Page 162 of Sexting the Pakhan

For a moment, neither do I.

I can see her trying to understand what I have just said without letting herself show too much. She was always like that when she was scared. Not weak. Never weak. Just careful. She would go still first, then angry, then practical.

Six years ago, I told myself I was saving her.

I told myself a lot of things.

Anton was the simple answer. He panicked at the warehouse. He reached for a gun. Ilya shot him before he could tell us anything more. After that, I let myself believe the rot had been cut out. A dead traitor is useful that way. He can’t argue. He can’t explain.

So I sent Zoya away.

I stood in that hallway with blood drying on my shirt and told her she was free to leave, as if she had been waiting for permission.

She looked at me like I had slapped her.

I still remember that.

Not the blood. Not the bodies. Not the men dragging Anton out.

Her face.

She was young, shaken, and trying so hard not to ask me for anything. I saw the question in her eyes anyway. Stay? Explain? Choose me?

I chose for both of us.

That’s the kindest version of the lie.

The truth was uglier. I was afraid. Not of wanting her. That had already happened. Not of needing her. I was old enough to know when something had become necessary.

I was afraid that if I kept her, someone would learn exactly where to place the knife.

Last night proved I was right. It also proved I may have failed anyway.

For six years, I thought I had pushed Zoya out of my life.

I had not.

She was in my pocket every night.

Are you awake?

I almost laugh at the cruelty of it. The unknown woman who made me answer when I should not. The woman who sent jokes at midnight, then disappeared for weeks. The woman who could be tender one moment and filthy the next. The woman who once told me loneliness was easier when no one could see your face.

Zoya.

All along, Zoya.

I told myself the messages meant nothing because there was no name attached to them. No history. No debt. But I knew her voice even without hearing it.

That’s the part I don’t want to examine.

Zoya crosses her arms. “You’re quiet.”

I look up at her. “I’m thinking.”

“That must be exhausting.”

“It is today.”