“Monotony and I aren’t friends,” I go on, surprised at myself. “I usually bring my laptop and work in different places.”
She’s still staring, untrusting. “Byvariety, you meanfor work. Correct? Otherwise, those words aren’t something a new bride wants to hear from her husband.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”
“Aren’tyousupposed to be sleeping?” she fires back before standing.
She walks to the bar cart in the corner, where a lone bottle of whiskey sits. Grabbing it, she blows off the dust and holds it up. “How old is this thing?”
I shrug. “Not sure.”
“Want a drink?”
“Nah. I’m good.” I motion toward the bottle. “Have at it yourself.”
“Eh, I’m okay.” She returns the bottle to its place. “I only drink when I’m nervous.”
“Yes, I learned that at the reception dinner.”
“Otherwise, I’m not much of a drinker.” She sighs before slumping down on the couch. “My father liked the bottle a little too much. I saw the destruction alcohol caused from a young age.”
“Same.” I chug the rest of my water, wishing it’d give me a buzz that liquor does.
Maybe I should’ve accepted that drink.
She pulls her legs up on the couch. “What did your father do when he got drunk?”
I’m quiet for a moment.
Her question is personal.
Too fucking personal.
My wife is trying to get to know me. The opposite of what I want.
I sullenly stare straight ahead at her. “He used to beat my mother.”
She winces at my honesty before releasing a deep breath. “My father didn’t put his hands on my mother. I’m sure that’s only because he knew Yaroslav would kill him for it. To get his anger out, he’d break things. Our belongings, never his.” Sheshuts her eyes, as if reliving the memories. “He didn’t beat us with his fist, but he was violent with his words.”
I nod in too much understanding.
My father always threw out harsh words with every violent punishment.
Liliya picks at her nails, glancing down at her lap. “Every month, we’d have to replace TVs and remotes from his anger fits. It was so weird that after his death, we didn’t have to buy a new TV for three years.” Her eyes grow heavy. “I’ve forgotten so many things about my father—his voice, his favorite things—but I’ll remember that about him until the day I die.”
A combo of anger and sadness—an emotion I rarely feel—whips through me. I clench my fist, pissed that my wife had to endure that. I plant my feet on the ground to stop myself from standing and wrapping her in my arms.
We can’t have that.
This needs to be a loveless marriage.
“Was your father a rat?” I ask, needing to change the subject.
“I have no idea. Yaroslav told us that and expected us to believe him, so that’s what we did.” She pushes tangles of hair away from her face. “How’d your father die?” The question leaves her mouth slowly.
I pause, deciding how truthful I want to be with her.
“He was murdered at a strip club.” I lean back in my chair, athere you have itexpression crossing my features.
