I don’t have the energy to fight with him anymore. I don’t have the energy for any of this, really. So why does it keep finding its way to me? Why can’t I escape it? I make myself a promise: I’m going to get Nikita to take me home, by any means necessary. Then I’m going to pack my things, and I’m going to leave this city, and I’m never, ever going to come back.
I look up at him. “You know, I was just thinking about my father.”
Still, he says nothing.
“The first time I saw him hit my mother.”
Silence. Staring.
“After he slapped her, he came up to me. Do you know what he said to me, Nikita?”
The soft whine of car engines, far in the distance, where the highway slices through the park, is the only thing I can hear.
“He called me a little cunt. And he said I should take notes, so that the same thing didn’t happen to me. It scared me. A lot. I peed myself, you know. I was just a little girl. What kind of man says that to an innocent little girl?”
I break our gaze. I don’t want to look at him anymore. I don’t want to see the blackness again.
I keep my eyes fixed on the ground while I continue talking. “And do you know what reminded me of him, Nikita? You. You’re a fucking monster. I want you to take me home right now. And then I hope to God I never see you again. Because if I do ... well, I don’t know, actually. I’m not like you. I don’t plan for that kind of thing. But whatever I choose to do, I won’t regret it. Because I will know one thing more than anything: whatever I decide ... you’ll deserve it.”
Nikita steps back. And then steps back once more. His fingers rake through his hair and his face contorts in a way I haven’t seen before. Not one of anger but of hurt. His mouth opens and closes a couple of times as if he’s searching for something to say.
But there’s nothing.
A car pulls up just then. It’s an older model Nissan Rogue. You wouldn’t think twice if you saw it drive past you, which I guess is the whole point. An older man exits the driver’s side and walks over to Nikita.
I stay seated on the boulder and watch as the driver and Nikita embrace. That must be Eitan. After the two men separate, Eitan looks at me. Nikita does not. They have a quick, whispered conversation, then Eitan comes over and gives me a polite nod.
Without a word, he takes my bag from me and guides me to the vehicle. Nikita is already in the passenger’s seat. Eitan opens the door, and I climb into the back.
No one says anything for a long time. I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the window, cool to the touch. I feel an urge to cry, and an urge to sleep, but mostly I just feel numb. That’s fine, I suppose. Better than any of the alternatives I can think of.
The closer we get to the city lights, the slower traffic moves. The familiar cacophony of car horns and impatient taxis takes over the silence. I should be grateful—I’ve grown up with that as a constant background noise—but part of me actually misses the stillness of the mountain as we wind through the city streets
“Where do you live?” Nikita’s voice comes out gruff and scratchy.
“Me?” What a stupid question. He must know where Eitan lives. “Near the college on the north side.”
“What’s the cross street?”
“Just drop me off at the campus and I can walk the rest of the way.”
Eitan looks at Nikita, who nods. I straighten up just as I notice that my palms have begun sweating. I bite my nails the rest of the way, unsure of what to expect.
Within the hour, Eitan pulls the SUV into visitor parking. Nikita gets out of the car and opens my door. I step out tentatively, watching his every movement. I look around, half expecting to see his bodyguards, but the only people around are other college students walking to and from class.
“How far are you from here?” Nikita looks off into the distance over my head, refusing to meet my gaze.
I point. “The building down the street. The brick one with the yellow flowers.”
Nikita follows where my finger indicates, as if taking in features so he can identify the building at a later date. He shoves his hands in his pockets, still staring at my crummy student housing.
“You’re free to go.”
I can think of a million things I want to say. “Fuck you” is extremely high at the top of my list. “Why?” is up there too, for so many reasons. But what I settle on is the same thing I told him the first night at dinner on his terrace. Was that really only a few days ago? It seems like a lifetime.
I look Nikita in the eyes and say, “My freedom was never yours to give or take away.”
Nikita opens his mouth to respond, but I don’t wait for an answer. I turn and walk away. I want so badly to look back at him, but I refuse to give the man the satisfaction. As I put distance between him and me, I hear the car door open and slam, then the rev of the engine as Eitan ushers them away.
Away from here. Away from me. Away from my life for good—I hope.
I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe a goodbye. Or good luck. Something other than the stoic, stony silence. I went through hell with that man. I slept with him. But like he said, the sex meant nothing. So why does it hurt so much? Why do I want him to care? To say goodbye like it means something to him?
I wipe my eyes and adjust my ponytail. I won’t cry for him. I say
