“Tragic,” she says. “Shall I send condolences to Chinatown?”
“I’m serious,” I say. “Pelmenis have officially raised the bar. It’s like when you listen to Tchaikovsky and then someone makes you listen to ‘Baby Shark.’”
“You said you haven’t listened to Tchaikovsky before.”
“Well, it’s what I imagine he sounds like in comparison to just noise.”
Her laugh cuts through the quiet streets surrounding us. “You really just compared a pelmeni to Tchaikovsky.”
“Both life-changing,” I say. “One involves violins. The other involves sour cream.”
She shakes her head, smiling. “I’m beginning to suspect you could make an argument for anything.”
“Not anything,” I correct. “I could never defend kale. Some battles are unwinnable.”
Our conversation starts to fade as we approach her building. When we reach her stoop, Petra stops and turns to face me, keys in her hand but attention elsewhere.
“Thanks for walking me back,” she says, voice low.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Thanks for today…and the company…and introducing me to my new favorite dish.”
“You’re welcome. Next time, you get to pick our adventure.”
“Next time?” I ask, hope creeping into my voice.
Her smile doesn’t waver. “Next time,” she confirms.
The air between us thickens. Her eyes search mine. My heartbeat quickens. This feeling, whatever’s been building between us, doesn’t feel like a question anymore. It feels inevitable.
I lean toward her, moving slowly enough to let her decide how this ends. Her breath catches, and she tilts her chin up, lips parting. We’re past the point where words could improve this moment.
And then…her phone erupts in the most aggressive ringtone I’ve ever heard. Petra blinks awake from whatever spell we were under. She glances at her screen, and the name “Gavin” glows there with unwanted persistence.
Of course, I think.Of course.
I step back.
Petra hesitates, eyes blinking as she looks up at me. “Goodnight, Liam,” she says finally.
“Goodnight, Petra,” I reply, my tone revealing nothing of the small earthquake happening behind my ribs.
She turns, unlocks her door, and disappears into her building, leaving me alone on a sidewalk that suddenly feels too wide. The latch clicks shut with the finality of a period ending a sentence I thought was still being written.
I stand there for a moment, watching the light come on in what I assume is her bedroom window, listening to the distant sound of traffic and my own disappointed breathing. The taste of pelmeni still lingers, but it’s already fading, becoming a memory.
On my walk home, I resist the urge to dissect what just happened, to replay the almost-kiss. Instead, I pull out my phone and open Spotify, searching for something I’ve never looked for before.
Tchaikovsky’s “Serenade for Strings in C Major” fills my earbuds as I navigate the empty West Side streets. The music starts gently then builds until I understand what she meant about drowning in beauty. It’s the soundtrack to falling for someone who might already belong to someone else, and I let it carry me home through the October night, learning what heartbreak sounds like when it’s played by a full orchestra.
Chapter Ten
The glass door holds fragments of Petra’s reflection, distorting the outfit she chose for today’s meeting. She touches the fabric of her warm-up jacket, fingers finding threads that aren’t out of place, smoothing wrinkles that exist only in her mind. Nilas Johansen’s summons carries power; his office is where dreams crystallize or shatter, where futures are made or vanish.
When the door whispers open, he materializes like winter itself as his arctic eyes sweep over her. He gestures her inward. “Petra.”
The office emanates discipline. Black-and-white photographs watch from the walls like silent judges while behind his desk, a celebrated ballerina’s portrait presides over the austere domain. Here, comfort is weakness, and weakness isn’t tolerated.
Nilas moves with measured intent, an authoritarian of his domain, a man who understands that every gesture means something. “Sit.”
