American Adventure: My Uncle is Don Quixote

"I thought you were my friend..." Anya’s voice was broken. "In New York... you’re the only friend I have..."

Elizabeth knelt behind her, her hand gently stroking Anya’s back.

This bathroom had never been used. The light was warm and bright, casting their two shadows onto the wall where they overlapped.

Elizabeth didn’t say a word. Right now, any words would be superfluous, any explanation would be feeble, and any apology would be like rubbing salt in the wound.

Anya didn’t know how long she had been crying.

It could have been five minutes, or it could have been a century. She couldn’t tell the difference.

She only knew that when she finally stopped, her voice was hoarse and her eyes were swollen. The back of her nose stung, and the aftertaste in her mouth made her dry heave again, but there was nothing left to throw up.

Elizabeth didn’t rush her or say anything. She just found a brand-new towel in the vanity, ran it under hot water, wrung it out, and knelt down to hand it to Anya.

Anya took the towel and wiped her face with it haphazardly.

Her exquisite makeup was long since ruined, her eyeliner and mascara smeared into a mess. The white, hot towel now looked pitch-black.

Seeing this, Anya let out a derisive snort. She threw the towel on the floor, then slid down to sit against the wall, curling her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knees, and resting her chin on them.

Elizabeth hesitated for a moment before sitting down against the opposite wall as well.

They sat facing each other on the bathroom floor, less than three feet apart.

Anya stared absentmindedly at the slippers on her feet for a moment before she suddenly spoke.

"When I was less than ten years old, I went to someone’s birthday party—I can’t remember whose, exactly," she said softly, as if to herself. "It was in Moscow, at a huge manor."

Elizabeth said nothing, listening quietly.

"My mom and dad were both there, and so were a few pretty older girls," Anya said, her gaze growing distant as she recalled the far-off past. "One of them, a girl in a purple dress, was especially nice to me. She played with me the whole time and even taught me how to use a fork. I thought she was so beautiful back then, even more beautiful than my mother."

She paused, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly.

"It was only later that I found out those pretty girls were all my father’s mistresses."

Anya showed no particular emotion as she said this, as if she were talking about someone else.

"Things like that are common in the United States of America, too," Elizabeth said after a moment’s hesitation. "Especially in our family. The trust documents even have a specific budget item for supporting people like that."

"Mm," Anya said, tapping her chin against her knee. "I had a huge fight with my mom after I found out."

"What did she say?"

"She said that other women will always be attracted to the man you choose, and that constantly making a fuss won’t do you any good," Anya said. "If you make a scene, Dad will lose face, and people will think Mom is just jealous. When our family has problems, everyone gets hurt."

"It’s not just that my family would look vulnerable; those women would still swarm in like flies," she said, looking at Elizabeth. "My mom was right, but it took me a long time to understand that."

Elizabeth crawled over and pulled Anya into her arms.

Anya didn’t pull away this time.

She buried her face in the crook of Elizabeth’s shoulder, smelling the faint scent of her perfume.

"I didn’t have a single friend after I came to New York, did you know that?" her voice was muffled. "When I first arrived in New York, I was too scared to talk to anyone. The people at Horace Mann looked at me like I was a polar bear."

Elizabeth didn’t respond.

"I wanted to invite you to an event before," Anya continued. "The New Year’s reception for the Russian delegation to the United Nations. Do you remember?"

Elizabeth’s body trembled. ’Of course she remembered.’

"I told you two months in advance, and you promised you’d come," Anya said, lifting her head from Elizabeth’s shoulder, her red, swollen eyes welling up with indignation again. "I picked out a dress color for you, I saved you a seat, and then on the day of, you told me you weren’t coming."

"There were over a hundred people in the hall that day, and every single one of them had friends by their side. They were all dancing together." Anya’s voice began to tremble again, and goosebumps rose on her skin. "They asked me, ’Where’s your friend?’ and I said she had something come up at the last minute."

Elizabeth took a deep breath.

"That was less than two years after the incident with my father’s documentary," she said. "The entire Mellon Family was cutting ties with us. I was afraid my presence would cause unnecessary trouble for you and Mr. Sergey."

"I didn’t want to drag you into it," she said.

"But I didn’t know that at the time," Anya said. "If you didn’t tell me, how was I supposed to know? Back then, I just thought Elizabeth Mellon was like all those other fake Upper East Side bitches—all talk, but completely useless when it mattered."

"How long did we give each other the silent treatment?" she asked. "Was it a year?"

"Eleven months," Elizabeth said.

Anya buried her face again, and the bathroom fell silent once more.

"I don’t want to give up on Li Wei," she said.

"But I don’t want to give up on you, either."

There was no pause between the two sentences. It was as if Anya was afraid that if she hesitated, she wouldn’t be able to say the second one, so she rushed them both out at once.

Elizabeth’s arms tightened around her.

After she spoke, Anya fell silent for another moment.