Later that week, laughter and the smell of smoke fill the rec room after dinner. It’s loud. Too loud, but I don’t make a face, and I don’t let on.
I took Queenie to the vet yesterday to check for an identity microchip, but there was none. And although I left my contact details with the vet in case anyone reports a missing cat, there’ve been no calls so far.
Nikolai leans back in his chair as he examines his hand for the fifteenth time since Matvey dealt them. A few of the other men around the table, various ranks among them, all billow smoke and talk about this and that.
Nikolai hums, and my gaze drifts from the poker to the screen on the wall yet again, just like it has repeatedly since I sat in this chair forty-five minutes ago. I’ve paid just enough attention to thegame not to clean out just yet—it’s close, but I frankly don’t give a shit.
No, my attention’s on the screen. On the soft instrumental music. On the sound of the skates gliding against the ice. On the way the figure skaters’ bodies arch and twist and spin.It’s calming. Methodical. It makes sense.And it’s the only thing that keeps me from a spiral I can’t afford to show right now.
I like watching figure skating after dinner. I often download some online videos and watch them on the big screen in the rec room. The other men don’t mind as it reminds them of life in Russia where figure skating is a popular national obsession.
Watching the skating calms me down and keeps the nonstop trains in my head from becoming a tangled wreck of anxiety. Each graceful glide has my eyes following. Each twirl soothes me just a little more.
“You’re turn, Viktor.”
I hum, peaking at my cards before I look at Nikolai and fold, turning my attention back to the screen once more. There was no way I was winning that hand anyway, so I don’t let his scrunched nose of disappointment that I’m not interested bother me.
Instead, I lean back into the chair just as the girl on the screen lands, her arms fanning out.
The room fades.
The men’s voices disappear.
And my body relaxes.Finally.
The tension inside me melts, and I can breathe. This peace is only going to last for a few minutes, but it’s precious minutes I’ll take.
After the skating ends, I stand, leaving the men to their own devices. I go up to my room. Queenie is curled up on the chair next to the bed, soundly sleeping. I run through my nightly routine like clockwork. Teeth brushed. Face washed off. Black clothing tossed into the hamper. New black clothing laid out. Everything orderly and in the right place.
I settle into the bed, tucking my arm behind my head. And with a sigh of relief, I get comfortable. As usual, the overstimulation from the day has me on edge. Closing my eyes, I just breathe, listening to thesilence of my room. The soft puffs of breath from Queenie are soothing, and I relax into my mattress a little more. I don’t know why, but something about this animal calms me and grounds me. I don’t know if it’s the gentleness of her purrs or the softness of her fur, but it’s like she understands me—and understands what I need.
Minutes tick by before I pull out my phone, wanting something more. The video is grainy. It shakes a little before the camera directs onto a skater as she takes to the ice in a Tinkerbell outfit.
My eyes track her. The green dress she wears swishes and sways effortlessly around her. She’s so graceful. Whoever she is.
The video is at least a few years old at this point, and still no one in the comments has a name. She’s a mystery, and yet I can’t stop watching her in this video over and over again.
She commands the ice. Flawless in everything she does. My eyes drift to the comments once more with some foolish hope someone knows who she is. Whoever she is, I know she never went pro. At least not from what I can tell after my relentless online searches. No major competitions. No social media. She’s just someone whose extraordinary talent was never fully realized, and that guts me.
Queenie wakes with a lazy meow, stretching out her fluffy paws before settling down back to sleep. My eyes flicker back to the screen just as Tinkerbell—as I’ve come to call her—lands her triple axel perfectly. Who knew someone like me would learn figure skating terms?
The want to know who she is gnaws at me. The need consumes me every time I watch this. She’s a mystery. An enigma. And I can’t stop wanting to find out who she is. The shots showing her face are far too grainy to see any real detail. The blurry video looks like an amateur one, perhaps taken during a small competition, and the only clue is the murmured Russian voice at the end talking about one of the jumps—maybe he’s her coach.
Did she go on to better things? Does she still skate? Where is she now? The questions roll on and on in my head even as my eyes grow heavy.
Like every night before, the mystery of who this woman is plagues me even as sleep tugs me under.
CHAPTER FOUR
AVELINA
I take off my glasses and let my eyes rest as the thin clouds spread out just past the window, obscuring the blur of cities below.
It’s not been long since I ended things with Geliy. The divorce should be finalized soon. I still feel sad when I remember how things ended up between us, but I know it’s for the best. And as much as it saddens me, I know it’s also the best thing for our two children. My mind drifts back…
The table looks like it belongs in a magazine spread.
Candles flickering, I got the good plates and linen napkins out. I even ironed the tablecloth like some 1950s housewife, and I’ve wrangled the kids into clean clothes.
