Dance, Sugarplum

18. Lyla

CHAPTER 18

LYLA

ACT 2

My eyes open at exactly six in the morning, my natural sleep pattern returning now that I can eat and sleep with shelter. I don’t even bother getting properly dressed before I head across the hall and knock on his door.

No answer. There’s no way I missed him again . Running downstairs to yell at him, I’m wearing only a loose T-shirt as I arrive in the kitchen, but he’s not there.

“Dammit!” I slap my hands against my hips before realizing my dower director might not be here, but someone else is.

Graying curls frame her face, and there’s just enough lines in her skin for me to notice. My cheeks burn at my language and my ass hanging out. This is the first time I’ve seen anyone else in the apartment, but I wonder if I simply haven’t been getting up early enough.

“Good morning.”

“Hi...” I smile awkwardly as I try to pull the hem of my shirt down.

My toes curl against the wooden floor. All I want is to run back to my room, get dressed, and then find a way to yell at Mikhail. Obviously, I can’t. He’s too intense for that, but the desire only grows with my humiliation.

“Sit down, dear. Have your breakfast. It just got delivered. Still hot.”

The wrapped food is once again waiting for me, and my eyes narrow at the parcel. I obviously love being fed, and my growling stomach is a giveaway, but I’m annoyed that he keeps sneaking out without me. And I’m even more annoyed that I don’t confront him or even hop on a bus and just leave. Would the doorman really do anything if I did? He’d definitely tattle, I decide.

“I’ll just be right back,” I tell her, getting ready to head back to my room and grab my pants.

“Don’t fuss, dear. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

A jealous part of me worries very much she means specifically with Mikhail. Does she mean she saw other women here?

I could argue, but I’m going to be sitting on my ass anyway, so I take my place at the table. Sure, food and rest were necessary at first, but I’m going insane now. I need to get back to the theater. The first show is quickly approaching, and I’m getting nervous that I'll ruin the whole thing without real practice with the cast. I don’t like to deliver anything but my absolute best.

Taking a deep breath, I sit at the table. I go to open the breakfast, but before I get the chance, the woman snatches it up. She disappears into the kitchen to return a moment later with it nicely served on a plate. I salivate when I see pancakes coming my way with a healthy portion of berries on the side.

“Oh, I love pancakes,” I tell her as she places them in front of me. Grabbing the fork and knife, I start to dig in, expecting something comforting and familiar. My smile falls off my face as I realize these aren’t the usual fluffy and sweet pancakes of my childhood. I chew the dry cake, coughing a little.

A cake is a generous term for this, and there’s not even the mercy of syrup to soften it up. It’s not exactly bad, and nothing about it tastes unpleasant. But surely, it should have a different name and shape so as not to trick hungry, angry ballerinas. The woman chuckles at my expression and makes a show of reading the receipt attached to the wrapping.

“Protein-loaded pancakes.”

“Of course.” I roll my eyes, but I keep eating. There’s no way in hell I’ll discard good food just because it’s not so good. When you’re truly hungry, you learn not to waste food.

By the third mouthful, I’m liking it more and more. It’s kind of like a dry, bready oatmeal in flavor. The berries really make it decent, and I polish off the entire thing.

“I’m Molly, by the way.” She introduces herself.”

I wince, covering my mouth with one hand and offering her the other to shake. “I’m so sorry. I got distracted by the food.”

“Don’t worry. Mikhail told me to make sure you eat, but I don’t think that’s a problem.”

My cheeks turn bright red, and she immediately apologizes, but I wave her off. It’s not her fault I’m especially sensitive about food.

“So he insisted I eat, but he left for the theater without me again?”

Brown eyes crinkle at the edges as she narrows them. Molly seems kind enough, but she knows too much.

“He didn’t actually say anything about you eating this morning specifically. That’s an ongoing complaint of his.” She smiles, and I clear my throat to concentrate on my empty plate.

“Do you work for Mr. Ivanov, or is this a favor?”

It’s a silly attempt to generate conversation, but I’m also starved for any information on Mikhail.

“That’s complicated, but we’ll call this a favor.”

“Hmm.” I nod.

That’s not much of an answer, and I find that after being locked up here all these days, I’m not in the mood for riddles. I’m less irritated with my full belly, and I guess if this is a favor, I should at the very least say thanks.

“I appreciate it.”

She smiles. “No problem.”

I want to ask her more questions, like what the hell does it’s complicated mean. Before I can fire them off, the intercom buzzes, and Molly goes to answer with an ease and familiarity I envy.

When she returns, I’m still in the same place, and she doesn’t volunteer who it was. I guess she has no reason to, but it still feels rude.

It’s tiring trying to figure out what is happening here. I rub my temple, already getting a headache from trying to understand this man. The hot-and-cold routine is getting on my nerves today. He knows I need to practice, yet he won’t bring me to the theater or let me in his studio here. Molly must notice I’m out of it because she watches me carefully before nodding to herself.

“I have to grab a few things at the store. Do you want to come with me?” She offers me a lifeline I have no intention of denying.

“Yes, please. Let me get dressed,” I say quickly before she changes her mind.

She laughs at my eagerness, but I don’t care. I dart up the stairs to do exactly that. If I wasn’t so bored and starved for company, I’d be more embarrassed by how ready I am to spend time with a stranger, but it’s really more of a chance at freedom. I’m rested now. I’m done staying hidden away up here.

I head to the closet because the clothes in the dresser aren’t warm enough, and I’m overwhelmed by how much stuff is in here. I’ve been trying to avoid it, as realizing just how much planning Mikhail put into bringing me here sends a little chill running up my spine.

I pick out a beautiful pair of lined leggings and a rose-colored sweatshirt. I grab a hat and a thick coat, and a pair of boots. Pulling everything on, I hold a pair of gloves I’m not sure I’ll wear. I quickly check myself in the mirror and decide I look cute with my blond hair spilling from beneath the hat and over my shoulders.

“That was fast,” she tells me as I press the button, and we take the elevator to the lobby.

The doorman watches us carefully as we leave. Rather than ignoring him or even greeting him, she gives him a stern look. He nods in response. Huh.

She notices my attention on their interaction and grabs me by the elbow to lead me into the street.

“Let’s grab some fresh produce,” she says as she pulls me into a gust of cold December wind. I breathe deep, the pain in my lungs proving just how cold it is today. My hands slip into the gloves I wasn’t sure I’d need, and I’m grateful for their warmth.

Molly leads the way, taking me through the nicest neighborhood I’ve ever been in. Old buildings line the street with columns and arches, elaborate filigree in stone, and not a speck of graffiti to be seen. Eventually, we stop at a small corner shop a couple of blocks away.

She pushes the door open ahead of us, and a bell jingles merrily overhead. Soft, jazzy, and warm Christmas music plays on the radio. A tower of wine bottles in an elaborate display that looks like a Christmas tree allows you to take bottles off the racks in front. Chocolate bars, cards, and anything else that might serve as a good Christmas present have been pushed toward the front of the store for the last-minute shopper heading to a Christmas party.

Rows and piles of carefully labeled organic fruits and vegetables line the wall and form their own small section to the right. The colors are too beautiful to be real. One particular cauliflower is green and covered in fractal patterns like a snowflake or a Christmas bauble. Romanesco, the little sign reads. There are multiple other fruits and vegetables I’ve never seen before. Molly picks up a few things and puts them into her basket.

My mouth hangs open when she takes me to the shelves with freshly baked sourdough bread, which smells the same as the sandwiches I found in the dressing room. This is the fancy bakery he gets my food from every day. The counter at the back has all the most beautiful sandwiches and pastries, and it leads to a small kitchen. I grab the menu, noticing none of the items he ordered for me are listed.

“Good morning, Evelyn.” Molly sneaks past me to address the woman at the counter.

They talk briefly, and Molly grabs a good selection of bread and cheese. It looks like they know each other. Molly must shop here frequently—my stomach sinks. She is probably the one coming here for my food, not Mikhail.

I wish more than anything his lack of attention didn’t feel like a punch to the gut, but it does. Being so upset about this is stupid, but I am. I’ve told myself again and again to stop making myself the victim of my own unmet expectations, and here I am, placing them time and time again on Mikhail. It was silly to imagine a man like him, with all manner of commitments, would find the time in his day to do that for me. He likely doesn’t have the time to do it for himself.

Still, I liked the fantasy of Mikhail spending his time as well as his money and effort on choosing something just for me. He’s such a serious man. I imagined him waffling over which dish would be the best for me, and that small act felt more intimate than it should have been.

I manage to swallow my snort when Molly introduces me to Evelyn as Mikhail’s friend.

“I’m one of his ballerinas,” I say to Evelyn, pretty sure friends are acknowledged and not fucked while sleeping on stunt pads.

The next half an hour or so, Molly leads me around the store, helping me pick out things I want. I’m initially uncomfortable as I certainly don’t have the money to shop here, but she talks me into it. We both buy a lot at the corner store, but nothing leaves with us. They’ll be delivered later today. We head back to the building, and I’m sad to say goodbye to this faux freedom.

“Molly, this arrived for Mr. Ivanov.” The doorman rushes to show us a package when we finally return.

The box is fairly large but doesn’t look heavy. I offer to take it for Molly anyway. She thanks him, and we go back up in the elevator. My eyes trace the label as the car moves upward. It’s from a pharmacy, and I can only assume it’s medicine. How strange.

The elevator doors open, letting us out into Mikhail’s apartment, and I place the box on the table. Her phone chimes, and she smiles, satisfied with whatever she sees. “Our shopping will be here by four.”

“I can put everything away,” I offer. “You don’t need to stay around.” I don’t make a snarky comment about working for Mikhail being complicated, but I want to.

Molly waves me away. “One of us will handle everything. We’re around, don’t worry.”

Part of me wants to ask who “we” is, but I settle on the curiosity that unsettles me more. “Where?”

She looks me over, eyes scrutinizing like she’s working very hard to figure out a hidden meaning in my question. She crosses her arms over her chest. “I live in the building. Fifth floor. James downstairs will probably call me when everything arrives.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.” I nod, trying to make sense out of things. This is a crazy expensive building to live in, and something doesn’t make sense. Why is her employment status complicated, and what does it have to do with her being able to afford all this?

“Mikhail owns the building,” she tells me, momentarily knocking the air out of my lungs. “Ivanov is his father’s name, but his mother was… Well, you can see her name on the building.” She smiles smugly like Mikhail’s points of pride somehow belong to her too. “He makes sure the people loyal to him are taken care of.”

For once, I’m stunned into complete silence. He owns one of the most iconic buildings in this city?

Wow.

“It’s a gorgeous place to live.” My smile is forced, but Molly doesn’t say anything as she watches my pained expression.

“Well, I’ll be going now,” she says, and I just nod. Of course she had to, and I’m even more of a fool to be disappointed that this near stranger won’t spend her entire day with me.

I brush my hair out of my face, and then I remember. “Oh, and thank you for everything. For the food and all since I got here.”

Molly laughs, shaking her head. “Oh no. That was all Mikhail. I’ve been visiting my daughter for the past two weeks. She just gave me another grandson.”

“Congratulations,” I manage to say automatically, but I’m only more confused. “Wait. So Mikhail was picking up food for me?”

“Yes, as far as I know. I told you our working relationship is complicated. I suppose he could have asked someone else, but he didn’t ask me.”

I rub my face. That’s not really an answer either. Once again, I’m overwhelmingly confused about who the man I now live with is. I sit down on the couch about ready to sob, and I don’t bother hiding it from Molly. I’m so tired of hiding my emotions.

“Are you okay, Lyla?”

I crane my neck to look at her. I want to say yes, but the lie never comes. “No.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

I shake my head. “I don’t get him, and I’m not sure if my being here is making any difference to him at all.”

Feeling like a fool, I stop myself from saying anything more. I have no reason to believe that she and I are speaking in confidence.

“Do you know what happened to him? Why he needs that?” She nods toward the box of medicine.

I shake my head.

“He was in a car accident when he was young. The hit was ugly, and he had extensive damage to his skull and jaw. He’s lucky he didn’t have permanent brain damage. He couldn’t talk for a year, and even now, those joints don’t move right.

“He’s always in pain, and that makes a man tired, but it’s not only the pain. He learned to live his life with very few words, so he’s not used to expressing himself. Sometimes we need to judge him by his actions and assume the best of him.”

“What if his actions are just as confusing as his lack of explanations?”

She smiles at me. “Then maybe you need to pay better attention.”