MAXIM

It was obvious Derek had good taste and took a lot of pride in his home. It wasn’t huge or overly luxurious, but it was beautiful and clean, and every single room had small touches that made it feel warm and welcoming. Like the kitchen, each room I saw could have been a Hollywood set.

The dining room walls were painted a soft blue-gray, and a shiny silver bowl full of white blooms rested on the long rectangular table. Beyond that was the living room, where thick white rugs covered the floor, and wide chairs and couches in neutral colors were arranged around a big ottoman. Lots of framed photographs stood on the white mantle over the room’s brick fireplace, and I walked over to look closer.

A picture of Derek and Ellen from their childhood made me smile. He looked about ten years old; she, maybe half his age. Another boy, a little shorter than Derek, stood between them, and I wondered if there was a third sibling. All three of them wore bathing suits and were smiling broadly, squinting into the sun. They were all missing at least one tooth.

There were more family pictures, taken at graduations and Christmases, and someone’s wedding—the other brother’s, perhaps? It looked like Derek might have been the best man. I wondered if Derek had ever been married, or if he had a girlfriend. He must. What guy at his age, who looked that good and was obviously kind, smart, and successful, would still be single?

“Food’s ready.”

At the sound of his voice, I turned. “I was just looking at your pictures. Can I ask you about them?”

“Of course.” He came into the room and stood next to me, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“You have a brother as well as a sister?”

“Yeah. David. He’s two years younger.” He pointed to the photo of them in formal dark suits. David was tall like Derek, but not quite as ruggedly handsome. “That was his wedding three years ago. He and his wife live in San Diego, and they have a six-month old son now, Gavin.”

“Is this him?” I gestured toward a photo of Derek cradling a baby in his arms.

“Yeah. That was at his baptism. I’m his godfather.” A note of pride crept into his voice, making me smile. “Anyway. Ready to eat?”

“Definitely.”

We went back to the kitchen, where Derek had set a place for me at the table, complete with placemat and a linen napkin, a steak knife on the right and a fork on the left. A glass of ice water was on the table for me, too. “This is like a five star restaurant,” I said as I sat down, placing the napkin on my lap. “I feel underdressed or something.”

“Nah. I just have a thing about paper napkins. I hate them.” He set a plate in front of me, and I could have wept, it looked so good—a perfectly seasoned seared steak and a fresh garden salad. Simple but perfect.

I dug in immediately.

Derek cleaned up the kitchen, then brought his wine to the table, taking the chair across from me. “Wow. You were hungry.”

I grinned sheepishly and cut a bite off the last remaining portion of steak. “My grandparents grew up in hard times, and they taught me to never leave the table until I finish everything on my plate, because you never know if you’re going to have a good meal tomorrow. But also—this is delicious.”

“Was the steak cooked okay?”

“Perfect.”

“Good. I guess I should have asked you how you like your meat.”

I froze with my fork halfway to my mouth for a second before recovering. Don’t be a pervert. He meant the steak. “I like it the way you did it,” I assured him. But I couldn’t look up from my plate, and I felt self-conscious as I chewed. Then I swallowed too soon and had to take a big drink of water to wash it down.

“This your first trip to the U.S.?” he asked me, crossing his arms over his chest.

“My second. I visited New York three years ago.”

“How long will you stay?”

I decided to be honest. In Russia, people believe it’s bad luck to talk about an undertaking before it’s complete, sort of like putting a hex on it, but something about Derek made me want to confide in him. “I hope forever.”

“Really? You’re hoping to immigrate?”

“Yes.”

“Can you? I mean, is it legal?”

“Yes and no. It’s complicated.” I finished the steak and took another drink of water. “I can stay for six months with no problem because of my visa. After that, I’ll have to figure something out.”

“You don’t sound too worried about it. Are you?”

“Not really.” I shrugged. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Might be tough.”

“It will definitely be tough. And probably risky, but I don’t mind. I like taking risks. In Russia we say ‘Kto ne riskuyet tot ne pyet shampanskoye,’ which I think roughly translates to ‘He who takes no risk doesn’t drink champagne.’”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Here we say, ‘No guts, no glory.’ Same idea, though.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Do you have a lot of family in Russia? Won’t you miss them?” He sounded genuinely curious.

I thought of my mother, newly divorced for the second time and struggling to support herself and Liliya, and felt a pang of guilt. “I will miss my family, yes. I hate feeling like I’ve abandoned my mother and sister. But my mother understood why I wanted to come here.”

“And why was that?” He reached for his wine.

“I want to be a Hollywood screenwriter.”

He laughed a little. “Then I guess you’re in the right place. Have you written any screenplays?”

“I’ve started about fifty of them, but I’ve never completed one,” I admitted. “I want to take some classes here. I’ve taken some online, but I think being in a classroom with a teacher and other students will be much better, especially for my English.”

“Your English is already pretty fucking good. What kind of work did you do in Russia?”

“Thank you. I was a technical writer for a petrochemical company. It was okay work, but never my passion. What about you? What do you do?”

He took another drink and set the wine glass down. “Commercial property development for my dad’s company.”

“Do you like it?”

“I guess so.”

“But it’s not your passion?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know that I have a passion, not like you do.” Then he smiled wryly, his eyebrows lifting. “You know, I’ll be honest, I was surprised when I first met you. I expected someone completely different.”

“Really? Like who?”

He cringed, but then he started laughing. “Like Boris Yeltsin. In one of those furry Russian hats.”

I laughed too. “What a disappointment I must be.”

He sat back, the smallest smile tipping his lips. “Nah.”

My heart pumped a little harder in my chest. This felt good, sitting here across the table from him, being the sole object of his attention, making him smile. I liked the grit in his voice, the easy way he leaned back in his chair, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. I liked the broadness of his chest, the fullness of his mouth, and the way he was looking at me right now, almost like we shared a secret. I wanted to write it all down in my notebook so I’d remember the details about tonight forever.

“I should let you get some rest.” Rising to his feet, Derek picked up my plate and took it to the sink. I brought my glass over, and he rinsed everything and loaded the dishwasher.

“Where should I put the napkin?” I asked, holding it up.

“Oh, here.” He took it from me, and our fingers touched. “I’ll throw it in the laundry.”

He disappeared down the back hall. A few seconds later, he returned to the kitchen and reached behind me to turn off the lights. For a moment, we stood there in the dark, neither of us moving. He was close enough that I could see the rise and fall of his chest, hear his breath, close enough that I found myself thinking two very dangerous words—what if?

Then he brushed past me. “You have to be exhausted. Come on upstairs. I’ll show you your room, and then I’ll come back down and turn the rest of the lights off.”

Saying nothing, I followed him through the dining room and living room and up the stairs. I was exhausted—so exhausted my mind was playing tricks on me. Making me think crazy things.

Because for a second there, I’d almost thought Derek was about to kiss me.

Go to bed, Maxim. You’re delirious.

At the top of the steps, Derek turned left. “Guest bathroom is right here,” he said, opening a door off the hall and turning on the light. “Towels are right here on the sink, and—” He opened a drawer and took out a toothbrush and toothpaste, still in their boxes. “You can use these.”

I stood outside the bathroom, peering in. “This is incredible. In Russia, we normally have a single bathroom for the entire apartment that all the family members share.”

“Sounds crowded.” He opened the shower door as if to check something. “Shampoo and conditioner are in there.”

“Thank you.”

He came out of the bathroom and I stepped aside to let him by, but his shoulder brushed my chest. My stomach tightened—I hadn’t been this attracted to someone in a long time.

“And you can sleep in this room,” he said, opening the next door down. He moved inside and switched on the light.

The room held a big double bed neatly made up with striped bedding, a dark wood dresser beneath a huge framed mirror, and matching nightstands topped with identical lamps. Just like all the rooms downstairs, there were small, personal touches that made the guest bedroom even more welcoming—art on the walls. Candles. Plants by the windows. A bottle of water on the nightstand. Half a dozen pillows on the bed, one of which said Sweet Dreams.

“This is beautiful,” I said.

“I’m sure you’d prefer a hotel, but I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

“Not at all.” I shook my head in disbelief. “This is much better than a hotel.”

He shrugged like it was no big deal and tucked his hands into his pockets. “Need anything else? I can get you something to sleep in if you’d like. Or some clothes for tomorrow?”

Normally I would have said no, but the prospect of wearing something of Derek’s was too tempting. “If it’s not too much trouble. I feel like I’ve had this stuff on for days.”

“No trouble. Just give me a minute.” He left the room, and I stood there feeling guilty. A couple hours ago, I hadn’t even wanted to accept the offer to stay in his house. Now I was asking for his clothes? You don’t need his fucking clothes. Stop it.

But when he came back in the room and set a stack of clothing on the bed, my pulse quickened. “Thank you.”

“Let me know if you need anything else. My bedroom is across the hall.”

Oh, fuck. “Okay.”

He put his hands in his pockets again. “Tomorrow you'll probably want to sleep in. I’m going to the gym early in the morning, but I’ll try not to wake you. I’ll be back around nine.”

I nodded, but I’d barely heard what he was saying. I was too busy trying not to think about his room being right across the hall.

“If you do wake up and want breakfast, help yourself to anything in the kitchen.” His broad shoulders lifted. “Guess that’s it.”

Don’t leave yet. “Derek, thank you again for all of this.”

“No problem.” He headed for the door. “Night.”

“Night.”

He shut the door behind him, and I went over to the bed, sat next to the clothing he’d brought me, and placed one hand on the top of the pile.

I told myself he was this kind to everyone.

I told myself I wasn’t special—I was just a favor to his sister.

I told myself I’d only imagined the tension between us downstairs in the dark.

But I wished I hadn’t.