We drank the entire box of wine.

And then I drank the vodka. Because I was still sad after the wine. Go figure.

Not surprisingly, it was a mistake.

A terrible, terrible mistake.

I had very strange dreams. Dreams of me rocking out to “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General” from Gilbert and Sullivan’s Pirates of Penzance. Dreams of me crying on the phone. Dreams of me destroying one of my framed jigsaw puzzles.

In the morning, instead of going for my walk, I knelt at the altar of the porcelain gods and prayed for the continued health and function of my liver. Then I went back to sleep only to be awoken by Emily setting a plate at my bedside with a loud clatter.

“Wake up, sunshine. I made you greasy food. And, you’re welcome. I wrapped your hair in one of your silk scarves so you wouldn’t wake up as the bride of Frankenstein.”

I moaned into my pillow even as I touched the scarf at my forehead. This was the third time in my life I’d had a hangover; I could always count on regret and feeling like death, but at least this time my hair wouldn’t be a catastrophe.

“Must you be so loud? Why do you hate me so much?”

“I’m whispering.”

“You’re a witch. Burn in a fire.”

She cackled softly, but it sounded like a witch.

“Bacon, eggs, and toast. Get up and eat. Also,” she called over her shoulder as she left my room, “your cell is on the pillow next to your head.”

I moaned again, turning away from her offerings and dozing until my phone buzzed, sounding like a swarm of angry bees.

Someone was calling me, probably work asking me to fill in a shift.

Groaning, I blindly reached for the phone, my hand finding it instantly. I accepted the call, but then fumbled to bring it to my ear, finally answering with a pathetic, “Hello?”

“Anna?”

I paused, confused, because the voice on the other end didn’t sound like Pedro from the restaurant.

“Who is this?” I croaked, lifting myself to an elbow and cracking an eye to check the caller ID; it read, Prince Andrei Nikolayevich Bolkonsky.

I scrunched my face, blinking several times at the nonsensical entry.

“You’re awake,” the man said, sighed, and then asked, “Are you sober yet?”

I’m not going to lie, I recognized Luca’s voice almost instantly.

But I was also in denial, and denial is a blissful path on which to travel, the view is almost as nice as Ignorance Avenue.

And so, I decided the man on the phone couldn’t possibly be Luca because Luca didn’t have my phone number. The man must’ve just been someone who sounded a lot like Luca.

Yeah. Yeah. That’s the ticket.

I was allowed to inhabit this fuzzy limbo of obliviousness for precisely three seconds, until he said, “We need to talk about the emails.”

And that was just the adrenaline shot needed to push me out of denial.

“What?” I shot up in my bed, immediately regretting this automatic response as a wave of nausea met a stab of pain and they became best friends. “Ugh, what emails?”

“The emails you sent me last night.”

He did not sound happy.

“Don’t— I mean how—” I gripped my head. I couldn’t think, partially because I was hungover, but also partially because I was panicking. “I just sent one email.”

Luca made a noise that sounded like a low growl, it made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, but his voice was steady as he said, “I’ll be in the office today. After you’ve read through your . . . messages, please come to my office on campus so we can discuss next steps.”

“Next steps?” I croaked.

“Eat your breakfast,” Emily’s voice met my ears. “You’re going to need it.”

I lifted my eyes—with effort—to where my friend stood in the doorway, looking tired but not hungover. “What?”

“Eat your breakfast.” She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, her mouth a flat line.

I could only gape at her dumbly, wondering if I was still asleep.

Maybe this is all a dream.

Before I’d recovered from her proclamation, she repeated, “You’re going to need it,” then turned and strolled out of my room and out of my apartment, the front door closing softly—yet still sounding like a cannon to my ears—as she left.

“See you soon, malen'kaya lisa,” Andrei—I mean, Luca—said, and I heard a motorcycle come to life on the other end just before he clicked off.

Even though the line was dead, I held the phone to my ear for a full minute, maybe longer. I was flabbergasted. Me, frozen on my bed, unable to think or move—this continued for some time.

And then I breathed. And I glanced around. And I tasted the inside of my mouth.

“Shower. Toothbrush. Now!”

It was enough. Enough to get me out of bed and moving, not thinking about the future, but thinking about the now. I stripped, I showered, I brushed my teeth. I found a bottle of ibuprofen and swallowed two pills with a glass of water.

Grabbing an outfit from the top of my folded laundry pile, I quickly pulled on the navy cotton skirt and plain white T-shirt, my heart lodged in my throat, my heart beating sporadically.

“Calm down,” I whispered, pressing a hand to my chest. “Calm down.”

A moment.

I just needed a moment to collect my thoughts.

Emails.

I turned to my bed and picked up my phone, trying to remember any detail from last night that might explain what happened. My fingers trembling, I navigated to my outbox and flinched, counting six messages sent between 11:00 p.m. and 2:30 a.m.

Sucking in a breath, I clicked on the first.

Luca, I’ve changed my mind. We should be friends with benefits. Here’s my number for booty calls.

I groaned, dropping the phone to the comforter next to me, my heart lodged in my throat. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shitty shitty shit shit!”

My face fell to my hands and I took several breaths meant to calm.

“I am such an asshole,” I muttered to no one, “Anna the Asshole.”

Once my heart slowed enough and my bravery reserves were somewhat replenished, I plucked the phone from the bed with grim resolve. To my surprise, he’d responded to my cheeky message,

Dear Anna, That’s not what I want for us. Come to my office tomorrow. I must speak to you.

-Luca

A surprised exhale escaped my lungs as I reread his note, my heart doing something new, fluttering in a way that was both painful and hopeful. But the compulsion to continue reading kept me from pausing to debate his meaning.

Dearest Andrei,

Do you think Natasha would have been faithful to you if you’d given her a taste of physical intimacy? Do you blame yourself for her disloyalty? You should. Women need to be touched. They crave it. I crave it. There are many ways to withhold oneself and all of them are painful.

-Your Natasha

Anna,

We should move this discussion off email. I’m calling you.

-L

Luca,

I’m not answering your call because I’m drunk and I might tell you the truth about how much I want to be with you and how much it hurts when you push me away. Better to email instead.

-Natasha

Luca,

Stop calling. I’m completely shitfaces and the slurring will be undignified.

Anna,

Are you safe? Is someone there with you?

Luca,

Yes. My friend Emily is here and she’s not dtrunk she stopped after the wine bux but I found hte vodka

Anna,

What is Emily’s phone number?

I frowned at his last message plus my response to it, where I sent him Emily’s number, because a flash of something awful—a vague memory, a feeling of incensed righteousness—pressed forward in my consciousness.

Me.

Crying.

And yelling.

On the phone.

With Luca.

“Oh no.” I shook my head, closing my eyes against the hazy recollection, my stomach sinking, then lurching. But before I gave in to my terror, I quickly texted Emily,

Me: What did I say to Luca last night?

Emily: Go talk to him.

Me: Tell me!!!

Emily: Go talk to him.

Me: Was I an asshole?

Emily: Go talk to him.

Me: You’re a witch.

Emily: Go talk to him. And eat your breakfast. You’re going to need it.

“Traitor.” I scowled at her texts even as another wave of nausea assaulted me. My stomach was empty and she was right, I needed to eat.

Grabbing the plate by the bed, I walked to the kitchen on unsteady feet and stuck the greasy breakfast in the microwave, heating it for twenty seconds as I scrolled through my emails to make sure I’d read all the messages.

I hadn’t.

There was one more.

It was from Luca and the timestamp was before 11:00 p.m., before my drunk emails. It was in reply to the first message I’d sent last night, the one when I was sober and I’d informed him that I was tapping out.

The subject line was bolded, indicating that the message was still unread. Apparently, I hadn’t seen it or opened it last night before my inappropriate drunkenness.

I tapped the email and read,

Dear Anna,

I’ve not been in this situation before, so you must forgive the imprecision of my actions. My instinct has been (and continues to be) to protect you, but I can no longer disregard my own wishes.

You mustn’t attempt to drop the course again. However, my objectivity where you are concerned has been compromised. I approached the department chairDepartment Chair regarding the situation last Monday and have since handed over your class portfolio.

This is what I wished to discuss with you tonight. Dr. McGovern has agreed to assume grading your assignments and he has appointed an impartial mediator for the remainder of the semester, an advocate for your interests. For all intents and purposes, I am no longer your professor.

Thus, I do not consider this “thing” between us resolved. Far from it. I must see you. The place and time can be of your choosing, but let it be soon.

-Luca

* * *

I brought my backpack, but I left it in my car.

I don’t know why I brought my backpack. I didn’t need it, but going to campus without it felt strange.

The Slavic Department offices were vacant, much like they’d been that night when my feet and brain teamed up to confront Luca weeks ago. Paying homage to the déjà vu, I paused at the admin’s desk and glanced down the long hall leading to his office.

This time his door was slightly ajar; a triangle of light spilled into the hallway, interrupted by shadowy movement from within.

He was in there.

And I was at a disadvantage.

Luca was the adult.

I was the impetuous child.

According to his email, he’d been going through appropriate channels, being responsible, taking measured steps to ensure we could explore whatever this thing was between us.

Meanwhile, I’d been moping. And drinking. And emailing him while intoxicated about booty calls, because I was too much of a coward to be completely honest while sober.

That ended now.

I’d changed into my business-casual attire—dark purple skirt and white button down shirt, both ironed—pulled my hair into a bun as best I could, and opted for three inch heels over the Converse I usually wore.

I was prepared to be brave, to lay it all out there, to be reasonable and thoughtful and discuss.

Lifting my chin and straightening my spine, I marched down the hall to his office and knocked firmly on the door three times.

Swallowing my encroaching anxiety, I pushed it open just as he said, “Enter.”

Heat spread like a wildfire through my body because Luca stood just inside, dressed in dark jeans and a gray T-shirt, his hair still tousled from his earlier motorcycle ride.

Must he be so handsome all the time? MUST HE??

Something flared behind his eyes when our gazes met, but otherwise his expression was blank. Or perhaps I didn’t know how to read him.

“Luca,” I nodded in greeting, infusing my tone with firm and detached resolve. “Is now a good time to meet?”

His gaze narrowed as it moved over my clothes, one of his eyebrows lifting just a fraction of an inch. He nodded slowly, crossing his arms, and I got the sense he was bracing himself—likely for whatever foolish, impulsive thing he thought I was about to say.

I stepped into his office, closed the door, and clasped my hands in front of me.

“First,” I started, clearing my throat of the slight tremor. “I’d like to apologize for the emails I sent last night. It was . . . that was extremely inappropriate. I hope you will accept my apology.”

Luca’s gaze narrowed further and his jaw ticked, his lips pressing into an unhappy line. “Fine. Apology accepted.”

“I appreciate that. And I assure you, it won’t happen again.” I nodded, giving him a tight, earnest smile.

Now, the hard part.

I gathered a breath for bravery, preparing to say what I’d rehearsed in the car on the way over.

But before I could, Luca’s stare turned hard as he demanded, “Just say it.”

I absorbed the anger behind his words and required a few seconds to steady myself, suppress the erratic and panicked beating of my heart. I knew—given the way I’d behaved—a distinct possibility existed that I’d lost my chance with him. It seemed that possibility had become a reality.

And that was okay.

Was it devastating? Yes.

Would I cry when I left? Yes.

Would I ever recover? I didn’t know.

But I had to take responsibility for my actions, words, and decisions.

So be it.

Lifting my chin, I let my hands drop to my sides, preparing to wear my heart on my sleeve with abandon. “I’m ashamed I wasn’t brave enough to tell you how I felt—how I feel—while sober.”

Luca’s eyebrows furrowed and his eyes skated over me again, cloudy with confusion. “Are you referring to the ‘booty call’ suggestion?”

“No.” I released a self-deprecating huff and shook my head. “Not that one. I didn’t read your response to my sober email until this morning, but that’s not an excuse. I should have been braver. When you called me Natasha—”

My voice cracked. I was determined not to cry, so I took another breath and lowered my gaze to his neck; I couldn’t look in his eyes if I was going to say this without bursting into tears like a nincompoop.

“When you called me Natasha, and told me to wait for my Pierre, you hurt my feelings. A lot. We don’t—I mean—we haven’t spoken to each other many times one-on-one, so perhaps I misunderstood your true intention, but it felt condescending, a bit like being patted on the head and being told I wasn’t loyal, or trustworthy, or good enough—no, wait.”

I held my hands up because Luca began moving forward.

“Let me finish.” My gaze flickered to his and then away; I couldn’t read his mood, but I knew I needed to complete my thoughts before I attempted to decipher his. “I’m realizing that I’m pretty terrible at nuanced situations, and that’s something for me to work on. And since I’m bad at reading undercurrents and nuances, I need to ask—explicitly—for clarification. And I need to be explicit with my words. So this is me being explicit.”

I was out of breath and the erratic beating of my heart had become a fierce gallop, but I was determined to do this right. I was determined to be brave. So I lifted my eyes to his, allowed our gazes to clash and tangle, and ignored the sound of blood rushing between my ears.

“I think you’re amazing. Watching you with the class is inspiring. I love your passion for your work. I love how brilliant and thoughtful you are. And when you excluded me during class—”

“Anna—”

“When you ignored me, it was hurtful. And when you kissed me and told me to leave your office, that was hurtful. And when you sought me out at my work and took me to your apartment—”

“That wasn’t my apartment.”

“—and then compared me to a fictional character who might be beautiful and spirited, but is too naïve to possess any real depth of feeling or sense of loyalty, that was also hurtful. I want to know you. And I’d like for you to know me. And if this is something that you want as well, then you’re going to have to say or do something that leaves no room for doubt. But if you don’t want to know me—”

I wasn’t able to finish because Luca closed the distance between us with three large steps.

He grabbed me.

And he kissed me.