Page 185 of Sexting the Pakhan

“No.”

Nadia takes the box from her and reads the nutrition panel. “This is barely food.”

Mila gasps. “That is rude.”

“It’s also correct.”

Ruslan says, “How do you both talk this much before dinner?”

I say, “Practice.”

He gives me a look. “I can tell.”

We make it to dairy without anyone crying, which counts as a victory. I’m reaching for milk when a woman beside us smiles and says, “Oh, your girls are adorable.”

I turn automatically. “Thank you.”

“Before you ask, yes, we’re twins,” Nadia says seriously.

The woman chuckles and looks at Ruslan, then at me, then back at the girls with the easy confidence of someone who has already decided the shape of our lives.

“You’ve got your hands full,” she tells him.

I open my mouth.

Ruslan, bastard that he is, says nothing.

The woman keeps smiling. “And they look so much like their father.”

Time stops.

Mila is busy trying to reach the cereal shelf. Nadia is reading ingredients.

The woman is still smiling.

I drop the packet of pasta I’m holding. Ruslan crouches first despite the leg, gets the pasta, and when he straightens, he’s looking at me.

The woman is still talking, entirely unaware she has just detonated my nervous system in aisle seven. “They have his eyes,” she says to me cheerfully, nodding at Ruslan. “Especially the quieter one.”

Nadia looks up at that. “I’m not the quieter one. I’m the more selective one.”

The woman laughs. “Well, selective then.”

Mila says, “I have Mama’s mouth.”

The woman says, “You do, sweetheart.”

Ruslan is not listening to her anymore. He’s looking at Mila. Then Nadia. Then back at me. Something changes in his face.

His gaze moves over the girls again, slower now.

Mila’s eyes.

Nadia’s mouth.

The line of Nadia’s jaw when she’s stubborn.

The dark curls.