I’ve known for a week now; I’ve been living in Andrey’s pool house for almost as long. Enough is enough.
I need to tell my aunt.
I dial Aunt Annie’s number and spend the next five seconds hoping—like the coward I am—that she won’t pick up.
“Nic-Nat!” she greets. “I was wondering when you’d call.”
“Sorry, Aunt Annie. I’ve been busy.”
“I was worried you took me too seriously the last time. I wasn’t complaining about all your calls, you know.”
“I know, I know,” I assure her. “This is on me. I really have been busy.”
“Well, then, that’s a good enough reason to ignore your batty old aunt,” she chuckles. “I want you to live your life, my darling girl. If you’re busy, that’s good news.”
I find a shady spot under one of my favorite red sycamores and slide down the trunk to the soft ground.
