Chapter 3
“Phenomenal,” Astakhov responded dryly.
I kissed him again. It was better than hearing his cool, even tone.
And again, a shock hit the top of my head, even though we hadn’t even started kissing like adults.
And then I sniffed Kirill’s lips. They smelled of coffee and tobacco. I sniffed and giggled softly, and for some reason the process itself made me laugh.
Unfazed by his indifference, I dragged him into the house, barely aware of where I was taking him. After two unsuccessful attempts to find a spare room, where we disturbed the privacy of other guests, Kir finally joined the quest and found us an empty bedroom in a matter of seconds.
This impressed me as if he’d accomplished something heroic. And I hastened to reward him with a luscious kiss on the cheek, which I had to reach to reach.
The door clicked shut behind us, and the light flickered on automatically. I reached for a third kiss.
Everything seemed so chaotic, hyperbolic, intangible. The sensations were sharp, vivid, powerful. And yet, strangely enough, I felt like I was in slow motion, fuzzy and blurry.
The intoxication washed over my head in waves, each wave more powerful than the last, washing away the remnants of rational thought. For example, that I was supposedly Azamat’s girlfriend. And that we were celebrating Aybazov’s birthday. And now we were sinning with his close friend.
Oh, who cares!
I feel sooo good…
Astakhov seemed magical; I undressed him with reckless hands and admired his features, especially his attentive light green eyes, which now seemed narrowed like a cat’s. The sharp lines at the corners of his mouth made him look older than his years. And even though there was only a four-year difference between us, Kir always seemed grown-up and accomplished because of his mature appearance. The contrast between his stern exterior and his stunningly soft lips was all the more striking.
So I even touched them with my fingertips, testing the authenticity of my clouded perception.
We moved to the bed. I was already without my dress, shamelessly showing off my body and glad that Kirill wasn’t groping my breasts, or rather, my lack thereof. Azamat would pounce on them first, which unnerved me terribly, knowing he wouldn’t find anything under the thick layer of foam. That’s why I was terribly embarrassed.
They were very different, actually—Aybazov and Astakhov. The former seemed like a bear to me—big, warm, reliable. And the latter… more like a puma or a cheetah. Deceptively calm and dangerous. And yet… I was never able to fully trust Azamat. A paradox.
Kissing Kir blindly, I pulled him closer and pressed myself against his bare skin. I loved the absence of useless fuss between us so much that Astakhov’s heart throbbed steadily while my own raced.
Kirill was fearless, yet delicate. I felt no pain when he entered me. Only a tight squeeze, an overwhelming fullness that was disorienting. My stomach twitched anxiously, but relaxed almost immediately.
Kir’s warm breath fanned my face, and I gently scratched his shoulders and closed my eyes, capturing the strange sensations… the sun’s rays beneath my eyelids. Like childhood, when you’re lying in the lush summer grass, exposing yourself to the hot rays, and you close your eyes, enjoying the flashes of phosphenes. An inexplicable pleasure… so simple and real.
I think I even burst into tears.
I was bursting with feelings that were too vast and beyond my control.
As soon as Astakhov stopped and lay down next to me, I immediately wrapped myself around him, nestling against his side in a deep, uncontrollable need for human warmth. I sighed happily and drifted off.
I’ve never liked waking up alone. But this waking up alone was especially hard. It was murky, nauseating, and terrifying.
A hollow, hungover sense of something terrifying was ringing in my head. And when I recalled the night’s events… I jerked awake. Hysterically shoving the pillows and blanket aside, I searched for blood on the sheets. My vision was darkening, the world was spinning, but despite this, my actions were hasty and abrupt.
The fabric was white. It was disconcerting.
I know I hadn’t dreamed about sex with Astakhov. My lower abdomen was tugging uncomfortably, and my underwear was lying on the floor next to the bed… That’s where I sank, dazed, clutching at my hair with shaking fingers.
What have you done, you fool?..
I asked myself this question on repeat, biting my lips so hard I wouldn’t burst into tears.
Physically, it was unbearably bad, but mentally, it was simply far more unbearable.
Unable to imagine how to survive what had happened, I couldn’t think of anything better to do than run away. Taking a circuitous route, avoiding the already awake members of the group, I ran out of the house, barely able to orient myself. The main thing was that I didn’t see Azamat, Zhanna, or Kirill.
A taxi was waiting outside the gate, unreasonably expensive and, frankly, ordered with the last few thousand rubles on my card. But I was in such a hurry to leave the cottage that I barely considered how I would live afterward.
The driver gave me a searching look in the rearview mirror, and his intense scrutiny made me feel even worse. My cheeks burned with shame, as if the man could possibly know what had happened. And then there was my disheveled appearance, my smudged makeup, the panic in my eyes…
About ten minutes into the drive, I forgot about him, rightly concluding that taxi drivers see either something like this or something even more risqué every day. And even more immoral.
It was much more difficult to get my thoughts in order and stop shaking.
I was lost. Scared. Cowardly.
I called my case manager and lied about being sick. It wasn’t that difficult; my voice remained hoarse and toneless. I also informed my work, claiming I’d taken sick leave. I had to trudge to the nearest clinic and go through all the paperwork, registering with the clinic and making an appointment with a therapist, which took about three hours.
I looked so genuinely sick that the doctor didn’t ask me a single unnecessary question. Everything went according to protocol, with a prescription issued at the end and a follow-up appointment scheduled.
And then I came home. And hiding from myself was no longer an option. There was nothing else to distract myself with. Turning off my phone, I curled up on the couch under the blanket and chased the same truth out of my mind: this is a disaster. To screw up so skillfully on all fronts… you have to be able to do it.
God, why did you give me such a tiny brain? How did I decide to sleep with the best friend of my… um… now ex-boyfriend? How did I take such a disastrous step? Astakhov and I didn’t even have the slightest attraction for each other! My first time was with a man who looked at me like I was second-class! I put off intimacy with Azamat for so long, thinking that the event called losing my virginity should take place in a special setting, I tried so hard to prepare, to get in the right frame of mind… And I completely screwed it up. I senselessly wasted an important night.
Fuzzy images floated through my mind, and as I pieced them together, I almost howled, admitting that I had practically forced myself on Kirill. I alone was to blame. And I had no illusions.
I felt sorry, incredibly sorry for the loss of something truly meaningful. Wasted. Needlessly and senselessly squandered.
Even though Aybazov had acted treasonably, and I didn’t even want to think about Zhanna, I shouldn’t have been like them. In my own eyes, I had sunk to the lowest level, surpassing the baseness of my “friends.”
For the next week, I rushed from one corner of my modest one-room apartment to another, alternately angry with myself and consoling myself. My soul was tormented by regret and the pain of irreversibility. I countered these minor feelings with a single argument: no big deal, people have lived through worse things, you just need to get used to it and not make tragedies out of nothing.
If I had my way, I would have extended my sick leave for at least a month, so as not to leave my apartment and face a reality that had now become different for me—more crooked, sharper, and more merciless. Alas, I had to cancel my sick leave and report to class, shying away from every sound. I was terrified of running into anyone from the group; I didn’t want to talk to any of them. And to avoid accidentally bumping into the kids, I darted between classes, head down, quickly running from one classroom to the next, not lingering in the hallways for a second. I explained to the girls that I was still weak, so I didn’t want to stand on my feet for long.
However, this terrible moment overtook me.
Right as I was leaving the university, Azamat appeared before my eyes. And, apparently, he was purposefully looking for a meeting.
My heart sank, my whole body sank, and I froze when the guy stood right next to me.
It was hard to look at him, to the point of tears. Aybazov had become such a family member to me, I thought I was in love with him, and that the feeling was mutual, and now everything seemed absurd. What I was expecting, I don’t know. A naive, dim-witted fool.
Azamat covered my fingers with his palm and immediately said,
“Listen, I’m sorry…”
My nose immediately stung. I swallowed.
“I’m sorry it happened…
” “You too,” I managed to whisper.
I believed in Aybazov’s sincerity; even now he was a warm, big teddy bear, into whom I wanted to bury my face. And, if only for a brief moment, forget my problems in his tender embrace. Cheerful, kind, reliable. Never boastful about his money, never putting himself above others.
Brown eyes, thick, striking eyebrows, a masculine face… God, I really, really liked him.
It was incredibly difficult not to cry.
“Véronique, in any case… don’t pull away. I want us to continue talking, even if it’s just as friends. Don’t refuse, okay? And come with us today; the guys missed you too.”
It sounded so absurd and cruel that I couldn’t find a response. I just stared at my ex in silence. Like a mute.
Some guy tugged Azamat by the shoulder, tossed him something in their language, and then jerked his head to the side, hurrying him out.
“Coming, coming,” he waved his hand and turned back to me. “We have to get ready, I’m in a hurry. We agreed, right?” I nodded mechanically, unable to speak. “Go ahead! And pick up the phone when you and Zhanna call! Come on!”
“When Zhanna and I call you.”
How sweet.
Yes, I ignored calls from both of them. But those calls were few and far between. Incidentally, my partner had only shown up three times in the past week. I was especially diligent in pushing thoughts of her away.
Naturally, I didn’t respond to Aybazov’s invitation. And for the next few weeks, I avoided everyone I could.
On the day our session officially began, my vigilance dulled.
Zhanna and I bumped into each other in the foyer. It was so unexpected that I meekly allowed myself to be pulled toward one of the columns, only to hear:
“Let’s talk?”
