29
NINE
Alex moved to the faucet to refill my glass, but I ignored the offer of water and found the bottle of horilka stashed inside the knitted motherfucking chicken I’d made when I was bored out of my mind one evening, watching TV with East Baldwin. He’d been fond of farming shows.
“Dasha, it’s one p.m.” Alex caught my hand before I could take a swallow.
“And it’s eleven p.m. in Moscow.”
“Alcohol won’t fix this.”
No, but it took the edge off the hurt.
“Nothing can fix this.”
“Share the load first, and if you still want a drink afterward, I won’t stop you.”
“You couldn’t stop me anyway.”
He cracked half a smile. “This is true.”
But he would judge me, and in that moment, I realised Alex’s opinion mattered. When had that happened? Before, I’d never cared what anyone else thought
