned it to me.”
“I was going to tell you, Francia. I was. I just didn’t want to do it over text. It’s all happening so fast and I needed a second to process it. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.” She sags slightly. “I was freaking out earlier.”
“Probably because strangers were telling you you weren’t safe in your own apartment.”
She chuckles humorlessly. “That might have been part of it, yeah.”
“Are you okay now, though?” I ask. “I haven’t completely ruined your life, have I?”
“You haven’t ruined anything. This is not—” She frowns and leans towards her phone. “Where are you?”
“I’m in my room.”
“That’s not your room.” Francia shakes her head. “Turn the camera around. Give me a tour.”
I stay seated and quickly circle my phone around the room, too fast for her to really process. “It’s just a room. A nice room.”
“A really nice room,” Francia corrects. “When is the wedding going to be?”
“I have no idea. We haven’t really talked about it.”
We haven’t talked about anything. I’ve barely even seen my husband-to-be since we got here.
“I’m sure it will be soon. Ivan was looking for a wife, which means he’s ready to get married. Now that he’s chosen you, what’s the point in waiting? This kind of thing usually leads to a short engagement.”
“‘This kind of thing’?” I ask. “You make it sound like this happens a lot.”
“It isn’t so unusual for people in his tax bracket. It is unusual for someone like Ivan,” she says softly. “He’s the type who can marry whoever he wants. But I guess it took a special kind of woman to make him settle down.”
My face flushes. Not because Francia is right—but because some part of me wishes she was.
I wish I could be the kind of woman that would turn Ivan’s head. The kind that might make him think twice about settling down.
But this is all fake. I’m no one. All of this is nothing.
“How do you know Ivan, Francia?”
“I don’t know him.”
“Well, you were invited to his party,” I remind her. “How did you get on the guest list?”
“Oh…” She waves a hand dismissively. “That’s just one of those weird things. My family knows his family going way back. We still get Christmas cards from the Pushkins. I’m sure they invited everyone they know who had daughters.”
What I want to ask is: Do you know what a Bratva is? Is your family part of a crime syndicate? Have you ever seen a man die right in front of your eyes?
Instead, I ask, “How does your family know the Pushkins?”
“My parents have this, like, boutique firm and Boris Pushkin hired them years and years ago to represent him. He won his case and they stayed friends. More like acquaintances, really.”
“Your parents are attorneys?” I can practically feel the back of my neck tingle thinking about Ivan’s guards listening in on this conversation. Every detail feels like something they can use against my friends, some tally they can make as yet another reason to dispose of them.
“My dad is. My mom is a legal assistant. I am, too, actually,” she says. Then she tips her head to the side. “Technically.”
“Wait—you could work at a law firm, but you’re a waitress at Quintaño's?” As soon as the question is out of my mouth, I try to back track. “I mean, It’s a good job. I love it. I am just surprised. Don’t your parents need you at the firm?”
She shakes her head. “Not really. My position is in flux. If I was anyone else, they’d probably fire me. Since I’m their daughter, they keep me on retainer and pay me a reduced rate. It’s enough to live comfortably and the tips from waitressing are a bonus.”
“Oh. Well, that’s nice.”
“It has its moments,” she admits. “But they have a lot of…expectations of me. I’m not quite ready to meet them all yet. When I am, I won’t have time to pick up odd jobs and meet new people.”
All the hours I’ve spent working with Francia and even meeting up for drinks after work or at her apartment, I never realized how much we have in common. Or how much we could have in common.
I know what it’s like to be in the shadow of your family with no way out.
“I can’t believe we’ve never talked about any of this before,” I say.
It’s not that I haven’t asked. It’s that she has this amazing ability to wriggle out of any line of questioning.
She fidgets with the edge of the table. “Yeah, well, there isn’t a lot of time to talk when you’re waiting on a full dining room for five-percent tips.”
I groan. “Don’t even remind me.”
“Why not? It’s not like you’re going back to waitressing anytime soon.”
“Oh—Er, I guess not.”
“You guess not?” she asks.
I chew on my cheek before I remember I’m on video and slap on a smile. “Probably not. I just hadn’t thought about it yet.”
They are going to hate me when I waltz back into work in a few days and tell them this whole thing was a ruse. If I can even tell them that. To explain what Ivan and I are doing… It would reveal a lot about who he is, who his family is.
Maybe I’ll never be able to tell them the truth.
“Hmm. Well, if you’re as bored as I am, you probably have nothing but time to think.”
I wince. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” she says quickly. “I just don’t have a big, strong man to keep me company in here the way you do. I’m actually looking forward to going back to work.”
I don’t have a big, strong man to keep me company, either. So far, it seems like Ivan is doing his best to avoid me as much as I’ve been avoiding him.
“I’ll live vicariously through you two. What have you been doing? Do you have any plans?”
I want to make something up, but I can’t. Because I want it too much. A safe place, someone to love me, a world away from the running and scraping by I’ve been doing. I’ve seen enough to know Ivan Pushkin isn’t the knight in shining armor girl’s dream about, but for a broken girl like me, he feels awfully close.
My throat is closing up. Francia is staring at me expectantly, waiting for me to answer what should be a simple question, but I can’t find a single word.
Then there’s a knock on my door.
My salvation.
“Oh, sorry, Fran—someone is at the door.”
“I’ll let you go, then.” She waves. “Talk to you soon.”
I close out of the call. It feels like stepping off stage. The lights are off of me, the curtains are closed. The performance is over and I can breathe again.
The lies are for their own safety, I tell myself. I’m doing everyone a favor.
“Just a second,” I call out. I straighten my shirt and pinch my cheeks, trying to force some color back into my face. I feel exhausted and frail, but I don’t want to look like it, too.
Someone knocks on the door again. Harder this time.
I have a feeling I know who it is.