But the voice of my smart device jerked me out of my speculations about Yom’s motivations.
And it sparked an idea—one that might help me figure out exactly where I stood with Yom Rustanov.
Lydia
The Yolks hada home game on Valentine’s Day, which happened to fall on a Sunday that year.
After an early but delicious dinner ofshashlik, a skewered meat dish similar to shish kabobs, I waved Yom off with a cheery, “Break some eggs!”—UMG’s version of wishing good luck.
“I will,” Yom replied with the kind of unshakable confidence I could only dream of having.
Especially as I cautiously climbed the stairs a couple of hours later to leave my relationship status test in front of Yom’s bedroom door.
Or, I guess I should saydoors. His private space was guarded by two tall, intimidating ebony wood doors with steely black handles. There wasn’t a lock that I could see. Still, the setup reminded me of some imposing vault. Something that could only be opened by the owner.
Will I ever be invited inside? Do I want to be?
The soft chest feelings fluttered—along with Merry’s story about her German ex gift bombing her before his true intentions were revealed.
What were Yom Rustanov’s true intentions? Toward me?
Those questions ticked like a bomb in my belly as I returned to my room. For the next few hours, I distracted myself by scrolling on my phone and stopping to listen to a series of increasingly dramatic voice texts from Trish about her not-date with Rina at a Tegan and Sara concert:
At 8:05 p.m.:“I looped my arm through hers after we walked through security, and she didn’t shake me off!”
The next message came through about an hour later: a covert side picture of Rina in a backward cap, staring stonily at the stage. Then, “God, she’s so ridiculously masc. Totally my type. Once we get over this ‘no dating’ thing, I’m going to make her wife me.”
And finally, a little after 10 p.m.: “I am so done for. She sang along with ‘Closer’ and knew every word! That’s a sign, right?”
I was just about to send a voice message back, demanding footage of the stoic Rina singing, when a loud knock sounded on my door.
My stomach dropped to my feet, and my anxiety spiked to, like, 14 on a 1-10 scale. Yom was home.
I’d set the test, but even after hours of waiting, I wasn’t sure if I was ready for the result.
I took a deep breath and opened the door anyway.
Then immediately regretted that fifth helping ofshashlik.
My stomach pitched dangerously when I found Yom scowling on the other side of the door, holding the small white teddy bear with the red heart I’d left outside his door in one hand. In the other? My second V-day gift: a heart-shaped box of chocolates—the sight of which immediately brought Nirvana’s “Heart-Shaped Box” to mind in a very not-romantic way.
He was wearing the university’s official yellow-and-white Yolk athletic tracksuit, and despite his totally conflicting coloring—dark hair and pale skin—he somehow managed to pull it off. The sharp lines of the jacket contrasted with his lean, broad-shouldered frame like its only design goal was to look good on him. His piercing eyes—gray with flecks of silver, like storm clouds on the verge of breaking—locked on me. And narrowed.
God, why did he have to be so unfairly handsome? Even when he looked seconds away from throwing the bear back at me.
“What is this creature?” he demanded.
“Um…” Any comfort I’d felt around Yom over the past few weeks vanished in an instant. My incoming rejection alarm flared at the sight of him holding my small stuffed gift in his large hand. “Happy Valentine’s Day?”
“Is this why arena is decorated with so many frilly hearts tonight?” Yom’s scowl deepened. “I am not realizing it is this holiday—or that we are supposed to be exchanging gifts.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to get me anything,” I rushed to assure him, trying to keep my tone light, despite the embarrassment clawing at my insides. “I was just thinking you could maybe use it for your Statistics midterm next week. Trish mentioned a study she read where kids performed better on tests when they were given a small stuffed animal to take with them.”
“I am not child,” Yom said, his lip curling in a sneer. “I am grown man.”
“I mean, technically, neither of our prefrontal cortices will finish developing until we’re twenty-five—so, like, three more years, give or take....”
Yom regarded me with a flat, angry stare.
