Nadia
NadiaOn Thursday, I’m still at Flynn’s house. I’ve slept there four out of seven nights this week, and it’s starting to feel more like home than the Kremlin.
We’re about to head over to the Kremlin for rehearsal when Flynn gets a call from his mom.
“Hey mom. What?”
What?I immediately see by the tension in his face that something’s wrong.
The boyish expression he usually wears is replaced by a more haunted quality. “No, of course. Where are you? Send me the pin. Okay, I’ll be right there, Mom.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“My mom has been in a car accident.” A deep line etches his brow as he throws on his leather jacket and grabs his keys.
I scramble to do the same.
“Is she all right?”
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t know. She said she’s uninjured, but she was also bawling, so I couldn’t te
