Creeps, Anonymous

Chapter 16 - Samba de Orfeu

[Author's Note: Content Warning for descriptions of grooming allegations. If you or someone you know has been a minor victimized by an individual who has a significant age gap, please know you're not alone, and it was not your fault. The cards are often stacked against young women/partners, and we are often isolated/dismissed into silence. I hope you find peace in the coming years, and only read this chapter if you feel like you are in a good place. Know that you are deeply valued, and you do matter.]

Seating arrangements were small this year, just the four of them. No extra tables were pulled up, simply an over-laden dinner table with just the favorites. The no-frills New Years spread cut straight to the chase, but it also cut to the quick.

As everyone shuffled to grab a chair, she found herself sliding in next to Dima, her heart sinking. He helped her scoot into the table before sitting down, in an attempt to be gracious, she guessed. He had his moments–she admitted begrudgingly–where she could see his father's manners shine through. But the grace never seemed to quite last.

She brushed against his arm accidentally as she reached for her water glass and made the mistake of looking at him.

Dima looked down over his shoulder, sliding the water glass over to her. To her building irritation, she noticed that the shifting blue fabric of his shirt drew her eyes to his–sleepy and framed by that familiar craggy brow–but a color that looked like ice frozen several winters deep.

It made her angry.

She didn't want to sit here, making up similes about a pair of eyes that had made her feel so small, so many times. A look that more often than not, pinned her down with an expectation that if she flinched, she lost the game they'd been playing all these years.

Her face must have given something away, because he gave her a subtle tilt of his jaw, and lifted an eyebrow. Everything good?

She felt her lips scrunch, flicking her eyes back to the dinner conversation.

Dima's attention instilled a certain flavor of apprehension. Even when it perched, like a gentle thing on her shoulder, the knowledge that you were being perceived, meant it probably wasn't for a good reason.

Olivia pulled her glass close to her and muttered a thank-you. At the very least, she told herself, being next to him was easier than sitting across from him at the table. Here, she could make the subtle effort not to look at him without it coming across strange.

Being ignored was needling at him, she knew, but they couldn't risk any questions at a get-together this small. Either way, maybe it was time he got used to being ignored out of convenience.

Their relationship wasn't built on any sort of trust or shared interest, but rather an acute sense of plausible deniability.

There wasn't ever an explicit rule they'd set with each other—it was instead written in all the times he'd pulled away when someone was watching—while his hands remained a near-constant force on her in private. All the times her calls had gone to silent, unanswered, after making plans with her.

Slavic went to adjust the thermostat on the wall while Mila started to uncover the warm portions of dinner, steaming from the oven. Jess started on a story about a patient from her residency, but Olivia's mind kept drifting back to the thorn at her side.

For a while, sneaking around with Dima had seemed fun. He was older, he had a band, he'd cop her weed and buy her beers from the convenience store. They kept each other's secrets, and it had seemed natural never to say anything to anyone else. What they got up to wasn't anyone's business.