Shy?In what world was Artyom Rustanov shy?
But there was a bigger issue on the (tiny nightclub) table. One way more shocking than Artyom’s totally untrue self-concept.
“You want me to have sex with you?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
His jaw tightened, but in the end, he answered, “Da, I would like you to come back to my hotel room with me. It is my family’s policy to have this document signed before we engage in any interpersonal relationships. Unorthodox but perhaps understandable for someone with my last name.”
So. Artyom Rustanov.
Like,theArtyom Rustanov.
Wantedme.
In. His. Bed.
“I see.” I cleared my throat, my brain trying to catch up as the words on the contract’s top page swirled beneath my eyes. I was only 22% percent sure I was not at this moment stroking out. “Yeah, totally understandable. And probably wise. Is that why you’re not drinking?”
“That is whyyouare not drinking,” he corrected. “As the form states, you must have had nothing with alcohol to drink for at least two hours upon our first meeting.”
“But it hasn’t been two hours…” I started to say, only to trail off when a quick glance at my watch let me know that two hours was exactly how much time had passed since I sat down.
I didn’t know what was more shocking. That hours had gone by in what seemed like minutes. Or that he had ordered me that NA drink, knowing that this was where he was headed.
“Wow, I guess time really does fly when you’re having fun talking about Statistics.”
“Da.” Yom produced a pen out of nowhere and set it down on top of the thick blocks of legal text. “Would you like to have more fun with me, Lydia? If so, you are only having to sign the contract.”
YOM
Library Girl was here.Here in Berlin. Walking into his hotel room at the Tourmaline, as if she had stepped out of the thousands of moments he’d spent watching her and into his life.
The sight of her back lit by the city lights felt surreal, like she belonged to another reality, a better one that didn’t include him. And yet, she was standing there, close enough to touch. His chest tightened with something between joy and panic.
It was all Yom could do not to stare, or track her like he usually did when he spied her from afar at the campus library.
All the carrels at U of M-Gemidgee had been named for Minnesota celebrities. The most prominent one was the Prince Rogers Nelson carrel, which had been painted in the artist’s signature shade of purple. That one had a waiting list a kilometer long. Yom had witnessed students nearly coming to blows over it when the person who’d reserved it failed to show up, leaving it open for the taking.
But Library Girl always bypassed it, heading straight for the Anne Tyler carrel at the far end of the row pressed against the library’s only windowless wall.
At the beginning of each semester, all the Gemidgee Yolks players on Division 1 athletic teams were given their choice of dedicated carrels on the much quieter second floor of the open-plan Joseph Carrington Library. Yom’s freshman year, he’d chosen the Richard Dean Anderson carrel simply because it had a great window view of the campus while being hidden from the rest of the building. Unless someone was truly dying to read a physical book about the natural history of microorganisms, fungi, and algae, no one ever bothered him there.
But then, one spring day, he saw her walking up to the front doors—a mesmerizing beauty in a pale blue dress and cardigan. That first year, she’d worn her hair in shoulder-length extensions.
Her weave framed her face in soft black waves, held back by a wide headband. As she glided up the stairs, her cardigan had slipped slightly off one shoulder, exposing smooth dark brown skin.
Large doe eyes. A sweet, heart-shaped face. She had an awkward manner that somehow came off as true grace. She was unlike anyone or anything Yom had ever seen in the small Midwestern town where he had chosen to go to university. Even then, she’d looked like someone who didn’t belong in his world but had somehow wandered into it anyway.
Yom had left his hidden carrel to visually track her all the way to the Anne Tyler one on the first floor. Then the next day, when he arrived to study for Statistics, he’d checked the printedreservation list on the carrel’s side. There was only one name on it for every 6 -10 pm slot that month: Lydia C.
But in his mind, he continued to call her Library Girl as he switched his dedicated study space to the Kelly Lynch carrel, which gave him a direct sightline to the wall-facing carrels but kept him hidden in the shadows of the “Cold-Blooded Vertebrates” section.
Now Library Girl was actually standing in his hotel room in Berlin.
She wasn’t supposed to be here—not yet. He’d planned it all out so carefully. She was to be his reward for a perfect last university season, the prize he’d finally deserve after leading the Yolks to a USCA Hockey Championship win. But she was here. Thousands of kilometers away from that library. Standing in front of him. Months ahead of schedule.
“Everything okay?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him with a worried look.
Her voice was even better than he’d imagined it would be without the musical interference from the nightclub. Like drinking a cup of hot chocolate instead of smelling it at the next table.
