Smitten Kitten

the end

"APOLOGY NOT ACCEPTED, and no."

There's a flash of hurt across Noel's face. "Is there anything I can say?"

Mr. Mikhailov opens his mouth to answer, but I'm faster. "We're clearly in the middle of something," I snap. "I understand basic human decency might be below your pay grade, but if you could allow us to continue our conversation, that would be great."

I shoot him a heartless smile, taking another sip of my whiskey sour.

He stumbles, and I should feel triumphant at the lost look in his eyes, but it's empty. The reservoir of outrage I've been consistently dipping into when confronted with Noel isn't as roaring as it first came to be. The victory is short-lived, and my gaze falls to the table, unable to swallow any of the emotion that's drowning in his eyes.

"Okay," he says, but the tone is his voice betrays he's anything but. "I'm sorry, I'll leave."

Just as he's ducked his head and turned on his heel, Mr. Mikhailov's loyalty that I'd thought we'd clearly established is ruthlessly broken.

"What you mean? Come, come, sit, listen!" the old man cries out with a grin plastered across his face, arms waving Noel to the seat next to him. "More is merry!"

I knew there was a reason Russians were always the villains in movies.

There's a quick pause where Noel and I lock eyes, the entire world at a stand-still, silently asking questions I don't have the answers to. Nat's grandpa is giving a Santa-esque belly laugh, still patting the seat next to him.

I give a defeated sigh.

"Well," I say, gesturing to the seat. "Don't be rude, the man told you to sit."

The hesitance on Noel's face is almost palpable, eyes wide and dumbfounded, body half-turned and unsure. I have to give another nod towards the seat to get him to move again, and he's slow on the uptake. He watches me the entire time, as if waiting for me to chuck my drink directly at his face, but I turn back to Nat's grandpa with a deep inhale instead.

Mr. Mikhailov doesn't seem bothered at all by the uncomfortable atmosphere that's settled over the table and continues regaling his epic tale of Russian Man vs. Russian Bear with the drunk enthusiasm of multiple vodka shots. I'm keeping a steady stare, refusing to acknowledge the pair of dark eyes burning into me, mostly because I'm not sure what else to say.

Noel's confusion is directly reflected in the dangerous swirl of emotions taking a hold in my throat. The anger has faded, leaving something in its wake I can't quite make sense of. Forming coherent words to explain to Noel seems like a lost cause as I absently toy with the skewer on my plate, not even sure why I even want to in the first place.

Nat shoots me a concerned look from across the room, but I send back a comforting smile. I'm not even sure what I'm comforting about.

I'm begrudgingly impressed that Noel doesn't move for the next half hour, even entertaining Nat's grandpa with a few well-placed nods and questions. I've noted that his sister, Angelica, is entertained with Christian somewhere else in the room. Nat's looks of concern aren't going unnoticed.

Noel and I, on the other hand, have gotten into the terrible middle school habit of staring at one other, accidentally locking eyes and then quickly looking away just as quick. I'm spinning the straw of my empty whiskey sour, but I don't move to get another.

In fact, the only thing that brings pause to Mr. Mikhailov is a hand on the old man's shoulder, cutting him off mid-sentence. "What? What is it?"

Nat's dad is standing behind, familiar with his prominent, pinched nose and crows feet, a proverbial warmth in his light green eyes. "Papa, let me introduce you to someone, you can finish your story with Victoria and Noel later. Come, come."