Chapter 9: One Bed

Mara took Pavel next door at nine that night, and she carried the cot herself.

"Room ten has a better lock," she said, at the door. "And a worse television. Lock this one behind me."

She looked at the double bed, and at me, and at Luka.

"There's one bed in here," she said. "I didn't plan it. Don't thank me."

She closed the door.

I turned the lock.

Luka was standing at the window with his back to me.

He had washed his face, and the water had left dark marks on his collar.

"I'll take the floor," he said.

"You have stitches."

"I've slept on worse."

"Luka, it's a very large bed."

He didn't turn around.

"I think," he said slowly, "that if I get into it, I won't sleep."

I crossed the room.

I stopped behind him, close enough to feel the heat of his back, and I put my palm flat between his shoulder blades.

He went rigid.

"You said I couldn't kiss you again unless I meant it," I said.

"I did."

"I mean it."

He turned.

His eyes were black in the dim light, and his jaw was set so hard that a pulse beat in it.

"Don't say it because you're afraid," he said. "Or tired. Or because I'm hurt."

"I'm not afraid. I'm tired. You're hurt." I took a step closer. "I mean it anyway."

"You've been lying to me for twenty months."

"Yes."

"Say something that's true."

"I have wanted to take you apart since the night you told me the train was too dangerous," I said.

"I just never had a way to say so that a florist would say."

His breath left him in a rush.

"Show me the florist," Luka said, and his voice dropped. "Go on. I want to see her."

"Careful."

"I'm not careful." He caught my braid in his fist and wound it once around his hand. "Not tonight."

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