Strong Enough

Are you fucking kidding me? I thought. But I didn’t say anything as he jumped out of the car. Who knew what his living conditions had been like back in Russia? Maybe this place looked like a palace to him.

Still.

“How long are you planning to stay here?” I got out of the car and shut the door, making sure I locked it. “This isn’t the greatest area.”

“For a little while, at least.” He glanced around the parking lot. “I hope it’s close to public transportation. I'll need that.”

“Public transportation? You won't get too far on public transit around here.”

“No? I guess I’ll get around by walking then.”

I stared at him. “Maxim, this is L.A. Nobody walks in L.A. Haven’t you heard that song?”

His face was blank. “No.”

I took a deep breath, feeling my blood pressure rise. How was it possible someone could make a transatlantic move with so little preparation? Was he one of those people that things just worked out for somehow? Who succeeded solely on instincts, determination, and charm? Maybe Maxim was truly poised on the edge of achieving the American Dream, but I had a bad feeling about this place. While I was trying to figure out how to help him without getting too invested, he held out his hand.

“Hey, thank you for driving me. And for—everything. I won’t forget this.”

I shook his hand, ignoring the heat that ricocheted up my arm at the clasp of our palms. “You sure you’re all right here? Maybe I should wait. Make sure this is the right place.”

“No.” His voice was firm. “You’ve done enough for me. And I’ll return the clothes as fast as possible.”

“Keep them.” I liked the thought of him in my clothes. I could allow myself that one small thing, maybe even file it under being charitable, since he had so little.

We looked at each other for a moment, and I was glad I had the sunglasses on. To keep myself from saying or doing something I’d regret, I shoved my hands into my pockets. “Well. Good luck.”

“Thanks. See you around, I guess.” With one last smile, he turned and walked toward the entrance.

He got about ten feet.

“Maxim!” I jogged to catch up with him, even though every instinct in my body was telling me to get the fuck in the car and go home. “Let me stay and make sure you get in okay.” That was reasonable, right? That’s what Ellen would have done. There were all kinds of weirdos around here. And what if the address was wrong?

“You can if you want to, but it’s not necessary.”

“I’ll feel better if I do. Ellen will never forgive me if anything else goes wrong for you,” I joked. By the time we reached the door, I had myself mostly convinced I was doing it for Ellen.

The door opened into a stairwell, which immediately struck me as a safety hazard. So anyone could simply walk in?

“It’s apartment 202,” Maxim said, glancing at his phone as he climbed the stairs. “Second level.”

On the second floor, we entered a dark, humid hallway that smelled like old fried food. My stomach turned.

Apartment 202 was right across from the stairs. The door was open slightly, and Maxim knocked before pushing it all the way open.

The air was hazy inside and the lighting dim, so it took my eyes a moment to adjust. The first person I saw was a stocky, dark-haired guy in a white tank top smoking in the kitchen, which was over to the right side of one big room. On the opposite side there were a few people slouched on a dingy couch staring at their screens. One of the two girls said hi and the other one waved, but the guy didn't even pick up his head. He was all into his laptop, which was covered with stickers. The TV sat on the floor, tuned to CNN, though no one appeared to be watching. The place reeked of stale cigarette smoke.

“He didn't tell me there we

re two of you,” said the guy in the tank top.

“There aren’t. My friend is just dropping me off,” Maxim said. “Are you Mike?”

The guy nodded.

“Nice to meet you. Is this the apartment?" Maxim asked.

I wondered if he was praying the guy would say no, like I was.