“Uh… Uri?”
He pops around the corner, wearing a black apron that reads Kiss the Cook. Not a bad idea, actually. If his face and apron weren’t enough of an invitation, the ladle in his hand definitely is.
“Did you cook?”
“Thought I’d give the kitchen staff the night off and make you something myself.”
“Is that… chicken parmesan I’m smelling?”
“Nothing gets past you, does it, narushitel?”
I walk in slowly, trying to decipher the determined, borderline manic expression on his face. He’s plating up our meals with the precision of a three-star chef but I still don’t trust that haze over his eyes.
“Uri, this is wonderful. But… are you okay?”
“Of course.”
I notice his bruised knuckles and reach for his hand automatically. He freezes while I examine his fist. “What happened?”
He pulls it out of my grasp. “Same old shit that always happens. All in a day’s work.”
“Then why don’t you look okay? Is it Polly? Have you heard—”
“I can’t talk about Polly right now, Alyssa.”
His tone is sharp and my mouth clamps shut immediately. That’s the look in his eyes. He needs a distraction. He needs to focus on something other than what he considers a personal failure. I so badly want to go to him, pull him into my arms and hold him for as long as he needs. But I know from experience that trying to comfort him is a surefire method of pushing him away.
So instead, I swallow the words that are on the tip of my tongue—It’s not your fault. She’s going to be okay. You’ll find her soon—and I let him take control.
“Can I do anything?”
He relaxes gratefully. “Grab some glasses.”
We sit down at the table, which is beautifully set already. He’s got me sparkling apple juice and a side of pickles thanks to my new and embarrassingly stereotypical pregnancy cravings.
“Thanks for cooking for me.”
He nods. “Dig in. Those babies need to be fed and fed well.”
I cut into my chicken parm and the buttery, cheesy goodness wafts up towards me. I’m so worried about him that I have to force myself to take the first bite. But the moment all those spices hit my taste buds, I can’t put my knife and fork down.
“Well, if the whole Bratva pahkan thing doesn’t work out, you have a bright future as a chef.”
He smirks. He’s finished half his vodka but barely touched his entrée. I pretend not to notice.
“My parents haven’t noticed that anything is wrong,” I blurt out when I’m almost done eating. Uri raises his eyebrows and it makes me question if this is the right way to distract him. “Um… I mean, they bought the whole Cuba story.”
He nods. “They didn’t ask a whole lot of questions.”
“That’s because they don’t really care.” I shrug, he frowns, and I sigh as I lose that little nonverbal battle. “I didn’t mean for that to come out so bitter.”
“If what you’ve said is true, you’re justified in some bitterness, Alyssa.”
“Oh, it’s definitely true.” I snort and set my fork down on the edge of my plate. “Ziva was always better with them. She was the favorite child. Ironic, really, that she was the one who had to go and I’m the one they got stuck with.”
Upside? That distracted, troubled haze over Uri’s eyes is gone.
Downside? I’ve sucked myself into a conversation about my parents.
“Did they say that to you?”
“They didn’t have to. After Ziva died, they just kinda retreated into their part of the house and I retreated to mine. They stopped coming around to school events. They stopped celebrating my birthday. They stopped taking an interest in my life. They didn’t even show up to my college graduation. Dad called a couple of hours before and told me that Mom was having migraines so bad she couldn’t get in the car. Can you believe that?”
Uri leans in closer, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s amazing how much he can get across with those deep blue eyes, though. I feel like all of him is here, listening to me.
“Maybe part of it was my fault. I basically blamed them for Ziva’s death.”
“Why?”
“Because, when she decided to stop treatment, they let her.”
“Maybe they were trying to respect her decision,” he suggests.
I grit my teeth together. “It was our decision to make as a family. And it was our job to show Ziva that we had her back no matter what. She didn’t want to be a burden to us. That’s why she wanted to stop treatment. It’s the only reason she wanted to die. If they had just… just…” I break off as a sob robs me of the rest of my words. Even worse is the tear splashing onto my food and sizzling on contact. “Shit. Now, I’m crying. I feel like an idiot…”