“Exactly the vibe I was going for,” I say as I hear her approaching the kitchen.
She enters, her expression worth every minute I spent being interrogated by Ludmila at the Russian market in Brighton Beach about my intentions with her precioussolyankarecipe.
“You’ve been holding out on me, LeClerc. Since when do you cook?”
I kiss her instead of explaining how I’ve spent the past week researching Russian cuisine. “Since I realized my favorite ballerina is abandoning me for a city famous for its food. Couldn’t let you leave without attempting to poison you at least once.”
“Is that right?”
“Come witness the disaster,” I say, leading her to the kitchen where I’ve arranged everything. She sees the spread—pelmeniI folded (twice wrong, once correctly) and black bread I absolutely bought but am displaying like I birthed it myself.
“You actually madepelmeni?”
I try not to look like a golden retriever who’s just fetched the right stick. “Folded every last one.”
She picks one up, examining my handiwork.
“And that’s not even the main event,” I announce, lifting the pot lid.
She leans in and I watch her face transform. “Wait. Is that—?”
“Solyanka. The real stuff,” I confirm. “Babushka Ludmila was deeply skeptical of my ability to handle her family recipe. There may have been threats.”
“You tracked down authentic ingredients for this?”
I shrug, stirring the pot to avoid eye contact. “Brighton Beach isn’t that far. Plus, turns out Russian grandmothers adopt strays if you look pathetic enough.”
What I don’t say: I’ve been building bridges to your future; maybe if I feed you enough of where you’re going, you won’t forget about me.
We move to the living room with our plates. Through her eyes, I suddenly see what I’ve been living in.
The sectional exists because the salesperson said it was nice. The TV is huge because that seemed important at the time. The walls are decorated with exactly two pieces of hockey memorabilia and nothing else.
“So,” she says, settling onto the couch with this amused expression. “I’ve been meaning to ask you since I first saw your place. Do you actually live here? Or is this some kind of witness protection situation?”
I smirk because defense mechanisms are my love language. “Home design is not exactly my thing.”
She gestures at the aggressive minimalism. “You don’t say.”
“I’ve got everything I need,” I protest, listing my possessions like they’re achievements. “Couch, TV, a bed…or at least a mattress on a frame. What more do you want?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Evidence of human habitation? A plant? A family photo? A sign of you being a part of civilization?”
I look around: the half-filled bookshelf with unread books. The complete absence of anything that suggests I might stick around. “Not gonna lie—that’s a fair assessment.”
“No pictures of your parents or Lila?” she asks.
“Never really got around to it,” I say.
She studies me with those eyes that see too much. “Your place reminds me of how you were when we first met.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Capable, functional, no-nonsense. But…” she searches for words.
“But?”
“A little closed off. Like it’s waiting for something real to fill it.”
