To him, I’m worth fighting for. I’m worth appeasing my brother.
And Ilya…
I think he’s that for me, too.
Even without the new layers of feelings I have for him, I’d fight for us, our friendship.
No, it’s more than that.
I’ll fight harder.
I’m Russian. I can be just as stubborn as my brother.
“Well, in that case, I better keep that appointment,” I say.
He chuckles. “I know you will because you’ll let me know you went afterwards. If you don’t go, I’ll rebook and take you there myself.”
“Pushy.”
It is pushy. Very much so. But secretly, I revel in it.
“Ah,malyshka,” he says, his voice the kind of soft and warm that rivals Albert’s snuggles. “Let me know how it goes. I’ll be waiting for your call. All I want is the best for you, and I can’t have that unless I know you’re both safe and healthy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Careful. I could get used to that. Speak soon.”
I hug Albert to me after we hang up. It doesn’t matter that I don’t feel great; I feel good on other levels. Because of this sweet dog. Because of Ilya.
I make myself get up because I need to shower, eat if I can, and head out on time. I don’t want to spend longer than I need to at the clinic. Doctors may make you wait, but if you make them wait, then you have to reschedule or sit there all day.
Even if you’re Alina Yegorov-Belov, which makes me smile.
I’d never make a big deal of who my family is like my father did, even if a doctor outside the private hospital my brotherheavily donates to and keeps a section of on retainer knew my name.
With an eye on the time, I shower, dress, and head down to the kitchen. It’s empty apart from Magda, who makes me tea and toast. She sets up a small array of toppings like preserves and butter, then she hurries off on whatever chores are scheduled.
My stomach turns at the sight of the butter dish and the jar of raspberry preserves, things I normally like. I sip the tea tentatively, relieved it’s weak. Then I nibble on the toast, happy Magda made me white toast over my usually favored black bread.
Somehow, I manage to finish both, barely. And I don’t throw up. I guess maybe I’ve got some sort of bug, along with a helping of stress.
When I’m done, I look down at Albert, who’s sitting patiently next to me on the tile floor, head up, liquid eyes on me as he waits.
“I have to go to the doctor,” I tell him. “Don’t worry. Nothing’s wrong, not really, but I need a checkup.”
He blinks.
“Tell you what, if you want, and if you can stand waiting with Gus, who might even take you for a little walk”—he barks—“you can come with me. We can go to the park after.”
I clip on his leash in the foyer, and we head out to my appointment. I think I had him at “walk.”
I stare at my doctor,shock thrumming through me.
What I expected was maybe a prescription for whatever’s bothering me. Perhaps a stern lecture about getting more sleep, exercise, vitamins, whatever else my mind can’t think of.
Anything but this.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “You didn’t make a mistake?”
