With My Own Stupid Hands

Something was wrong.

I didn’t see Emma at all Friday. Which made sense since she had classes, and her friend’s thing that night—something about hell and comic books that sounded cooler to me than I think she realized, but she laughed and said she wouldn’t force that on me. I left her to it. Not a problem.

But she didn’t answer my texts afterward. I thought maybe she went out with her friend to celebrate. It sounded like a big deal, the presentation.

And the next day, when she declined my pitch of hand-delivered breakfast and offered no cutely exasperated response to my jokes, that’s when I knew for sure. Something was wrong.

I jabbed the heavy bag at the gym rapid-fire, the pace matching my frantic thoughts. Had I made some mistake? I invited her to Sig events. Offered to bring her meals. Wanted to go to her friend’s talk. I could think of nothing.

WIth any other girl, this might have been a mind game, trying to make me chase her around. That I would have understood. That would have been easy.

But that was not Emma.

Maybe I was too much, too energetic, too exhausting. I was trying to spend as much time with her as I could. Could she be tired? Or…maybe it was not a matter of time, but of commitment? We had not yet given this thing a name.

As I eased off the bag, I considered if I should just show up at her apartment and talk to her. I second-guessed the instinct. It was too demanding. Too revealing, maybe. Besides, I was covered in sweat.

So I went home. Helped Jacob prep the house for the party. Emma had promised to come, even though it would be another rager—a big, loud break from studying for finals the next week. I was surprised, remembering her discomfort with Halloween’s antics, but maybe she felt more comfortable knowing I would be there. The idea of her trusting me to keep her physically and socially safe had done funny things to my chest.

But that was before she went quiet.

Throughout the day I pulled out my phone several times to text her, already a habit. I had something funny to say, or wanted to know what she thought about something.

I sent none of them. Girls liked space, right? I should not force a conversation. And…maybe it was a little petty of me, too. I was not used to being ignored.

In the afternoon, my phone buzzed and I lunged for it. Not Emma. But I still managed to smile. It was my little sister Dariya—my Dasha, who rarely finds the freedom for a video chat, so I rushed upstairs to take it in my room. “Dasha? How are you? How is everything back home?” I asked her in Russian as soon as her deep blue eyes—darker than mine, and sharper, I think—appeared on my phone screen.

“Same as always,” she replied. “Papa is at a dinner thing and Nina has her day off, so I thought I’d call you to keep me company.”

I laughed. “I can’t believe you remembered your poor, lonely brother instead of practicing your precious violin.”

“I’ll practice in a little while. I know you won’t stay on the phone with me that long,” she said, already pouting.

“Ouch, my little musician wounds me,” I said, putting my hand over my heart. “Use that bow string to play the violin, not to beat up on your loving brother.”

We talked for a while as she updated me on the goings-on at the house, not that they ever really changed. Father was still in charge. Mother was around but emotionally absent as always. The housekeeper, Nina Pavlovna, took care of Dasha more than anyone else did with me gone.

“I’ll be happier when you’re back,” she said with a wistful little hum. “I miss you, Mishka.”

When you’re back. It was a stark reminder of how little time I had left here. And of what I had to go back for. The cold dread that had begun to accompany those thoughts made itself known in my stomach.

I had not expected Emma to give up on me this fast, but it was probably for the best. I had to go home to Moscow, had to keep Dasha and her big dreams secure. There was no point in all this.

“Are you happy there, durak?” Dasha interrupted my thoughts. Idiot, she called me, in a fond way. “You always say America is so fun. Will you miss any of it?”

I rubbed my temple, thinking of Emma. I thought of Sig House, too. My friends, the parties. But mostly, I thought of Emma.

Of the three years I’d spent here, the ten days with her had easily been the best ones.

“Yeah. Yeah, Dashenka,” I said finally. “I will miss it.”

She bit her lip. “You should enjoy it as much as you can, then,” she said in a softer voice. She’s so smart. Or maybe I’m just more obvious than I think. “I don’t want you coming back with regrets. What good will you be to me if you’re moping all the time?” She was teasing, but also not.

“You’re right, little musician,” I said with a dramatic sigh. “How did you get so clever?”

“I took all the brains when God was making us,” she said as though it was a simple matter of fact, and I laughed. She was no more devout than I was.

We chatted a little more, and then I hung up to get ready for the party, trying to push aside the two instincts that kept warring in my brain. The loudest one wanted to talk to Emma, to find out what was wrong, to fix it. To stay in her orbit as long as I could. The other was sharper, practical, cold. Like my father. It said let her go. Why waste both of our time and energy? I wondered if Emma’s “little voices” were rubbing off on me.

I hadn’t made a decision by the time the party started and Emma finally sent a text—that she was sorry, but she would not be coming, she was tired. She said to have fun.

So, the festivities kicked into high gear and I let my God of Party flag fly high, drowning my worries the same way I always had: with booze and beer pong and pranks and dares. Hours later, my shirt was off and I was dancing on the coffee table in the living room with two Deltas. One of them was brushing up on me when I heard someone shout my name.

Calloway.

“Otvali,” I said, dismissing him with a shooing gesture. I was definitely not in the mood to talk to him.

He barked something at me that I did not hear over the music, so I rolled my eyes and leaned down. He grabbed my shirt and yanked me down from the table.

Calloway is stronger than he looks.

“What the fuck are you doing?”, he demanded.

“Pffft!” I laughed, letting the alcohol make my English lazy. “What does it look like? It is a party, Calloway, you should try sometime.”

He pushed me towards the hallway where the music wouldn’t be as loud. I don’t know why I let him. “Why are you letting some fucking sorority girl slobber on you like that?” He glanced back at the party chaos, adjusting his glasses. “Where’s Emma?”

“She did not want to come,” I said impatiently. “Told me to have fun. So I am.”

His eyes narrowed and his lip curled in a sneer I somehow thought he had held back from me for some time. “I cannot believe a woman like that is dating you,” he announced. “Some dolt who treats her like an afterthought.”

“Oh, and you would do what? You would treat her like spreadsheet, make her into a math problem,” I snarled back. “Since we are being so honest tonight.”

“Oh, you want honesty? I saw her last night, at the symposium on campus. I asked her about you.” He pointed his finger at me, stopping just shy of my chest. “She said everything was fine, but she was fidgety. Nervous. And now you’re just going to grind on someone else like you couldn’t care less?”

I sucked in a breath. Of course Calloway would go to some big literature thing on campus to see her. Where else would she be? And without me there.

The cold dread from earlier slammed back into me but now it was hot, needles pricking at me from the inside. Was that why she wasn’t talking to me? Had Calloway’s pathetic attempts at flirting reached her? Had he dazzled her by rambling about some obscure book?

I gritted my teeth but forced it into a grin. Probably not a nice one. “Oh? I hope you had a good conversation. She is very stimulating, yes? Intellectually, of course.”

Calloway’s grimace turned into an ice-cold sneer. “We did, actually,” he said. “We talked about music.” The little needles in me turned into knives. I could play music, but he could probably talk about it in ways she might find as engaging as listening. “So, you two are still…casual? You’re so busy dancing with other girls, perhaps I could offer her better company?”

I grabbed him by his stupid expensive polo, jaw clenched. No, you fucking prick, do not touch her, don’t even breathe in her direction, I wanted to say. But the thought yes, Calloway, give her something better than I can simmered beneath. Finally, I just said “Fuck you” and released him.

Because in the end, I am a coward.

I stomped back into the living room, planning to clamber back up on the stupid coffee table and do a stupid dance for these stupid people. A gaggle of girls blocked my way.

“Misha! Becka dared me to kiss you. Do you mind?” said one. I had no idea who she was, much less who Becka was. But the girl was petite, with long dark hair like Emma’s. I smiled at her, the God of Party’s body carrying on without thought while his brain felt like a forest fire.

“Ah, well. It is gentleman’s obligation then, yes?” I said and I let her twist her arms around my neck and kiss me.

I had meant to end it with a quick smack of the lips, but when her tongue pressed against my mouth, habit took hold and I did not resist. Thought maybe I could pretend to still be what I had been before.

Then, hoots and hollers began to break out around me and my eyes snapped back open. This girl tasted nothing like Emma, tasted wrong. I put my hands on her shoulders and pushed her away, not harsh but firm. “Dare’s done,” I muttered, though I was sure she did not hear me. She was just beaming drunkenly as the little crowd cheered for her. She leaned back in for another, but I turned her around gently and pointed her towards her friends.

A few guys slapped my arm or shoulder, welcomed me “back” as if I had been gone these last ten days. But really? They felt like the first time I had actually been here.

Maybe Emma did not want me anymore. I was sure she wouldn’t when she heard about this. Which she would. Everyone had cameras. I could picture the hurt and disappointment on her face.

Blyat. I turned and fled the room, yanking out my phone and hoping I hadn’t just torn everything to pieces with my own stupid hands.

Author’s Note

B-Side Track: Mark Ronson, Lykke Li – Late-Night Feelings

Oh, Misha. I’m very curious to see what you all think of him here.

FUN FACT:

“Dasha” and “Dashenka” are two of my favorite Russian diminutives that I’ve run into to date, so of course I gave them to Misha’s sister, who I adore.

I hope you enjoy today’s bonus content, because I’ve got something extra special that I hope you’ll enjoy! Check the next post out…