Strong Enough

Why are you doing this?

You don’t want me.

Don’t throw this away.

There’s nothing real here.

What do you want?

I want more.

I’ve got nothing more to give you.

I tried to fix it, tried to make myself into the man she wanted, tried to feel the things I was supposed to feel. In the end, I was numb. Exhausted. Empty.

Next time, I’d do better.

Frowning, I recalled the earlier disaster with Carolyn. She hadn’t seemed too bothered by it, but I was. There had to be something I could do to create some chemistry, but what? I went to the fridge and started pulling out ingredients for a salad—lettuce, tomato, cucumber, carrots, radishes. While I was slicing the tomato, Maxim came back into the kitchen, inhaling deeply.

“That smells so good. My mouth is watering.”

“Hope steak is okay.” I placed some greens on a dinner plate, added the tomato slices, and started slicing a radish. “I had one thawed out I was going to make for dinner tonight but I ended up going out.”

“I’d probably eat the plate you put it on, I’m so hungry, but yes. I love steak. This is so nice of you.”

I met his eyes only briefly and looked down at the cutting board again. Fuck. That blue. “I don’t mind. I like to cook.”

“I’m starting to fee

l glad my ride didn’t show up at the airport to get me. I would not be eating so well if he had.”

I finished the salad and turned the steak over. “So he just didn’t show?”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. But I’m hoping it was only a miscommunication. Hey, could I charge my phone?”

“Yeah. I have a charger right there on the counter.” I pointed to where I meant, and he took his phone from his pocket and plugged it in.

“Thanks. I can’t believe I forgot mine.”

“It happens.” I noticed he was looking over my shoulder into the dining room, a curious look on his face. “Go on. You can look around if you want.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be too forward. But your house is so nice.”

“I’m sure. And thank you.” I grabbed a bottle of wine from the small fridge under the counter. “I decided to have a glass of wine. Would you like one?”

“No, thanks. I’m not much of a wine drinker.”

“Something else?” I asked, pulling the corkscrew from a drawer. “Vodka?”

“I’m not really a vodka drinker either.”

“I thought everyone drank vodka in Russia.” I took a glass down from the cupboard and winced. “Sorry. That’s probably a stereotype.”

But he smiled. “Plenty of Russians drink vodka. It might be a generational thing.”

“How old are you?” I couldn’t resist asking as I yanked the cork from the bottle.

“Twenty-four.”