Strong Enough

The bartender gave me a sympathetic look. “L.A. traffic can be awful. Have you called him?” She handed my passport back to me, and I tucked it inside my coat pocket.

“I can’t. My phone is dead. And I forgot to pack my charger.” I gave her a smile intended to charm. I wasn’t into women and never intentionally led them on, but I won’t lie, sometimes being attractive to them was helpful. “Do you think anyone has one here I could use?”

It worked—or she was just nice, because she smiled back warmly. “I can check. Let me get you that beer—sounds like you need it. What kind would you like?”

“Corona, please.”

She nodded, and a moment later, she set it in front of me. “This one’s on me. I’ll put your food order in. You’re probably super hungry after that long trip.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

After a long drink from the bottle, I pulled my notebook from my bag again, and a school photo of my eight-year-old sister Liliya fell out from the front pages. She’d given it to me right before I left, and on the back she’d written, To Maxim. Don’t forget about me. Love, Liliya. I set it on the bar as a woman slid onto the empty seat next to me. “Hi there.”

She was about my age and dressed professionally, like maybe she worked in an office, but she was the kind of American blonde I pictured more like a lifeguard on TV or a dancer in a beach movie. Her grin was confident and flirty. American women were so different from Russian.

“Hello,” I said.

She glanced at the photo of Liliya and gasped. “Oh my God, she’s so beautiful! And she looks just like you. Is that your…daughter?” she asked tentatively, wrinkling her nose like she hoped that was not the case.

“No, that’s my little sister. But we do look alike.” Although we had different fathers, Liliya and I both had our mother’s wide blue eyes, dark blond hair, and

dimpled chin.

She smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Amy.”

I shook it. “Maxim.”

“Maxim.” She repeated my name as I’d said it, complete with the accent. After giving my palm a suggestive squeeze and holding onto it way too long, she swiveled to face me, crossing her legs in a way that put them on display. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I’ve never been here before.”

“I like your accent. Where are you from?” She leaned a little closer to me, so close I could smell her flowery perfume.

“Russia.”

“I was going to guess that!” She looked pleased with herself and slapped me lightly on the leg. “What brings you to L.A.?”

“Just visiting.”

“Traveling alone?” She widened her eyes and batted her lashes.

“Uh, yeah.”

“So you’re single?”

It was strange to me the way Americans asked such personal questions. I’d have to get used to it. “Yes, but…”

“Yes, but what? You don’t like American girls?” she teased.

Evasive words were on the tip of my tongue when a voice spoke up in my head. There’s no reason to hide here.

“Yes, but I’m gay,” I told her, meeting her eyes directly. It was the first time I’d said the words out loud to anyone. I wasn’t ashamed or anything, but growing up where I had, sexuality simply wasn’t talked about, whether you were gay or straight. Clearly, the boundaries here were different.

Amy sighed, centering herself on her chair, her body slouched. “Figures. I knew you were too good looking to be straight.” She picked up her wine glass and took a long, long drink. “Sorry if I bothered you.”

I smiled. “You didn’t. It’s okay.”

“Somehow I always pick out the gay ones. It’s like a curse.”