“You did not refuse it.”
Ray whispered, “Technically true.”
I elbowed him lightly.
Misha stepped toward me, still damp, still pale, still holding the ridiculous little kitten.
“Can I come back?” he asked.
The question nearly broke me.
I bent down. “For pie?”
He nodded.
“When your father says it’s okay.”
Mikhail looked down at him. “With proper supervision.”
“And the kitten?”
“We will discuss the kitten.”
“That means yes,” Misha said to me.
“It does not,” Mikhail replied.
“It does a little.”
Ray laughed before he could stop himself.
Mikhail looked at him, and this time Ray didn’t flinch as much.
Maybe because the room had changed again. Maybe because Mikhail Volkov, feared by men far tougher than Ray, was losing a quiet argument to a wet child and a gray kitten.
Mikhail guided Misha toward the door.
Before they reached it, Misha turned back.
“Miss Anna?”
“Yes?”
“My papa looks scary, but he reads stories in funny voices.”
Mikhail stopped walking.
The men by the door suddenly became fascinated by the rain.
Ray covered his mouth.
Mikhail said, “Misha.”
“What? It’s true.”
I smiled. “I’ll remember that.”
“Please don’t,” Mikhail said.
But there was warmth under it.
They stepped into the storm surrounded by men with umbrellas. Mikhail kept his coat angled over Misha, though it did little against the wind. The kitten’s little face peeked from the towel, unimpressed by Chicago weather.
Misha waved once from beneath the umbrella.
I waved back.
Then the black SUVs pulled away, one after another, their red taillights bleeding into the rain until the street swallowed them.
The diner became quiet.
Too quiet.
Ray locked the front door and turned the sign to CLOSED.
Neither of us spoke for a full minute.
