“Did they yell at you a lot?” Andy asks as I’m getting dressed. Both boys look at me with a mix of curiosity and guilt.
“I told you, you can’t talk to adults like that. You two act like wild, uncivilized kids. And now you’re even damaging other people’s property!” I don’t hide my frustration. “I could’ve been reading to you or taking a break, but instead, I’ve gotta go play maid for the new neighbor. Get your sketchbooks out and draw. I’ll be right next door if you need me… Hey,” I pause at the door, looking at my scrappy, blond-haired troublemakers. “I love you guys! Everything’s gonna be okay!”
Renat surveys the kitchen of his new house with disgust, clearly shocked that anyone could’ve lived in such conditions. He bought the place fully furnished—with old, dusty Soviet-era rugs, a sideboard crammed with cheap dishes, and a creaky, worn-out couch. Old man Savchuk passed away five years ago, and his nephew refused to clear out the junk, thinking it’d fetch a higher price with all the clutter. I catch a flicker of panic on Renat’s handsome face and barely hold back a smirk. He looks so tough, yet so completely out of his depth.
He’s got an athletic build: broad shoulders, narrow hips, long legs. His chestnut hair is cropped short, with two shaved lines in his right eyebrow—another victim of trendy fashion. His eyes are a striking blue, like little lakes, framed by the thickest, fluffiest lashes I’ve ever seen on anyone.
“So, what do I do now?” I ask, waiting for his reaction.
“You’re coming with me to the store to grab some cleaning supplies. We need to mop the floors, clear out the cobwebs, and somehow get rid of this damn dust. Man, this old junk belongs in a landfill. I can’t even imagine sleeping on this dinosaur,” he says, casting a disdainful look at the tattered couch, burned in spots, stained in others—and it’s probably best not to think about where some of those stains came from.
“Why don’t you just stay at a hotel?” I shrug, not getting it. I don’t feel any warm fuzzies for him—I’m still mad at this jerk for laying a hand on my brother. That’s a sore spot for me. But feminine curiosity is a persistent thing, and I can’t help wanting to know more. He’s my neighbor, after all.
“Can’t. I’m being punished,” Renat sighs, catching me off guard with his answer.
He looks to be about twenty-five or twenty-seven, and I’d pegged him as an independent, rich guy. But apparently, he’s still being disciplined. Someone’s still raising this pretty boy.
I bite my tongue, staying quiet. I’ve got a ton of questions, of course, but honestly, it’s none of my business.
“My dad, Severin Bigus, is a mega-influential guy, a big-shot businessman with a tough streak,” Renat explains anyway, for some reason. “He bought this place as my exile, where I’m supposed to work on my mistakes, show him results, and bring him offerings. Prove that he didn’t waste his money on me. Plus, I’ve got a daily spending limit now, but I think I can swing some detergent and a mop,” he says, his gaze sliding over my baggy sweater and thick jeans.
I’m not trying to impress him. I don’t have time for guys right now. Never really did—life’s always thrown other priorities at me. And wasting time on good-looking guys like him? No thanks. Everyone knows they’re all huge egomaniacs who only love themselves. Princes like him don’t fall for suburban Cinderellas, and thank goodness for that. I’m not even sure the fairy tale about Cinderella and her glass slipper had a happy ending. Probably within a year, the prince was sneaking around with other women, tanking his wife’s self-esteem. After my mom ran off with her lover and my dad’s been drowning in booze ever since, I’ve got no interest in relationships or starting my own family. I just want to take care of my brothers. I want them to get an education, become independent, good people. That’s all the happiness I need. Love? That’s more for the bedtime stories I read to the twins. Real life is different—harsh. It teaches you to take a punch and never lets you relax.
“Hmm, so you can’t afford to hire a cleaning lady, which means my brother’s ‘timely’ scratch on your fancy car was pretty convenient,” I say sarcastically, trying not to stare at him too much. I’m not here to make friends. And I’m definitely not gonna feel sorry for this punished rich kid. “The store closes in half an hour. Are we going, or are we gonna keep moping and shedding crocodile tears?”
“Wow, you’re tough,” he says with a grin, grabbing his jacket. “I really lucked out. I’ll get this place in order with your help.”
I’ve never ridden in a car like this in my life, never even gotten close to one. I feel delicate and small inside this luxurious leather interior. It smells nice, and it’s warm. I glance out the window, checking if any neighbors are watching. All they need is an excuse to gossip—they’ll spin wild stories. But I’m used to it. After Mom took off three years ago, I’ve heard so much trash talk about our family that nothing surprises me anymore. Even without Renat, they’ve already slapped a label on me.
“So, why doesn’t the other twin talk?” Renat’s smooth voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
“A year ago, my dad, drunk out of his mind, slammed his head against the wall,” I reply curtly, clenching my right hand into a fist. I broke it on Dad’s jaw that day. I’ll never forgive him for what he did to Mikey. Never forgive his weakness, his worthlessness, his spineless addiction to the bottle, or what a lousy father and person he is overall.
I hear Renat sigh sympathetically, but I don’t turn my head. I don’t need anyone’s pity. I hate it.
“Is this a tough topic for you?” he asks, probably just looking for something to talk about.
“I’m definitely not here to confess my life story to you. I’ll work off the dent in your car, and that’s it. No buddy-buddy stuff!” I didn’t expect my response to come out so sharp.
“So, we’re not gonna talk about anything? Not even the weather?” he teases.
“There’s no point talking about the weather with you. You’re always driving around in your car—you don’t know what it’s like to feel the wind in your face, rain down your collar, or scorching heat,” I say, my tone leaving no room for him to think I’m here to entertain him.
“Then we’ve got a problem, Varya. ‘Cause I love to chat. I’m a super social guy, not one to hold grudges, pleasant, funny, charismatic, well-rounded…”
“No, Renat. The fact that you’re a shameless chatterbox is your problem,” I cut off his list of virtues without even cracking a smile. “Even though we’re neighbors now, our worlds don’t even overlap. I’ll help you clean up your house, and I’d appreciate it if you just ignored me after that.”