Entering through the front doors of the restaurant I slept in a few nights ago was a different experience today. It may be timeworn and slightly dusty, but the delicious smells that hit me in the face made me salivate. Unlike the first time I was here, the place was now full. I locked eyes with a man I recognized from that night. The smoker. He leaned against the bar nursing a glass of clear liquid. His gaze flickered with something so harsh I grew cold. I needed to look up United States— Russia relations the first chance I got. Ronan removed my coat, and the glide of his fingers down the fabric of my dress dropped my heartbeat between my legs. “Zholtoye,” he said thoughtfully, his eyes on the dress, as if he’d been wondering what was beneath my coat. Yellow. My breath slowed. “Tebe . . . nravitsya zheltoye?” Do you like yellow? His gaze lifted, holding, pressing, burning mine while stealing every ounce of breath in my lungs. He never answered me, but something told me he liked yellow, as well as the unpracticed Russian on my lips. We sat at a booth in the low-lit corner, and the conversation was easy and effortless in a way it shouldn’t be with a stranger. Ronan asked if I attended college. In an effort to not show him how trivial my life was, I changed the subject and questioned him about himself. I learned his last name was Markov, and he had a brother who lived in New York City with a pregnant wife and young daughter. Ronan sounded sentimental when he spoke of them, and I fell a little further into his hands. Soon, he’d be able to mold me like putty. He was suave with rough edges, pulling an ice cube from a tenthousand-dollar glass of vodka and biting down on it. It only reminded me of his mouth on mine, the dirty way he kissed, and the absence of his hands on my skin. My cell rang incessantly in my dress pocket. When I saw my papa’s number on the screen, the phone slipped from my fingers and landed with a thump on the table that seemed to rouse the entire dining room’s attention. I watched the device buzz and buzz, shaking the silverware beside it and the heart in my chest. I knew if I answered the call, my papa would talk me straight onto a plane headed home. I did everything to make him happy, going so far as to accept a proposal from a man I didn’t even want, thinking in the end, those whispered words in the hall would fade away, my papa would be proud of me, and everything would be all right.