Meanwhile, Dad was lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce on a chance to reconcile.
“I’m so sorry,” he would say. “I would do anything to make this better.”
The months had passed, but my anger hadn’t. I barely saw my dad that year, making plans every evening and weekend and not including him in them.
One day, when the Nicky-shaped hole in my chest felt particularly hollow, Dad walked past my room on his way to the master bedroom. I was flung over my bed, staring at nothing.
“What’s so interesting about it?” he asked. “The ceiling.”
“No better view in this rotten house.” I sounded like a brat, and I knew it.
“Get up. I’ll show you a view.”
“You’ve already shown me plenty.” We both knew I was referring to Nicky. Dude was still taking over my every thought.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” Dad coaxed, his voice pleading.
“Doubt it.” I huffed. While my anger toward him had not diminished, I’d also come to realize that I didn’t have anyone other than Jillian to lean on. My high school friends were casual, and my relatives lived far away.
“Give me a shot.” He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. “You’re either going to give it to me today or next month or next year. But I will make you forgive me. Make no mistake about that.”
“Fine,” I was surprised to hear myself say. “But don’t think we’re going to be cool with each other after or something.”
He took me to the Met Cloisters, to see medieval art and architecture. We strolled shoulder to shoulder, silent the whole time.
“You know,” Dad said when we got to the tomb effigies, “there are more of those in Westminster Abbey. My favorite one is of Queen Elizabeth the First. I could take you to see it, if you’d like.”
“When?” I demanded haughtily. At some point during that year, being awful to him had become like eating. Just another thing on my agenda.
“Tomorrow?” He lifted his eyebrows, offering me his cunning Conrad Roth smile. “I’m free tomorrow.”
“I have school tomorrow,” I supplied, my voice thawing considerably.
“You’ll learn plenty in London. Lots of history.”
And so, after a year, I cut a corner and added Dad back into my life.
We made the Cloisters a monthly thing.
London didn’t change me.
Neither did the trips to Paris, Athens, and Tokyo.
I was still obsessed with everything Nicky, hungry for crumbs of information about him.
I changed tactics from constant preoccupation with him to spurts of questions and pestering. I could go weeks without speaking about him, then spend a few days asking about him nonstop.
Ruslana explained that Nicky was happy in Minsk. That if he didn’t answer, it was because of his busy schedule. Dad was supportive, but every time I tried to ask him to check on Nicky through his private investigator, he refused, saying he was doing it for me. That I needed to move on. That he hated seeing me all wrapped up in my fixation.
Maybe there was something wrong with me. Could love make you sick? I supposed it could. I’d watched my mother mourning my brother my whole life and didn’t want to pine for someone who’d never return.
Still, when I turned sixteen and got my second first kiss from Andrew Brawn, all I could think about was that he wasn’t Nicky.
But I knew pushing Dad into doing something was impossible. Besides, I had to pick my battles. Mom was barely with us anymore. My only steady family was my father, and I didn’t want to ruin it by fighting over a boy who didn’t even bother writing back to me.
The years flowed like a river, drowning me in all kinds of firsts with boys who weren’t Nicholai Ivanov. First seven minutes in heaven （Rob Smith）。 First make-out session under the bleachers （Bruce Le）。 First boyfriend （Piers Rockwysz） and first heartbreak （Carrie and Aidan from Sex and the City, because let’s admit it, Piers was great but not Aidan great）。 Nicky always sat there on the sidelines of my conscious, making each boy I dated fall short. I wondered how many girls he’d kissed over the years. If he still thought about me when he touched other girls, his hands slipping under their shirts. It felt crazy that I couldn’t ask him. But maybe lucky, too, because a big part of me didn’t want to know.
And so, when I turned eighteen, the first thing I did was make a call to Dad’s private investigator. David Kessler was the best in Manhattan.
David came back to me four weeks after I asked him to look for Nicky, informing me of his death.