The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(51)

“Where to?” I say when I get in.

“I’m in the mood for Russian food. Have you ever had any?”

“I had some blinis with caviar at the Russian Samovar place in the city, but that’s kind of it,” I say.

“That’s an appetizer and isn’t the kind of thing people eat every day. Not unless they’re some kind of oil oligarchs,” she explains. “But it’s a decent example.”

“Okay, that settles it. Can you direct me to a good place?” I say.

“Yeah. Take two lefts over there. We’re going to this place called Winter Garden,” she says, and I start driving.

A couple of turns later, I’m getting a bad feeling. “What part of Brooklyn is this place located in? It is in Brooklyn, right?”

“Yes. It’s located where most good Russian food can be found. Brighton Beach,” she says. “Have you ever been there?”

“No. But, Mira, isn’t that the place where all the Russian Mafia hang out?” I try to sound nonchalant.

“A lot of people hang out there,” she says dismissively.

“Right, but we’re on their shoot-to-kill list,” I say. “Other people are not.”

“You’re such a worrier.” There is a hint of laughter in her voice. “Brighton Beach is a big place, and it’s the middle of the day on a Saturday, with tons of people around. But if you’re scared, we can get sushi.”

“No, let’s go to this Winter Garden place,” I say, trying to sound confident. I don’t point out that the last time we got shot at by those people, it was in the morning, or the fact that the bullets went right through a very public playground. I figure the odds are on our side, but even if not, I don’t want to reinforce the idea that I am a ‘worrier.’

“Great, turn onto Coney Island Avenue at that light. Yes, there.” As I turn, she says, grinning, “I have been meaning to ask you, do you always drive this slowly?”

“What’s the point of going fast when I see the light changing to red?” I say, realizing that she’s beginning to talk and act like the Mira I’m more familiar with. It’s oddly comforting and even fun in a way.

“You could’ve totally made that green,” she says. “Next time, you should let me drive.”

I picture her driving like Caleb, only worse, and make a solemn vow never to let her drive, unless it’s an emergency. I also don’t dignify her jibe with a response.

Her grin widens. “How is your head?” she asks when I stubbornly remain silent.

“Much better, thanks.” With everything going on, I’d nearly forgotten about the wound. “Just a little itchy.”

“That means it’s healing.”

“Cool. I hope that’s the case. How was your day yesterday? How’s your brother doing? Did he visit Julia again? How is she recovering?”

For the rest of the way to the restaurant, she tells me how boring it is at the hotel. How Eugene is impossible to be around when he doesn’t have his ‘science stuff’ with him. He wants to run ideas by her, share epiphanies, and carry on conversations. Mira’s only reprieve was his visits with Julia, who was let out of the hospital today. Now, Julia is apparently staying in the same hotel as Mira and Eugene until she’s completely recovered—she doesn’t want her family to know about her adventures.

“So Eugene is off your back, it seems,” I say as we pull into a public parking lot. “He’ll probably be busy with Julia from now on.”

“Yeah, I guess,” she says and makes a face before climbing out of the car.

“What’s the problem?” I ask as I feed the parking meter.

“I’m not a fan of that relationship of his,” she says as she walks toward a pathway that leads to a large wooden boardwalk. “Last time, Julia’s father interfered with their relationship, and Zhenya was really hurt.”

“Is Zhenya Eugene’s nickname?”

“Yes, that’s what I call him sometimes.”

“What about you, do you have a nickname? I can suggest a few, like Mi—”

“No,” she says. “Please don’t. My name is already short.”

She walks a few seconds in silence, and I wonder if I touched on a sensitive topic. Maybe her parents called her by a nickname, and this made her think of them?

“We’re here,” she says, bringing me out of my thoughts.

We’re standing next to a place that has a sign that reads “Winter Garden.” If no one tries to kill us during our meal, I’ll have to admit that Mira made an excellent choice when picking this place. The tables are situated on a wooden boardwalk, with the beach and the ocean beyond it. The weather is beautiful, and the ocean breeze brings sounds of the surf and smells that I associate with vacation.

When we take our seats, I look at the menu.

“It’s all in Russian,” I complain.

“Think of it as a compliment,” she says. “They must think you’re Russian, though I personally have no idea why.”

“That’s okay. I don’t want to be mistaken for a Russian. I don’t have too high of an opinion of them after the last few days. Present company excluded, of course.” I smile at her.