Punk Love

“Figured.” He shifted in his seat. Then added, after a few seconds, “You’re getting a little ahead of yourself. I’m not even going to kiss you. I don’t even know if I fucking like you.”

This hit me right in the gut. There was nothing quite like getting rejected by the guy you were crushing on. While on a date with him. A pregnant pause filled the air. Then Alex added, “…Honeypie.”

We both burst out laughing.

I was genuinely starting to not only enjoy the excitement of being with Alex, but actually Alex himself as a person.

We got to his house. It was an older villa, not as glitzy as I’d imagined in my head, with fountains and statutes and a secret garden the size of Paris. Then again, in my mind, he was living in Buckingham Palace and Prince Harry and Prince William were going to fist-bump me in the kitchen.

His parents weren’t home. Later on, I’d find out that his parents were never home. They owned a dental clinic downtown. And every day, after they were done treating their clients, they’d accept newcomers with no insurance and knock a few hundred bucks off their bills. Their way of giving back to the community. Pro bono, if you would.

Alex’s parents were nice, stern, and completely uninvolved in their son’s life. And Alex, I would later find out, would become exactly the same type of person.

I, however, had a different upbringing. My parents could tell me what I was feeling and thinking before I even felt or thought those things. My mom still tucked me into bed like I was a toddler and my dad took me on lunch dates every time he thought I was having a bad day, which, at my age, was basically four times a week.

Alex’s house was super nice. Nicer than mine. Spacious. With all the staples of a typical Russian home. Lots of books. Lots of oak. Lots of pickled everything on the kitchen windowsill, and a huge piano at the center of the living room.

A collection of matryoshkas lined up on the living room shelf. There were dozens of them, in all shapes and colors, and my fingers itched to grab one and open it, see how many other small matryoshkas were inside its wooden belly.

The TV in the living room was on—it would always be on—and Alex’s grandma, Sveta, sat in front of it, knitting a never-ending scarf and watching a Russian game show where everyone, and I do mean EVERYONE, was shouting aggressively at one another, but seemed happy about it.

“Hey, Babushka. This is Lara. Lara, this is Babushka.”

“Hi, Babushka!” I said cheerfully, totally ignoring the fact I just referred to her as Grandmother even though I had no ties to her. Other than marrying her grandson, of course, in due time.

“Lara is Russian,” Alex announced proudly.

Okay. That was…not super true. I mean, heritage wise, sure, there was some Russian in me. For the sake of having this Russian in me, I did not correct or contradict him.

His grandmother’s eyes lit up, and she immediately started firing things in Russian at me. I answered with a dumb smile. Alex pushed me toward the basement.

“Her dad’s Russian. She doesn’t speak it.”

“Actually, it’s my mom,” I muttered as he all but pushed me down the stairway.

“I really don’t give a damn,” he hissed under his breath, embarrassed. I could just tell he didn’t bring girls home often. And that made me so drunk with happiness I almost pulled a Tom Cruise and jumped on a couch.

“What do you want to drink?” he demanded when we were in his basement.

‘The sweet nectar of your kisses’ sounded creepy, not to mention needy, so I went for, “What do you have?”

“Water, Coke, coffee, beer, baby blood…”

“I’ll take a baby blood. Two sugars. No milk.”

He flicked his eyes toward the overhead clock.

“It’s actually beer o’clock.”

“Is it?” I asked. “Time is a tricky concept. Not to mention philosophical.”

“I’m getting you beer,” he said.

“You still need to drive me home,” I protested.

“Fine. I won’t drink,” he gritted out impatiently. Guess it was hard, trying not to be a dick when it was your default being.

“You’ll just get me drunk?” I grinned, but I wasn’t scared. I couldn’t articulate why, exactly. He was six three of muscles and pure unabashed male, and I was five two of attitude, insecurities, and questionable decisions. Still, I knew with unwavering confidence that whatever damage Alex was going to do to me, it was going to be purely to my heart and mental health. The scars were going to be deep, but not physical.

Consider me ready to be destroyed, sir.

“As I said before, I’m not going to kiss you today, so why don’t you get your head outta the gutter? I’ll wait. Be right back.”

And he was. Back. After a couple minutes, with a bottle of water for us to share and a can of Baltika. The can was already open when he handed it to me, beads of fridge sweat rolling down its curves.