“And what is that?” she asked as I bitterly walked down the corridor, the roses making it impossible for anyone to get past me in the narrow space.
He took his shoes off, his expensive, expensive shoes that looked so out of place by my mama’s winter boots and Maxim’s worn-down Nikes.
“For you, Olga Nikolaevna,” Vitali said, “which way is thekitchen?”
I laid the flowers down on a chair in the living room while I searched for a vase. As much as I wanted to throw them off the balcony (I didn’t), it was a shame because they smelled very nice.
Someone squealed.
The space wasn’t made for so many people to fit, and the stove was still hot and no one could be too close to it, so Mama and the too-big Vitali filled almost all the room when I hurried in. His head was bent so it wouldn’t hit the tulip-shaped pendant light, which swung back and forth indicating he’d already done so once. Mama fussed, tearing the paper, and he moved aside to let me get near the kitchen table where something large took up the whole space.
“What—” The words snagged on my pride and never made it out. It was a microwave.
A brand-new Panasonic microwave.
Mama looked like she was going to faint, and began her routine of‘I can’t! Absolutely not! No, no—it’s too expensive!’ and Vitali humored her with exactly three rounds of insisting that she must, and‘it was nothing.’
We were shooed out of the kitchen like a couple of children. The satisfied smile on Vitali’s face was unbearable, and as much as I hated admitting it, completely disarming. Again, his hand was on the curve of my back as he led me to the living room around the corner, as if it weren’t my home.
“This changes nothing,” I said, knowing it changed everything. The price on my soul was apparently exactly one brand-name, imported microwave.
He leaned against the table with the bouquet at his back and crossed his arms. “I’ll leave now if you tell me to.”
I lowered my eyes, because I never thought the way to my heart would be through my mama. “What do you want from me, Vitali?”
“One date.”
“You already missed ouronedate.”
“Katya, it was not up to me—if it were, I would have called. I would have sent you flowers, one for every day I made you wait.”
I glanced at the roses, and my chest grew tight. There were thirty… There had to be thirty.
“One date,” he repeated. “A real one.”
I bit my cheek. I knew nothing about him, and the grand romantic gesture was just another thing I could stack on the grave of my dignity the next time he decided to disappear. A month on business. Right.
Before I could give him an answer, the front door lock squeaked, and Maxim called out a‘hello.’We both snapped toward the hallway, where my little brother shortly appeared, saw Vitali, and froze.
“Oh… this is—” I started, but Vitali already (very professionally) extended his hand.
“Vitali Konstantinov.”
My brother hesitantly shook it, at first unsure, but gaining confidence in being treated so adult-like.
“Maxim Petrovich,” he said and pushed his shoulders back to appear larger, like a puffer fish.
I turned away and sighed. I had no time to prepare for the chaos that broke loose before anyone said another word.
Mama came thundering in. She ordered Maxim away to change clothes, instructed Vitali to pull out the table, and ushered me into the kitchen to get the‘good’ dining set. Thatwas the one with the small blue flowers on a white background, which she didn’t even bring out on my birthday. No one got a choice about having dinner together. I forgave her because Vitali’s steel expression finally shifted into something resembling a startled child. That’s a look no true Russian is exempt from when a mama starts giving orders like a four-star general going to war.
He was charming, infuriatingly charming.
After he complimented her cooking, Mama told him all there was to know about her life. The sorts of things I would have never thought to ask, and I learned a lot that made Mama less ‘mama’ and more Olga. Then, he and Maxim bonded over hockey and video games, and my brother nearly fell out of his seat volunteering every embarrassing detail about my life that anyone could want.
All I could do was sit, mushing a piece of bread and absentmindedly dipping it into the broth as details of my private self came spilling out of my traitorous family’s mouths. Never mind a date, this was much more intimate than that.
When dinner ended, he helped Mama with the dishes, and my insides burned up leaving only ashes, because I knew that now Vitali Konstantinov wouldn’t be leaving my life anytime soon. This wouldn’t be the last time he’d be in that kitchen, and not the last time he would sit at that table. Eventually, that too would end, but not for a while.
