Jasper’s tearing up again. “Stop. I swear to God, if you make me cry—”
“You’re already crying.”
“I’mglistening.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
We all laugh. The tension breaks.
Grandma starts cutting the rolled dough into thick strips. I add the vegetables to the pot. Ruth seasons. Jasper sets the table.
We work together. Easy. Familiar. Like we’ve done this a thousand times.
An hour later, it’s done. The dumplings are perfect—thick and fluffy, soaking up all that rich chicken broth. The kitchen smells like home.
Grandma moves to the back door. Opens it. “You two! Come eat!”
Lev’s head appears instantly. Like he’s been waiting by the door this whole time. “You sure?”
“Would I ask if I wasn’t sure?”
He’s inside before she finishes the sentence. Grinning. Shameless.
Dima follows. Silent. But there’s something in his face—almost like relief.
And suddenly Grandma’s tiny kitchen feels even smaller. Two six-foot-plus Russian men take up an enormous amount of space.
Lev has to duck under the hanging plants. Dima’s shoulders nearly brush both walls.
“Jesus,” Jasper mutters. “It’s like watching two refrigerators try to navigate a dollhouse.”
“I heard that,” Lev says.
“You were supposed to.”
We squeeze around the table. Elbows bumping. Chairs scraping. It’s cramped and ridiculous and perfect.
Grandma sets down bowls. Steaming chicken and dumplings.
Lev takes one bite. Closes his eyes. “Marry me.”
“You could be my grandson.”
“I don’t care. This is love.”
Even Dima cracks a smile. Takes a second helping before he’s finished the first.
And just like that, we’re family.
Messy. Unlikely. Ours.
50
Mary
“I’m going to look like a disco ball, aren’t I?”
